Love the One You're With (23 page)

“Hello,” I answer groggily, happily, my heart beating faster as I anticipate his first words.

“Hi,” Leo says with sleep still in his voice, too. “You alone?”

“Yeah,” I say, wondering for the hundredth time whether he’s still with his girlfriend. Based on his occasional abrupt hang-ups, I have the sense that he is, and although the jealous, possessive part of me wants him to be single, in some ways, I like that he’s in a relationship, too. Somehow, she makes the playing field more even, gives him something to lose, too.

“What’re you doing?” he asks.

“Just lying here in bed,” I say. “Thinking.”

“About what?”

I hesitate before offering what feels to be a confession. “About tomorrow,” I say, brimming with simultaneous elation and fear. “About you.”

“What a coincidence,” he says, and although his words are coy, he is speaking very plainly, directly. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me either,” I say, tingling everywhere as I picture the two of us together on Coney Island, walking along the water, snapping photos in the golden, romantic hour before sunset, laughing and talking and just
being
together.

“So what do you wanna do?” Leo asks, sounding as giddy as I feel.

“Right now?” I say.

He laughs his low breathy laugh. “No. Not
now
. Tomorrow. After the shoot.”

“Oh, I don’t care. What are you thinking?” I say, instantly regretting my response, worrying that I sound too much like my former wishy-washy self—always letting him make the decisions.

“Can I take you to dinner?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, yearning for tomorrow to come as quickly as possible. “That sounds
really
nice.”

“You sound nice,” Leo says. “I like your voice all scratchy like that. Brings back memories …”

I smile, rolling away from Andy’s side of the bed, his scent still lingering on the sheets. Then I close my eyes and listen to the thrilling, intimate silence. At least a minute ticks by like that—maybe even longer—as I drift back to our shared past. A time before Andy. A time when I could feel the way I’m feeling, with no remorse, no guilt. Nothing but pure, in-the-moment pleasure. Until I finally give in to the welling inside me, the physical longing that has been building for the longest time.

Afterward, I tell myself that he doesn’t know what I’ve just done—and that he certainly wasn’t doing the same. I tell myself that I had to get it out of my system, and that we will be all business in the morning—or at most, just close friends with an incidental romantic past. And most of all, I tell myself that no matter what happens, I love Andy. I will
always
love Andy.

twenty-nine

A few hours later, Margot’s baby shower has concluded, her scores of guests have departed, and I am wandering around Ginny’s regal, tasseled living room (complete with oil paintings of her dogs, a tapestry of Craig’s family coat of arms, and a baby grand piano that nobody in the house knows how to play—or, for that matter, is allowed to touch), stuffing stray bits of ribbon and wrapping paper into a white Hefty garbage bag and feeling generally conflicted. Par for the course these days, and especially now, on the eve of my trip.

On the one hand, I’m consumed with giddy thoughts of Leo, mentally repacking my suitcase, picturing the moment when I first see him, and the moment we say good-bye again. On the other hand, and completely in spite of myself, I’ve had a surprisingly decent time—bordering on actual
fun,
thanks in part to the heavy flow of mimosas. I still maintain that the Buckhead social scene is, at its macro level, superficial and shallow and dull in the extreme, but one-on-one, most of the women at the party were genuine—and more interesting than you’d think they’d be when you see them yapping on their cell phones in their Range Rovers with their designer kids in the backseat.

Moreover, as I sat beside Margot on the couch with the honored role of gift stenographer, I felt a sense of belonging, of pride to be a Graham. Andy’s wife. Margot’s sister-in-law. Stella’s daughter-in-law.

At one moment in particular, my emotional dilemma crystallized when one of Stella’s neighbors asked me where my parents live, and I had to make that split-second decision of whether to specify that while my dad still lives in my hometown, my mother passed away years ago. Meanwhile, Stella, the queen of fast-thinking tact, subtly reached over and squeezed my hand, responding in a way that seemed utterly natural and not as if she were answering for me.

“Ellen’s father lives in Pittsburgh—in the
very
house she grew up in. She and Margot have that in common!” she said cheerfully, as the light from Ginny’s crystal chandelier glinted off her diamond ring. I gave her a grateful look, relieved that I didn’t have to sell my mother’s memory short in order to avoid that uneasy moment when my audience looks teary—and I have to choose between feeling sad right along with them or, alternatively, alleviating the discomfort with a nonchalant, “Oh, it’s okay. It happened a long time ago.”

Because after all, although it did happen a long time ago, it will never
really
feel okay.

And now, as I wait for Andy to pick me up after his thirty-six holes of golf, I feel another unexpected stab of motherless grief as I sit with Margot, Ginny, and
their
two mothers, indulging in more champagne and the usual party post-mortem, covering everything including the best present (a bright green Bugaboo stroller given by Margot’s tennis friends), the most shameful regift (a Red Envelope quilt that, unbeknownst to the giver, was embroidered with her daughter’s name,
Ruby
), the best-dressed guest (wearing vintage Chanel), the worst-dressed invitee (donning a crocheted magenta halter with a black bra), and aghast speculation about who-in-the-world spilled merlot on Ginny’s dining-room chair.

