Love the One You're With (24 page)

“You
have
to?” she says, perching one hand on her stomach as she slides her Lanvin ballet flats together. Even in a crisis, she looks graceful, poised.

“Margot,” I say. “Please try to understand—”

“No. No, Ellen,” she says interrupting me. “I
don’t
understand … I don’t understand why you’d do something so immature … and hurtful … and destructive … Taking the Drake assignment was one thing, but
this
… This is too much.”

“It’s not like that,” I say, floundering.

“I heard you, Ellen. I heard your voice—the way you were talking to him … I can’t believe this … You’re ruining
everything
.”

And as she rests her other hand on her stomach, I know she means
everything
. Her shower. The friendship. My marriage. Our family.
Everything
.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

And although I
am
sorry, I can feel my shame shifting into self-righteousness as it occurs to me that we might not be having this conversation had she been straight with me years ago. Had she remembered that we were friends
first
—before I was ever with Andy. My mind races as I consider whether to tell her that I know what she did—whether there is any downside. I allude to it, saying, “I just need … to sort some things out that needed to be sorted out a long time ago …”

Clearly not getting the hint, she shakes her head and says, “No. There’s absolutely
no
excuse in the world for this—”

“Really?” I say, interrupting her. “Well, what’s
your
excuse, Margot?”

“Excuse for what?” She looks at me, confused, as I wonder if she forgot about his visit, or otherwise revised history, editing his return right out of her memory.

“For never telling me that he came back,” I say. My voice is calm, but my heart is pounding.

Margot blinks, looking momentarily startled before quickly gathering herself. “You were with Andy,” she says. “You were in a
relationship
with Andy.”

“So what?” I say.

“So
what
?” she says, horrified. “So
what
?”

“I don’t mean ‘so what’ that I was with Andy … I mean … what makes you think your telling me about Leo would have threatened anything?”

She crosses her arms and laughs. “Well. I think we have our answer right here.”

I stare into her eyes, refusing to mix the two issues. “You should have told me,” I say, spitting the words out. “I had a
right
to know. I had a right to make that choice for myself … And if you thought my leaving Andy was even a
possibility
… well, all the more reason that you should have told me.”

Margot shakes her head, in perfect, outright denial, as I realize that I’ve never heard her say that she’s sorry—or that she was wrong. About anything, to anyone. Ever.

“Well, Andy has a right to know
this,
” she says, ignoring my point altogether. “He has a right to know what his wife is doing.”

Then she straightens her back, raises her chin, and says in a steely, cold, spitfire voice, “And if you don’t tell him, Ellen … then
I
will.”

thirty

A few seconds later, Craig, Webb, Andy, and James burst in from the side door, looking sweaty, sunned, and satisfied. I inhale sharply, struggling to regain my composure as I watch Margot do the same. For one beat, I worry that she might make an unprecedented scene and divulge everything right there on the spot. But, if nothing else, she would never embarrass her brother like that. Instead, she practically runs to Webb, resting her head on his chest as if seeking refuge in her own flawless relationship.

I watch the two of them together, marveling that I felt the same way about Andy—that he was my bedrock—only a few short months ago. Now I stand several paces away from him, feeling utterly alone, separate.

“Who won?” Margot asks as she casts Andy a furtive glance, seemingly hoping that he did. If his wife is going to betray him, at least he can have a good day on the golf course.

Sure enough, Andy flashes a cute, cocky smile, winks, and says, “Who do you think won, Mags?”

“Dude is
so
lucky,” James says, as Ginny, Stella, and Pam join us in the kitchen, looking delighted to be back in the company of their men.

“Andy won!” Margot announces with artificial cheer as the guys regale us with their golf tales, including a guess-you-had-to-be-there moment when Craig, in a fit of frustration, whacked a magnolia tree with his brand-new driver. More than once. Everyone laughs, except for Margot and me, while Craig makes a proud point of telling us all just how expensive that driver was. Meanwhile, he retrieves four Heinekens from the refrigerator, opening them so rapid fire that he reminds me of a bartender during happy hour—a job I feel pretty sure he never held. He doles them out to Andy, Webb, and James, sucking his own down and, between gulps, wiping the bottle against his forehead.

“So how was the shower?” Andy asks, seemingly the only man in the room—including the father-to-be—who remembers that the real point of the day wasn’t golf. I add a few points to his good-husband tally, despite the fact that I know he shouldn’t be under heightened scrutiny.

Margot cocks her head, smiles a subdued smile, and says, “It was great.”

“It was
so
lovely,” Stella and Pam chime in, using the exact same inflection. They exchange a fond, girlfriendy look that makes me long for that dynamic with Margot—and worry that we might never get it back.

“Did you get some good loot?” James asks Margot, in a fake New York accent, rotating his visor a half-turn to achieve his favorite gangsta look.

