Love the One You're With (16 page)

I ask myself the same question now, but come up with a very different answer this time. There is nothing hopeful in this moment. This is not a beginning, but an end. It is almost time to let go of Leo’s hand. It is almost time to say good-bye.

A few seconds later, we touch down with a hard jolt of speed. Leo’s eyes blink open. He yawns, stretches in his seat, and gives me a slow, disoriented smile. “Hello,” he says.

“Good morning,” I say softly. My throat is dry and tight, but I can’t tell if it’s more from thirst or some strain of sadness. I consider reaching down for the water bottle in my purse, but am not quite ready to break our contact—and certainly not for a little hydration.

“Is it morning already?” he says, glancing furtively out the window at the dark runway.

“Almost,” I say. “It’s six-thirty … We’re ahead of schedule.”

“Shit,” he says, his face reflecting the sinking, conflicted way I feel.

“What?” I say, wanting him to verbalize it for us both, wanting him to tell me that he can’t believe that we are back in New York and that it’s time to get on with our day. Our separate lives.

He looks down at our clasped hands and says, “You know what.”

I nod and follow his gaze to our crisscrossed thumbs. Then I squeeze his hand one final time before letting go.

For the next few minutes, we follow the herd, wearily gathering our belongings, putting on our jackets, and spilling off the plane into the gate area. We are both silent, not communicating at all until we exchange a glance outside the first set of restrooms—a glance that makes it clear that we intend to wait for each other.

And yet, several minutes later, after I’ve brushed my teeth and hair, I am still surprised when I round the corner and see him leaning against the gray wall, looking so ruggedly handsome that I catch my breath. He gives me a half smile, then very deliberately unwraps a stick of gum. He folds it into his mouth, chews, and extends the package toward me. “Want one?”

“No, thanks,” I say.

He stows the package in his jacket pocket, then pushes himself off the wall with the weight of his shoulder. “Ready?” he says.

I nod, and we are off again, headed toward baggage claim.

“Did you check anything?” he asks as we descend the escalator.

“Just my equipment. One bag … How about you?” I ask, knowing that the answer is no—Leo always traveled as lightly as possible.

“Nah,” he says. “But … I’ll wait with you.”

I do not object, and when we reach the claim area, I even find myself hoping that the baggage handlers have taken their sweet time this morning. But no such luck—I spot my black bag right away and have no choice but to lean down to retrieve it.

“I got it,” Leo says, gently brushing me aside and hoisting my bag from the belt with a small groan. For one guilty second, I pretend that this is really my life. Leo and I, reporter and photographer, traveling back to the city after yet another celebrity shoot together.

Leo balances his duffel bag over my suitcase and asks, “Did you order a car?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m just taking a cab.”

“Same here,” Leo says. “Wanna share?”

I say sure, knowing that we are only prolonging the inevitable.

Leo’s face lights up in a way that I find both surprising and reassuring. “Okay then,” he says briskly. “Let’s go.”

Outside, the early spring morning is cool and sharp. Soft pink light streaks a cloudless sky. There is no question that it is going to be a beautiful day. We walk along the curb to the cab stand and file into a short, swiftly moving line. A moment later, Leo is loading our luggage into the trunk of a taxi.

“Where to?” our cabbie asks once we’ve slid into the backseat.

Leo says, “Two stops. The first will be in Astoria—Newton Avenue and Twenty-eighth … and the second stop? …” He looks at me, his dark eyebrows raised, waiting for my address.

“Thirty-seventh and Third,” I say, as I picture the inside of my apartment at this very moment—the blinds drawn and everything quiet except for the muffled sounds of morning traffic gearing up; Andy, in a worn T-shirt and pajama bottoms, curled up asleep in our bed. Guilt slashes through my chest, but I tell myself that I will be home soon enough.

“Murray Hill, huh?” Leo asks approvingly. He was never a big fan of my old neighborhood.

“Yeah. We really like it,” I say. “There’s no scene … and it’s very convenient, central …”

We
, I think.
My husband and I
.

I can tell the pronoun registers with Leo, too, as there is the slightest adjustment in his expression as he nods, almost respectfully. Or perhaps he’s just musing over the other half of his own
we
—Carol, who might even be on Newton Avenue right now, waiting for him in her prettiest nightgown. As we cruise along the Long Island Expressway, I realize that I have no idea whether they are living together or whether he sees marriage—with her or anyone—in his future.