“If only I had turned my nanny cam on,” Ginny says, giggling and stumbling in her heels before plopping down on a leopard-print occasional chair.

I smile, thinking how much more tolerable—verging on
likable
—Ginny is when she’s drunk and not constantly posturing, angling, and trying to prove how much closer she is to Margot than I am. She’s still a bitch with an amazing sense of entitlement, but at least she’s a
lighthearted
bitch with an amazing sense of entitlement.

“Do you
really
have one of those?” Stella asks, peering up at the ceiling.

“It’s called a
hidden
camera for a reason,” I quip, playing with a strand of yellow raffia. My frugal side is tempted to cart the whole garbage bag home, as Margot unwrapped her gifts so delicately—but given my state of emotional turmoil, it doesn’t seem to make much sense to worry about salvaging wrapping paper.

“Of
course
she has a nanny cam, Stell,” Ginny’s mother, Pam, says, pointing to an artificial floral arrangement atop a built-in bookcase, in what feels to be a subtle form of worldly goods oneupmanship. “And Margot should have one installed, too … particularly with a newborn and the influx of baby nurses and other help.”

I inwardly cringe at the oft-used term
help
—covering everything from gardeners to nannies to housekeepers to pool guys to even, in Pam’s case,
drivers
(she hasn’t been behind the wheel on a highway in twenty-two years—a bizarre point of pride for her). In fact, whether griping or bragging about their
help,
it has to be my least favorite topic in Margot’s world—right up there with their children’s private schools and black-tie galas (which are often galas
for
their children’s private schools).

Stella continues, “Have you ever caught anyone doing … anything?” Her eyes widen, as I note that my mother-in-law, otherwise so in charge and dynamic, seems to become somewhat passive around her brash, bossy best friend. I watch them together, fleetingly wondering whether I’m also a different version of myself around Margot.

Ginny shakes her head, plucking a whimsical lavender petit four from an heirloom silver tray that, I feel quite sure, her
help
polished this morning. “Not so far … But you can
never
be too careful when it comes to your children.”

We all silently nod, as if pausing to observe the profound wisdom of this latest nugget from Ginny—nuggets she always delivers in a revelatory tone, as if she’s the first to ever say or think such a thing. My favorite, that I heard her pipe up with as guests speculated that Margot must be having a boy because she’s carrying so low, is: “I’m so glad she and Webb are waiting to find out! It’s the
only
surprise left in life.” Ahh, you’re
so
original, Ginny! Never heard that one before. And, as an aside, although I have no real opinion on what seems to be a highly charged, value-laden decision, how do so many couples figure that
not
availing oneself of ultrasound technology qualifies as a
surprise
? Furthermore, what other surprises have gone by the wayside over the last few decades? People don’t throw surprise parties anymore? No more unexpected flower deliveries or gifts? I don’t get it.

I finish my glass of champagne, turn to Ginny, and announce, “Well. I think I know who spilled the wine.”

“Who?” everyone says at once, even Margot, who can usually tell when I have a joke queued up.

“That ugly
slob
of a girl,” I say, suppressing a smirk.

“Who?” they all say again as Ginny starts to guess, actually tossing out names of less attractive guests.

I shake my head and then proudly announce, “Lucy,” referring to
Andy’s
Lucy. His high-school-turned-freshmen-year-in-college sweetheart who Margot added to the invite list after asking for my permission.

“If you’re at all uncomfortable with it, I won’t do it,” Margot said more than once, always going on to explain her various charity fundraiser and country club connections—along with the unfortunate, albeit attenuated, familial overlap (Lucy is married to Webb’s second cousin).

I repeatedly reassured Margot that it was no big deal at
all,
and that I was actually quite curious to meet Andy’s first love—and that I’d rather have the meeting under controlled circumstances, i.e., with makeup on. But secretly, I think my real motivation had more to do with Leo. After all, Lucy coming to the shower would serve as another golden rationalization in my battery of internal excuses:
Margot’s ex does her landscaping; Andy’s ex comes to his sister’s baby shower. So why can’t I occasionally work with mine?

In any event, I am clearly joking now, as Lucy’s a
far
cry from ugly. Her Kewpie-doll features, ivory skin, and ringlet red hair put her squarely in the pretty category, and her body’s probably the best I’ve ever seen in person—a cartoonish hourglass that would have looked even more outrageous had she been dressed less conservatively. Margot and Stella laugh appreciatively—while their petty counterparts exchange a satisfied, raised-brow look, their cat-fight radars delightfully sounding.

I roll my eyes and say, “C’mon. I’m
kidding
. The girl is gorgeous.”