Margot forces another smile and says yes, she received some gorgeous presents, while Ginny, unable to contain her glee, blurts, “And Ellen got to meet Lucy!”

My stomach churns as I think of how much
more
gleeful Ginny will be when Margot confides in her the full irony of the situation.

“Is that right?” Andy says, raising his eyebrows in an interested way that would, under any other circumstances, send me into a tail-spin of jealousy and insecurity.

“So what’d you think?” James asks me with his trademark smirk, likely homing in on a golden opportunity to break his mother’s prim protocol.

“She was very nice,” I say quietly, as James, true to form, mumbles something about her “nice tubes.”

“James!” Stella gasps.

“You even know what tubes are, Mom?” James says, grinning.

“I have an idea,” Stella says, shaking her head.

Meanwhile, Andy pretends to ignore the sideshow, kindly doing his best to appear bored with the subject of Lucy—which only serves to bring Margot’s outrage to a fresh boil.

“Well,” she finally says, clearly unable to stand being near me another second. “I’m exhausted.” She looks up at Webb and says, “We probably should go before my Braxton Hicks start up again …”

Webb massages her neck and says, “Sure thing. Let’s get you home, sweetie.”

“Yeah,” Andy says, yawning and then taking a long drink of beer. “We better hit it, too. Ellen has a big day tomorrow. She’s going to New York for a big shoot.”

“I’ve heard,” Margot says. Her expression is blank and her voice is drained of any emotion—but it is still perfectly obvious, at least to me, that she is upset about something more than potential contractions. I watch her, desperate to make final eye contact, although I’m not sure what I wish to communicate. An appeal for mercy? A final explanation? An outright apology? When she finally glances over at me, I give her a plaintive look that covers all of the above. She shakes her head in refusal, looks down at Ginny’s stone floor, and moves her lips almost imperceptibly, as if formulating what she’s going to say to her brother in his hour of need.

That evening, after Andy and I return home, we are the portrait of a normal couple sharing a Sunday evening, at least on the surface. We make a chopped salad to go with our pepperoni pizza from Mellow Mushroom. We watch television, passing the remote control back and forth. I help him gather our garbage for pickup in the morning. He sits with me while I pay the bills. We get ready for bed together. Inside, though, I am a total wreck, replaying my conversation with Margot, jumping whenever the phone rings, and desperately trying to recruit the words—and the strength—to make my confession.

Then, finally, Andy and I are in bed with the lights off, and I know it is my absolute last chance to say something.
Anything
. Before Margot says it for me.

A hundred different openers flash through my mind as Andy leans over to kiss me goodnight. I kiss him back, lingering for a few seconds longer than normal, feeling both nervous and profoundly sad.

“It was great meeting Lucy today,” I say when we finally separate, cringing at how lame I am for trying to drum up the can-you-be-friends-with-exes discussion.

“Yeah. She’s a nice girl,” Andy says. He sighs and adds, “Too bad she married an ass.”

“Her husband’s an ass?”

“Yeah … Apparently he missed his own son’s birth.”

“Well. I can see how that could happen. Did he have a good reason?” I say, hoping that my forgiving mood will be contagious.

“I know it
could
happen,” Andy says. “If the baby came early or something … But he went on a business trip on his kid’s due date … And then surprise, surprise, couldn’t get back in time.”

“Who told you that?”

“Luce.”

In spite of everything, I flinch at the abbreviated pet form of her name. Andy must hear it, too, because he clears his throat quickly and corrects himself, saying, “Lucy told me.”

“When?” I ask, shamelessly angling for shared culpability. “I thought you guys didn’t talk anymore?”

“We don’t,” he quickly replies. “She told me a long time ago.”

“Her son’s five. We’ve been together longer than five years.”

“He’s almost six,” Andy says, adjusting the covers around him.

“You have his birthday memorized?” I shoot back, only half kidding.

“Easy, Inspector Gadget,” Andy says, laughing. “You know Lucy and I haven’t talked in years. It was just one of those final, post-relationship talks where you check on each other and—”

“And confide how miserable your current relationship is? How your husband can’t hold a candle to your first love?”

Andy laughs. “No. She actually didn’t seem to think that her husband missing the birth was that big of a deal. It was sort of an incidental part of her story … She was always one of those girls who seemed to care more about babies than husbands.”

“So did she call you? … Or did you call her?” I ask, feeling increasingly queasy.

“Jeez, Ell. I honestly don’t remember … We didn’t talk for long … I think we both wanted to make sure the other was okay … That there were no hard feelings.”

“And were there? Hard feelings?” I say, thinking that Leo and I never had such a conversation. We never had any closure, unless you count our red-eye flight—which obviously didn’t do the trick.

“No,” he says, and then sits up and gently asks, “Where are you going with this?”

“Nowhere,” I say. “I’m just … I just want you to know that it’d be okay with me if you did talk to her … if you want to be friends with her.”

