She gives me a skeptical look as we walk to her car. "Since when does Brian Klein, master of contingency plans, let a little snow strand him?"
Since a pair of brown eyes and a bookshop full of stories made me forget why I was always in such a rush.
"It happens," is all I say.
Rachel chatters the whole way to our mother's house in West Orange, filling me in on family gossip and holiday plans. I make appropriate noises at the right intervals, but my mind keeps drifting back to Pittsburgh.
Our mother's house is exactly as it's been for decades—the same overstuffed furniture with worn velvet arms, the same faded floral wallpaper in the dining room, and family photos covering every surface in mismatched frames. The kitchen still features the yellow ceramic canisters she bought in the seventies, and the living room carpet shows permanent indentations from furniture that hasn't moved in twenty years. It smells like brisket, furniture polish, and home.
Mom greets me with kisses on both cheeks and quickly starts asking about my weight.
"You look thin. Aren't you eating?"
"I eat, Mom."
"Hotel food," she scoffs. "Comes out the same way it goes in."
I hand her the wrapped book, and her face lights up. "So fancy! Did the store do this?"
I picture Noa's fingers gently folding the paper and tying the ribbon. "Something like that."
The evening unfolds as it always does—food, candles, presents, and more food. My nieces and nephew light up at the gifts I've brought, my sister rolls her eyes at my work stories, and my mother beams at having all her babies under one roof.
It should feel like coming home; instead, I feel as if I've left something important behind.
When everyone moves to the living room after dinner, I slip into the kitchen to check my messages. Three emails from Gunnar Stag regarding a new endorsement deal. A text from Alder Stag about scheduling time to review his contract. Nothing urgent.
I could text Noa. I have her number tucked in a book, but I haven't used it. What would I even say?
I pull out the paperback and run my thumb over the dog-eared pages. She's filled the margins with tiny penciled notes—observations about the characters, questions about their motivations, and little hearts next to romantic scenes. Reading her thoughts feels intimate, as if she's whispering commentary in my ear.
My phone rings in my hand, and the display shows the name of my client, Tucker Stag.
"Tuck," I answer, grateful for the distraction. "What can I do for you at..." I glance at my watch. "Nine-thirty on the second night of Hanukkah?"
"Sorry, man, is it a bad time? I don't know how that works."
"It's fine. What's up?"
"Two things. First, we need to schedule that big meeting with all of us Stags you rep. Alder's got some questions about image rights, Wyatt received a new offer from Manchester, and Gunnar wants to discuss that baby food campaign."
My mind immediately calculates travel days, hotel reservations, and car rentals. The usual drill.
"And second," Tucker continues, "my buddy from the hockey team is looking for new representation. He's a decent forward, about to negotiate his second contract. I told him you're the best."
"I appreciate the referral," I say automatically.
"So, can you come to Pittsburgh sometime soon? We can have a big dinner and get everyone together. Easier than trying to catch us all separately."
Pittsburgh. I could be back in Pittsburgh. Potentially regularly, if I take on Tucker's friend in addition to my usual Stag herd of clients.
"Sure," I hear myself say. "I'll make it work."
After we hang up, I stand frozen in my mother's kitchen, staring at the wrapped book on the counter. The silver paper catches the light, reminding me of the candlelight reflecting in Noa's eyes.
I pick up Noa's book again and reread one of her margin notes:
There's something magical about waiting for dough to rise - it can't be rushed.
