Love the One You're With (18 page)

Another full, torturous minute passes as Cynthia continues her suspense-building mission by pressing the cover against her substantial cleavage and delivering a Shakespearean monologue about how gifted I am, and how proud she is to represent me, and how I’m headed for true greatness, no matter where I live.

Meanwhile, I fix my eyes on the back of the magazine, a black-and-white ad featuring Kate Moss, by far my favorite model, and someone I’d love to shoot. In the photo, her lips are slightly parted, her windswept hair partially covers her right eye, and her expression is serene but suggestive. As I stare into her smoky eyes, I have the sudden, ridiculously narcissistic sense that she is there on that page not to advertise David Yurman watches, but specifically to taunt me.
You should have told them sooner
, I hear her say in her English accent.
You’ve had weeks and weeks to tell them, but instead you wait for a packed house on your final night in New York
.
Nice job
.

“C’mon, Cynthia!” Andy shouts, interrupting my paranoid thoughts. “Show us the darn magazine!”

Cynthia laughs and says, “Okay! Okay!” Then she flips Kate around, thrusts the magazine high over her head, and slowly spins to reveal Drake, in all his glory. For a few seconds, as her small but rapt audience claps and whistles and cheers, I have a surreal sense of satisfaction that that is actually
my
cover. My shot of Drake Watters.

But my fear returns in full force when Cynthia hands the magazine off to Andy and says, “Page seventy-eight, lambkin.”

I hold my breath and feel all my muscles tense as Andy takes a seat next to Julian and flips eagerly to the Drake story. Meanwhile, everyone gathers behind him, oohing and aahing over the photographs that I labored over and virtually memorized but can’t bring myself to look at now. Instead, I focus on Andy’s face, feeling a sense of profound relief when I determine that he is slightly more intoxicated than I am, and in no shape to be reading the article let alone focusing on any words on the page. Instead, he is all smiles, basking in the running commentary among my photographer friends who kindly praise the more artistic elements of my shots, while the rest of the crowd asks eager questions about what Drake was like in person, and Margot, in her typical nurturing fashion, instructs everyone to be careful not to wrinkle or spill anything on the pages. This chatter goes on for some time, as the magazine works its way around the table and ends up in front of Margot and me, on the last page of the article.

“This is amazing,” she whispers. “I’m
so
proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I say, watching her slowly flip backward through the five-page spread until she returns to the beginning again.

“I think this one’s my favorite,” Margot says, pointing to the very first shot of Drake, framed by Leo’s text, with his name floating there at the top, centered on the page. Although my eyes are drawn right to it, the point size is actually not as big as I had feared, nor is it very dark or bold. So as Margot chatters about how hot Drake is, and how I so perfectly captured his essence, I conclude that I might just escape tonight unscathed. In fact, I might even get away with this
forever
. I feel a jolt of adrenaline—my sense of relief and triumph outweighing any shame that I know I should feel. It is the way I imagine a shoplifter must feel as she nods her placid good-bye to a store security guard, while feeling her stolen goods pressed into the lining of her pockets.

But one beat later, my fortune fades as I feel Margot freeze beside me and then recoil. I look at her, and she looks right back at me, and I can tell in an instant that she has seen Leo’s name, registered the import of it, and knows. Obviously she can’t know
exactly
what I’ve done or haven’t done, but she is certain that I’ve been dishonest with her and more important, her brother. If it were anyone else, I’d brace myself for a wave of wrath, or at the very least, a string of questions or accusations. But I know Margot better than that. I know how restrained she is, how careful with her words, how non-confrontational. And beyond that, I know that she would never in a million years say anything to ruin this party,
any
party. Instead, she doles out a far-worse punishment. She becomes silent, her expression stony and stoic, as she closes the magazine and turns away from me for the rest of the night.

twenty-one

Do you
really
think she’s pissed at you for taking an assignment?” Suzanne asks the following morning when I call her from a gift shop at LaGuardia, give her a rundown of the night before, and solicit her advice about how to approach Margot when we meet her at our gate in a few minutes. “Maybe you’re just being paranoid?”