I also realize that I never told Leo about my possible move to Atlanta. I would like to think this was simply an oversight, but deep down I know that it was an intentional omission, although I’m not sure why I held it back. Am I worried that Leo would view the move as the old wishy-washy Ellen trailing after her man? Or that he would discount me completely, on the basis of geography? Or is it because, on some level, I don’t
want
to move, despite what I told Andy?

Once again, I tell myself there will be time for analysis later. Right now, I only want to relish the simple beauty of the moment I’m in—the sun rising on the horizon, the gentle hum of Egyptian music playing on the radio, the knowledge that Leo is beside me in the backseat as we finish the last leg of our journey.

A few minutes later, we exit at Astoria Boulevard, right under the Triborough Bridge and the elevated subway. I look up at the lattice of tracks and am overcome with memories, all the times I took the N train to this neighborhood. More memories flood back to me when we turn onto Leo’s block and I see the familiar squat, brick row houses painted in shades of cream, red, and pink, with their trash cans and green awnings lined up in front. Leo points to his building, in the middle of the block, and says to our cabbie, “Right there on the left, please … Next to the white pickup.”

Then, as the taxi slows to a stop, he looks back over at me, shakes his head and says pretty much exactly what I’m thinking. “This is so fucking strange.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. “I never thought I’d be back here.”

Leo chews his lower lip and then says, “You know what I want to do right now?”

A few illicit images flash through my head as I nervously say, “What?”

“Scoop you out of this car and take you inside with me,” Leo says, his voice so low that it’s almost hypnotizing. “Make us some eggs and bacon … brew up some coffee … Then sit on the couch and just …
look
at you … and
talk
to you all day …”

My heart races as I think of all the other things we did in his second-floor apartment, just a few steps from where I’m sitting now. All the things
besides
talking. I look into Leo’s eyes, feeling weak and slightly nauseous as I frantically try to convince myself that going inside with him would be an okay thing to do. What if I only stay for a few minutes, for one quick cup of coffee? Andy isn’t even awake yet. He wouldn’t miss me for at least another hour or so. What would it really hurt?

I clear my throat, rake my knuckles against my thighs, and glance up at the meter, still ticking as we stall. I finally say, “So that’s what you want, huh? A bit more conversation over coffee?”

Leo gives me a long, grave look and then says, “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry …” Then he runs his hand through his hair, exhales, and pulls two twenties from his wallet.

I shake my head, a refusal. “I got this, Leo.”

“No way,” Leo says. It is something Leo and Andy have in common, both steadfastly refusing to let a girl pay for anything. But Andy’s way seems rooted in chivalry; Leo’s, a matter of pride. He thrusts the bills at me again. “C’mon.”

“That’s way too much,” I say. “The meter’s only at fourteen now.”

“Just take it, Ellen,” he says. “Please.”

Because I don’t want our final exchange to be a skirmish over a few bucks of cab fare, I take his money and say, “Fine. Thanks.”

He nods. “My pleasure … The whole night has been … my pleasure.” His words are stiff, but his tone is anything but mechanical. He means it. He loved our time together as much as I did.

I catch the cabbie giving us a skeptical glance in the rearview mirror before stepping out of the car, around to the trunk, where he lights a cigarette and waits.

“Are we that obvious?” Leo says.

I laugh nervously. “Guess so.”

“Okay,” Leo says. “Where were we?”

“I forget,” I say, feeling dizzy and so very sad.

Leo looks up at the ceiling of the car and then back at me. “I think we just established that you coming inside is a bad idea, right?”

“I think so,” I say.

“Well, then,” Leo says, his eyes burning into mine. “I guess this is it.”

“Right,” I say. “This is it.”

He hesitates, and for a second, just like at the diner, I think he might hug me, or even kiss me. Instead, he just offers up a small, sad smile before turning to go. The cab door slams behind him, and I watch him swing his bag over his shoulder, cross the sidewalk toward his apartment, and take the stairs two at a time up to the front porch. He does not turn to wave good-bye, or even give the cab another look before opening the door and disappearing inside. My eyes sting with tears as we pull away from the curb, and I repeat those final words in my head, over and over.
This is it
.

eighteen

Somewhere along my short journey from Queens to Manhattan, I go from feeling dejected and forlorn to merely wistful and nostalgic, which is at least a step in the right, repentant direction. But when I push open our apartment door and find Andy in his favorite green-plaid robe, carefully slathering butter on a toaster waffle, I feel nothing but pure, unadulterated, aching guilt. In some strange way, though, it is almost a relief to feel this bad—and proof that I haven’t strayed too far. That at my core, I am still a decent wife.