Ginny looks disappointed that there is no controversy while Pam throws back her head with an annoying laugh-track giggle and says,
way
too enthusiastically, “Isn’t she
precious
?”

“She is indeed,” I say magnanimously as I think back to my conversation with Lucy earlier that afternoon—how sweet, almost nervous, she seemed when she told me how wonderful it was to meet me. I told her it was great meeting her too, actually meaning it. Then, despite a disturbing image of her nineteen-year-old-self straddling my husband, I added, “I’ve heard such nice things about you.”

Lucy, who very well could have been envisioning the same thing, blushed, smiled, and laughed. She then referred to Andy—and their time together—in exactly the right vein, acknowledging that he had been her boyfriend, but making it more about the era—and generic young love—than
their
relationship.

“I just hope he threw away those prom pictures. Hideous, big hair. What was I thinking? … Did you have big, eighties hair, Ellen?”

“Did I have big hair?” I said. “I’m from Pittsburgh—where
Flashdance
was filmed. I had big hair
and
legwarmers.”

She laughed, as we gingerly segued to the present, discussing her five-year-old son, Liam, his mild autism, and how horseback riding, of all things, has so helped him. Then we covered our move to Atlanta and my work (I was surprised to discover that Margot had told Lucy—and a lot of guests, for that matter—about my Drake shoot). And that was pretty much that—we both moved on to different conversations. Yet throughout the shower, I caught her giving me at least a dozen sideways glances—glances that indicated to me that she still might have some lingering feelings for Andy. Which, of course, ushered in all sorts of mixed feelings—guilt and gratitude topping the list.

I feel this combination of emotions again now as Stella looks at me and says so sincerely, “Lucy is a pretty girl, but you’re
far
prettier, Ellen.”

“And way smarter,” Margot says, adjusting the tie on her pale yellow wrap dress.

“Andy’s so blessed to have you,” Stella adds.

As I open my mouth to thank them, Ginny interrupts what she must perceive to be a feel-good family moment and says, “Where are those guys anyway? It’s almost three … Craig promised he’d babysit this afternoon while I sleep off this champagne.”

I reach for my purse, thinking that when fathers spend time with their own children, it should not be called
baby-sitting
.

“Maybe Andy called,” I say, pulling out my cell at the very second that Leo’s name lights up my screen. My stomach drops with excitement, and although I know I should put the phone right back in my bag, I stand and hear myself say, “Excuse me for a sec. This is about my shoot tomorrow.”

Everyone nods their understanding as I scurry to the kitchen—already spotless thanks to Ginny’s diligent caterers and invisible housekeeper—and answer a hushed hello.

“You still coming tomorrow?” Leo says.

“C’mon,” I whisper as I feel another jolt of adrenaline.

“Just checking,” he says.

A ripple of high-pitched laughter emanates from the living room, prompting Leo to ask, “Where are you?”

“At a baby shower,” I murmur.

“Are you pregnant?” he deadpans.

“Yeah, right,” I say, feeling relieved that that’s not a possibility—and then guilt for feeling such intense relief.

“So. About tomorrow. Do you wanna just come directly to my place? And we’ll go from there?”

“Sure,” I whisper. “That’ll work.”

“Okay then … I guess I’ll let you go,” Leo says, although I can tell he wants to keep talking.

“Okay,” I say, just as reluctantly.

“See you tomorrow, Ellen.”

“See you tomorrow, Leo,” I say, feeling flirty and fluttery as I snap my phone shut, turn around, and find Margot staring at me. My silly grin evaporates almost instantly.

“Who’re you talking to?” she asks, her eyes blazing with bewildered accusation.

“It was about the shoot,” I say, floundering as I silently replay the conversation, wondering exactly what she heard.

She obviously heard me say Leo’s name—as well as my tone of voice—because she says, “How can you do this?”

“Do what?” I mumble, my face growing hot.

Margot’s brow furrows and her lips become a thin line. “You’re going to New York to see him, aren’t you?”

“I’m … going to New York for
work,
” I say—which clearly isn’t a denial.

“For
work
? Really, Ellen?” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s more hurt or angry.

“Yes. It
is
for work,” I say, nodding adamantly, clinging to this last shred of truth. “It’s a
legitimate
photo shoot on Coney Island.”

“Yeah. I know, I know. Coney Island. Right,” she says, shaking her head, as I think back to the few questions she asked about the shoot—and the cursory answers I gave her before changing the subject to safer waters. “But it’s with
him
? You’re going to see him, aren’t you?”

I slowly nod, hoping for her mercy, some understanding—just as I’ve tried to give her, about her decision, years ago.

“Does Andy know?” she asks. It is the same question she posed in the airport; only this time, I can tell she is at her absolute tipping point.

I look at her, but say nothing—which is, of course, a resounding
no.

“Why, Ellen? Why are you doing this?” she says.

“I … I have to,” I say apologetically but resolutely.