I nervously assess Andy’s progress in line at an adjacent Starbucks and say, “Yeah. Pretty sure. Except for a quick good-bye at the end of the night, she didn’t speak to me again. Not once.”

Suzanne clears her throat and says, “Is that all that unusual at a big party? Weren’t a bunch of your friends around? Would you guys normally be connected at the hip all night?”

I hesitate, knowing that these questions are somewhat pointed—Suzanne’s not-so-subtle way of criticizing what she believes is, and once even referred to as, my codependence with Margot. And, although I’d usually finesse the inquiry and defend the friendship, I don’t have time now to take that detour. Instead I just reiterate, “Look, Suzanne. She’s definitely
not
happy about the whole thing … And to be fair—I can’t really blame her. I’m married to her brother, remember? … Now any ideas about how to handle it?”

I hear the sound of running water and the clatter of breakfast dishes—or in Suzanne’s case, what could likely be the dinner dishes from last night. “What should
you
do or what would
I
do if I were in your shoes?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Either,” I say impatiently. “And talk fast … Andy will be back any second.”

“Okay,” Suzanne says, turning off her faucet. “Well,
I’d
go on the offensive and tell her to get a grip. Stop being so high and mighty.”

I smile, thinking,
Well, of course you would,
as she continues her rant. “I mean, what’s the big fucking deal? Your ex-boyfriend gave you the professional lead of a
lifetime
—the chance to photograph an A-list celebrity—and you appropriately and wisely seized that chance … for your
career,
not to rekindle a romance.”

When I don’t respond, Suzanne prompts me.
“Right?”

“Well, right,” I say. “Of course.”

“Okay. So then you fly to L.A. and unbeknownst to you, Leo is there, too. Not something you planned, correct?”

“That’s correct, too,” I say, perking up somewhat at this benign, yet so far completely accurate, version of events.

“Then, you decline Leo’s invitation to dinner—really you diss him
completely
—and hang with me all night.”

I nod eagerly, thinking that I should have phoned Suzanne from the bar last night; I could have avoided quite a bit of internal strife with this pseudo–pep talk.

She continues, “And at the actual shoot the following day, you spend about ten minutes with him
total,
always conducting yourself in a completely professional manner. Right?”

Technically, all of this is true, too, but I hesitate, thinking of my lustful thoughts the night before the shoot; Leo’s lingering look at the diner; and of course, that long, intimate, heart-pounding, hand-holding flight. Then I clear my throat and say with a little less conviction, “Right.”

“And you haven’t spoken to him since you got back to the city?”

“No,” I say, thinking this much is true—and a credit-worthy feat given the number of times I
wanted
to call him. “I haven’t.”

“So tell me?” Suzanne says. “Where’s the big affront to the Graham family?”

I pick up an “I love New York” snow globe from a shelf crammed with plastic trinkets and gently shake it. As I watch the flakes fall onto the Empire State Building, I say, “There isn’t one, I guess.”

“Come to think of it,” Suzanne says, more riled by the second. “Does Margot even
know
that you saw Leo at all?”

“Well … no,” I say. “She probably just assumes that there had to be some contact … which, of course, there was.”

”
Professional
contact,” she says.

“Okay. I hear you,” I say. “So … do you think I should just clear the air and tell her all of that?”

“Actually, no. I don’t,” Suzanne says. “Two can play her passive-aggressive game. I think you should just sit tight and wait for her to address it with you.”