“Hey, honey,” Andy says, dropping his knife onto the counter and wrapping his arms around me in a so-happy-to-see-me hug. I inhale his sweet boyish scent, so different from Leo’s musky one.

“Hi, Andy,” I say, catching the formality of using his name, something couples almost never seem to do unless they are angry or calling one another from another room. Then I make it worse by asking, in a tone more accusatory than pleasantly surprised, what he’s doing up so early. I just can’t help thinking that this would be an easier, less abrupt transition if he were still asleep.

“I missed you,” he says, kissing my forehead. “I don’t sleep well without you …”

I smile and tell him I missed him, too, but the sinking realization that this is nothing short of a lie—that I did not miss my husband at
all
—gives my guilt a tinge of panic. I reassure myself that that might have been the case even if I hadn’t seen Leo. After all, it was a short, intense trip. I had serious work to do. I was spending quality time with my sister. I met and photographed
Drake Watters
, for goodness’ sake. Under these circumstances,
not
pining away for your spouse seems fairly normal, even predictable. I reassure myself that the one left behind in the same, everyday surroundings always misses the other more. To this point, I
definitely
feel a bit lonely when Andy is away on business trips.

“You hungry?” Andy asks.

I nod, thinking that this, too, is predictable when you stay up all night and eat only a pack of peanuts.

“Here. Eat this,” he says, gesturing toward his waffle.

“No. That’s yours,” I say adamantly. Because after all, it’s one thing to hold an ex-boyfriend’s hand during a romantic, middle of the night, transcontinental flight—it’s another to steal an Eggo from your hungry husband.

“No, you take this one,” he says, drizzling syrup in a cursive
E
across the face of the waffle.

I think of how I took Leo’s bills in the back of the cab, and decide that I can’t very well accept his money and turn down this offer from Andy.

“Okay, thanks,” I say, selecting a fork from our utensil drawer, then leaning against the counter to take a bite.

Andy watches me chew. “Is it good?” he asks earnestly, as if he were a chef, and this a taste test for his latest culinary innovation. I relax and smile my first real, happy smile of the morning, thinking of how Andy can make the smallest domestic occurrence feel special, imbued with affection.

“Superb,”
I finally say. “Best toaster waffle I’ve ever had …”

He smiles proudly, then sets about making himself another and pouring two tall glasses of milk.

“Now, c’mon. Tell me about the shoot,” he says, gesturing toward our kitchen table.

I sit down and eat my waffle, telling him all about the trip but carefully stripping Leo from the experience. I talk about the hotel, my sister, the diner, how thrilling it was to meet Drake, how pleased I am with my photos.

“I can’t wait to see your shots,” Andy says.

“I think you’re going to love them,” I say.

Much more than the article
.

“When can I see them?” he asks.

“Tonight,” I say, wondering if I can power through the day without a nap. “I want to go in and work on them today …”

Andy rubs his hands together and says, “Awesome … And my autograph? I’m sure you got my autograph?”

I make an apologetic face, thinking that if I had known Leo would appear on my flight, I definitely would have made the embarrassing request. Anything to mitigate the guilt I feel now.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I say sincerely. “There just wasn’t … an opportunity.”

He sighs melodramatically, then takes his last swallow of milk. A white mustache appears in the corners of his mouth, and remains there for a poignant second before he wipes it off with a paper towel. “It’s okay,” he says, winking. “I won’t question your loyalty
this
time.”

Although he is clearly being facetious, his words are like a dagger to my heart. There are no two ways about it—I suck. I am a bad,
bad
wife. Maybe not scarlet-letter bad, but certainly deserving-of-the-doghouse bad. For one second, I consider confessing everything, down to the final, unfaithful, wholly unnecessary detour to Astoria. But the opening quickly dissolves when Andy pushes his plate away, cracks his knuckles, and breaks into a grin that is giddy even by his standards. “Okay … Wanna hear about
my
day yesterday?”

“Sure,” I say, picturing him at FAO Schwarz, playing hooky from work and sampling different toys like Tom Hanks did in the movie
Big
.

“I got a last-minute flight and went on a little day trip of my own,” he says.

My heart races. I know exactly what is coming and feel suddenly propelled into a state of high alert. “You did?”

“Yup,” he says, as I hear a drumroll in my head. “To Atlanta … To see our house.”

I look at him, feeling a forced smile stretch across my face, as I think,
Our house
.