“C’mon, Ell. You know I have no desire to be friends with Lucy.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t,” he says. “For one, I don’t have any friends who are girls. And for another … I don’t even
know
her anymore.”

I consider this statement, realizing that despite my bad breakup with Leo, and despite the fact that we didn’t talk for years, I
never
had this feeling about him. I might not have known details of his day-to-day life, but I never felt like I stopped knowing
him
.

“That’s sad,” I muse, although suddenly I’m not sure which scenario is sadder. Then, for the first time ever, I find myself wondering what it would be like if Andy and I ever went our separate ways—which breakup camp we’d fall into. I push the thought aside, telling myself it could never happen. Or could it?

“What’s so sad about it?” Andy asks nonchalantly.

“Oh, I don’t know …” I say, my voice trailing off.

Andy rolls over to face me as my eyes make another incremental adjustment to the dark.

“What’s on your mind, Ell?” he says. “Are you upset about Lucy?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. I
really
enjoyed meeting her.”

“All right,” he says. “Good.”

I close my eyes, knowing I’ve come to my moment of truth. I clear my throat, lick my lips, and stall for a few final seconds.

“Andy,” I finally say, my voice starting to shake. “I have to tell you something.”

“What?” he says softly.

I take a deep breath and exhale. “It’s about the shoot tomorrow.”

“What about it?” he asks, reaching out to touch my arm.

“The shoot … is with Leo,” I say, feeling both relieved and nauseous.

“Leo?” he says. “Your ex-boyfriend?”

I make myself say yes.

“What do you mean it’s
with
Leo?” Andy says.

“He’s writing the piece,” I say, delicately choosing my words. “And I’m taking the photos.”

“Okay,” he says, switching on his bedside lamp and gazing directly into my eyes. He looks so calm and trusting that for the first time, I actually consider canceling my trip. “But how? … How did this come about?”

“I ran into him in New York,” I say, knowing that I’m confessing way too little, way too late. “And he offered me an assignment …”

“When?” Andy asks. He is clearly trying hard to give me the benefit of the doubt, but I can tell he’s slipping into his deposing-attorney mode. “When did you run into him?”

“A few months ago … It was no big deal …”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, a logical question and the clear crux of the matter. After all, it clearly
was
a big deal—and how all of this started back on that wintry day in the intersection when I returned home and decided to keep that very first secret from my husband. For a second, I wonder if I would go back and do things differently.

I hesitate and then say, “I didn’t want to upset you.”

This
is
the truth—the cowardly truth, but the truth nonetheless.

“Well, not telling me makes it a big deal,” Andy says, his eyes wide and wounded.

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry … But I … I really want the work … this kind of work,” I say, struggling to put the best possible spin on things. In my heart, I truly believe that part of the reason I am going
is
for the work. That I need more in my life than simply sitting around a big, beautiful house and waiting for my husband to come home. That I want to be doing my own thing again. Feeling a small boost, and a measure of hope that he might actually understand, I add, “I really miss it. I
really
miss New York.”

Andy pulls on his ear, his face clearing for a second as he says, “We can go back and visit … Go to dinner and a show …”

“I don’t miss it like that … I miss
working
in the city. Being a part of it … the energy.”

“So go work there,” he says.

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“But why does it have to be with Leo? You suddenly can’t work without Leo? You shoot Drake Watters for the cover of
Platform,
but now you need your ex-boyfriend to help you get work?” Andy asks, sounding so succinct in the trap he’s just set for me that for a second, I think that he must have noticed Leo’s byline after all. Or perhaps Margot already told him about that piece. Even Andy never gets this lucky on cross-examination.

“Well. Actually,” I say, glancing down at my day-old manicure before returning his probing gaze. “He got me
that
assignment, too.”

“Wait. What?” Andy says, the first real traces of anger on his face as he begins to put it all together. “What do you mean? How did he get you that shoot?”

I brace myself for the worst as I say, “He wrote the article … He called my agent about that assignment.”

“Was he in L.A.?” Andy asks, his voice growing progressively louder, more distressed. “Did you see him?”

I nod, struggling to mitigate my admission. “But I swear I never knew he was going to be there … We didn’t hang out … or go to dinner … or anything … I was with Suzanne the whole time. It was all … strictly business.”

“And now?” he says, asking an open-ended question that fills me with trepidation.

“And now … we have another shoot,” I say.

“So what? Y’all are going to be some kind of team?” he asks as he bolts out of bed, crosses his arms, and glares at me.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not like that.”

“So explain. What
is
it like?” he asks, his chest puffing with a surge of testosterone.

“We’re friends,” I say. “Who work together … occasionally. Twice. Not even occasionally.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that.”

“Why not?” I say, as if there is any doubt why not.

“Because … Because I’ve never heard one good thing about the guy … and now you want to rekindle a friendship with him?”

“Margot’s not fair to him,” I say. “She never has been.”

“You told me awful things about him, too.”