“What if she doesn’t?” I ask, thinking of Courtney Finnamore, one of Margot’s closest friends from college whom she excommunicated when Courtney got wasted at a sorority formal and puked all over Margot’s brand-new Saab. Although Courtney seemed appropriately contrite, she never offered to clean the car or pay for any damage. It wasn’t the cost, Margot insisted, which I believed; it was the incredible thoughtlessness and boorishness of it all, as well as the assumption that because Margot has money, she wouldn’t mind footing the cleaning bill. Margot just couldn’t get past the incident, noticing more and more how cheap and selfish Courtney was. Yet, despite her strong feelings, she never confronted Courtney. Instead, she just quietly withdrew from the friendship—so quietly, in fact, that I don’t think Courtney really noticed Margot’s change of heart until Courtney got engaged and asked Margot to be a bridesmaid. After very brief consideration, Margot decided she just couldn’t be that two-faced, so she politely declined the “honor,” offering no explanation, no excuse, and no apology. Margot still attended the wedding, but obviously their friendship rapidly deteriorated after that, and today, the two don’t talk at all—not even when they ran into each other at a sorority tailgate during homecoming weekend last fall.

Although I can’t fathom such an estrangement ever happening between Margot and me, I still feel a surge of angst as I say to Suzanne, “It’s not really Margot’s style to confront people.”

“You’re not ‘
people
.’ You’re her so-called
best friend
. You’re telling me that she won’t address something like this with you?” Suzanne whistles for dramatic effect.

“I don’t know. Maybe she will,” I say, bristling at her use of
so-called
as I try to backtrack with an example of Margot being direct with me. Ironically, my only example is Leo-related. “She confronted me when Leo and I broke up and I turned into a sappy loser—”

Suzanne adamantly interrupts, “You weren’t a sappy loser. You were heartbroken. There’s a difference.”

This sentiment of course, disarms me, as no one wants to believe they were ever sappy—or a loser—and certainly not a
sappy
loser, but at this point, I really
am
out of time as Andy is headed my way with our lattes. “Here he comes,” I say. “Give me the bottom line.”

“The bottom line is that this is between
you
and
Andy
… not you and your sister-in-law, BFFs or otherwise,” she says, spitting out
BFFs
sarcastically. “But if you feel you must clear the air, then do so …”

“Okay,” I say.

“Whatever you do, though,
don’t
be a scared rabbit. And
do not
grovel or cower … Got it?”

“Got it,” I say as I take my coffee from Andy and flash him a grateful smile. I don’t remember ever needing caffeine this urgently.

“‘Cause Ellie?” Suzanne says fervently.

“Yeah?”

“If you grovel and cower … you’re setting a mighty bad precedent for yourself down in Dixie.”

Suzanne’s advice rings in my ears as Andy and I buy the snow globe on a final, sentimental whim, and round the corner toward our gate.

Don’t grovel and cower,
I think, wondering if that’s the sort of demeanor I adopted last night. I know I didn’t grovel as there was no verbal exchange, but did I cower? Was I avoiding Margot as much, or perhaps more, than she was avoiding me? If so, maybe I made things worse, elevating her minor worry into full-blown suspicion. And, although I’m certain she saw Leo’s name, maybe I also exaggerated her reaction in my head, allowing my own plagued conscience, the intense emotions of our move, and at least one drink too many to distort reality. Maybe everything will look and feel different this morning. It was something that my mother used to say all the time, and as we approach Margot and Webb already settled in at the gate, I cross my fingers that today is no exception to her rule.

I take a deep breath and belt out a preemptive, enthusiastic hello, hoping that I don’t sound as stilted as I feel.

As always, Webb stands and kisses my cheek, “Mornin’, darlin’!”

Margot, who is impeccably dressed in a navy sweater set, crisp white pants, and cherry red flats that match her lipstick, looks up from a Nicholas Sparks novel and smiles. “Hey! Good morning! How was the rest of your night?”

Her blue eyes move from me to Andy, then back to me, as I detect nothing in her face or tone or demeanor to suggest that she is angry or upset. On the contrary, she seems like her usual warm, chummy self.

I feel myself relax ever so slightly as I take the seat next to her and offer up a safe answer. “It was fun,” I say breezily.

“A little
too
much fun,” Andy says, flanking me on the other side and tossing our carry-on bags at his feet. “I probably shouldn’t have done that last shot at two in the morning.”