Andy nods. “It’s awesome, Ellie. I
love
it. Margot loves it. My mom loves it.
You’re
going to love it. It’s seriously
perfect
… Even better in person.”

I muster enough breath to ask a question. “Did you …
buy
it?”

I brace myself, almost wanting the answer to be yes so that I won’t have to make a decision. And, more important, so that I can feel wronged. I picture my eyes welling with indignant tears as I softly rant,
You should have talked to me first! Who buys a house without consulting his wife?
Whether Andy ever knows it or not, the score will be even. One marital misstep for another.

But, of course, he shakes his head and says, “No, I didn’t
buy
it. I would never do that without talking to you first … Although,” he says excitedly, “I do have an offer right here, ready to fax when—
if
—you say the word.” He pats a manila envelope on the table. “I think it’s going to go fast. It’s way better than anything else we looked at … Charming, solid construction, all the bells and whistles. Totally perfect … and so freaking close to Margot … Do you want to fly down this week and see it? Maybe look around a bit more?”

He looks at me expectantly, innocently, as I think to myself,
You are so damn happy
. It feels like both praise and criticism. It is one of the things I dearly love about him, yet in this moment it is also what I wish I could change about him. Not to make him
unhappy
, of course, but to make him just a little less …
simple
. Doesn’t he see this decision as at all nuanced? Doesn’t he have any reservations about living so close to family? Working for his father? Leaving the city we love?

My heart suddenly floods with resentment, and although I try to pin some of this on Andy’s fervor, I know that my emotion is emanating from one source, one place, one internal conflict.

Leo
.

As Andy awaits my response, I remind myself that no matter what the decision on this particular house, or whether we move to Atlanta at all, my life will go on without Leo in it. So I need to remove him from the equation and decide what is right for Andy and me.

But as I stare into my husband’s eyes, the wall between the two worlds crumbles—the world on the plane last night and all that could have been, and my life with Andy, moving forward, in our home in Atlanta. A home with two, maybe three, cars in the garage. And a slobbering golden retriever chasing fuzzy yellow tennis balls across a lush, green lawn. And Margot, right down the street, ready to swap recipes and neighborhood gossip. And Andy heading out every morning to get the newspaper in his plaid flannel robe and old-man slippers. And chubby, chirpy, blue-eyed children with neon orange water wings splashing in their backyard pool. And me, standing at the kitchen window, peeling an apple as I wistfully recall my former life, the kind of jobs I used to get. The time I photographed Drake Watters out in L.A. The last morning I saw Leo.

I look down at the table, wondering how much time will pass before I no longer think of his touch on the plane. Before that final moment in the back of the cab is no longer burned in my mind like a haunting black-and-white still frame. And the fear that it could be forever grips my heart and makes me open my mouth and say,
Let’s do it
.

On the face of things, I am only giving my spouse permission to send a fax. I am only agreeing to a change of venue, the purchase of some real estate in Atlanta. But, deep down, it feels like much more. Deep down, I am also repenting. I am proving my love. I am renewing my vows. I am safeguarding my marriage. I am choosing Andy.

“You don’t want to go down and see it for yourself?” he asks again, gently resting his fingertips in the crook of my elbow.

It is my final out, the last loophole. All I would have to do is go see the house and come up with something,
anything
, that doesn’t feel quite right about it. A vibe I can’t put my finger on. A particular, unpleasant feng shui that Andy, and two Southern women with an impeccable sense of aesthetics, somehow missed. I might appear irrational or ungrateful, but I could buy myself a little more time. Although time for what, I’m not quite sure. Time to keep checking voicemail in vain, hoping that he came up with “one more thing” to tell me? Time to look for him in every intersection, every diner, every bar? Time to make the big mistake of jumping in a cab and returning to Newton Avenue? So I fight against what I want in this moment and instead nod and say, “I trust your judgment.”

It is the truth, of course. I
do
trust Andy’s judgment. At this point, I trust it even more than my own. But I also feel some other subtle emotions at work—unhealthy trace elements of passive-aggressiveness and a stoic resignation toward becoming a dutiful, traditional wife, and accepting a lopsided dynamic that has never existed, in any form, in our relationship.

These feelings will pass
, I think.
This is a blip on the relationship radar screen
.
Just stay the course
.

“Are you sure, honey?” Andy asks softly.

My hand reflexively moves over my heart, and I say loudly and clearly, as if for a court reporter on permanent, irrefutable record,
Yes
.
Let’s do it
.
I’m sure
.