Margot creases a tiny dog ear in a page of her book, closes it, and slides it into her large black bag. “What time did you get back to your hotel?” she asks us.

Andy and I look at each other and shrug.

“Three, maybe?” I say, almost completely at ease now.

“Something like that,” Andy says, rubbing his temples.

Margot grimaces empathetically. “I have to say … that’s one of the best parts about being pregnant. Hangover free for nine months.”

“Baby, you’ve been hangover free for nine
years,
” Webb says.

I laugh, thinking that he’s probably right about that. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times Margot lost control in college or in our twenties. And by “lost control” I don’t mean dancing topless at a party—I mean, taking out a pair of perfectly good contact lenses and flicking them into a bush on the way home from a party, or polishing off a whole bag of barbecue potato chips.

A few moments of casual, idle chatter later, Webb says he’s going to go pick up a paper before we board. Andy offers to go with him, and Margot and I are suddenly alone, in what feels to be some kind of moment of truth.

Sure enough, it is.

“Okay, Ellie,” she says urgently. “I’ve been
dying
to talk to you.”

You could have fooled me,
I think, as I give her a sideways glance and decide that her expression is more curious than accusatory.

“I know,” I say hesitantly.

“Leo?” she says, her eyes wide, unblinking.

My stomach jumps a little hearing his name aloud, and I suddenly wish he had a more common name, like Scott or Mark. A name diluted by other casual acquaintances and associations. But in my life, there is only
one
Leo.

“I know,” I say again, stalling as I take a long sip of coffee. “I should have mentioned it sooner … I was going to … but the move … your baby … There’ve been so many distractions …”

I realize that I’m stammering, and that Suzanne likely would categorize my end of the conversation as something approaching scared-rabbit groveling, so I gather myself and try another angle. “But it’s really not the way it seems … I … I just ran into him on the street one day, and we caught up very quickly … Then, a short time later, he called my agent and gave me the Drake lead. And that was it, really …”

It is enough of the truth that I don’t feel altogether bad by editing the story—omitting that I saw him in L.A.—and afterward on our flight home.

Margot looks visibly relieved. “I
knew
it had to be something like that,” she says. “I just … I guess I thought you would have told me about it?” She adds the last part gingerly, conveying disappointment more than judgment.

“I really meant to … and I was going to before the magazine came out,” I say, unsure of whether this is the truth, but giving myself a generous benefit of the doubt. “I’m sorry.”

I think of Suzanne again, but tell myself that a simple
I’m sorry
is a far cry from groveling.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Margot says quickly. “It’s okay.”

A few seconds of easy silence pass between us, and just as I think I might be off the hook completely, she twists her diamond stud a full turn in her ear and asks point-blank, “Does Andy know?”

For some reason, it is a question I hadn’t anticipated, and one that magnifies my residual guilt
and
hangover. I shake my head, feeling fairly certain that this is
not
the answer she was hoping for.

Sure enough, she gives me a piteous look and says, “Are you going to tell him?”

“I … I guess I should?” I say, my voice rising in a question.

Margot runs her hands over her belly. “I don’t know,” she says pensively. “Maybe not.”

“Really?” I say.

“Maybe not,” she says again more resolutely.

“Don’t you think he’ll notice … the byline?” I ask as it occurs to me that we haven’t engaged in this sort of relationship strategy and analysis in years. Then again, we haven’t needed to. Other than a few silly arguments that arose during our wedding planning (in which Margot sided with me), Andy and I have never really been at odds—at least not in such a way that would have necessitated girlfriend collusion or intervention.

“Probably not,” Margot says. “He’s a guy … And does he even know Leo’s last name?”

I tell her I’m not sure. He once did, I think, but perhaps he has forgotten.

“And really,” she says, recrossing her legs at the ankle, “what does it matter anyway?”

I look at her, ninety percent thrilled by the direction she’s headed in, and ten percent worried that it might be some kind of a trap set by one loyal sibling for another.

Blood is thicker than water,
I can hear Suzanne saying as I nod noncommittally and wait for Margot to finish her thought.