twenty-five
The next morning I awaken to find Andy standing over me. He is already showered and dressed in a bright green polo, madras shorts, and a woven leather belt.
“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat and thinking that madras shorts look ridiculous on anyone over the age of five.
“Hey,” he says so curtly that I can tell sleep has not cured his problem.
Our
problem.
“Where are you off to?” I ask, noting his car keys in hand and his wallet bulging in his back pocket.
“Going to run some errands,” Andy says.
“Okay,” I say, feeling a resurgence of rage by his steadfast refusal to address last night, to ask what’s wrong, ask why I’m sleeping on the couch, wonder or care if I am happy here in Atlanta.
He twirls his keys on his index finger—a habit that is starting to grate on my nerves—and says, “So I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah. Whatever,” I mutter.
I watch him take a few nonchalant steps toward the door before I snap. “Hey!” I say, using the Northern definition of the word.
Andy turns, coolly gazing at me.
“What the hell’s your problem?” I say, my voice rising.
”
My
problem?” Andy asks, an ironic smile tugging the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah. What’s
your
problem,” I say, realizing that our arguing style is anything but sophisticated, probably because we don’t do it enough. In fact, I can’t recall a single fight of any consequence since we’ve been married. Something I used to wear as a badge of honor.
”
You’re
the one sleeping on the couch,” Andy says, pacing in front of the fireplace, still playing with his keys. “What’s up with
that
? … We always said we would never do that …”
I whip the throw blanket off my legs, sit up, and finally come out with it. “Why the hell didn’t you defend me last night?”
Andy looks at me, as if carefully considering the question, and then says, “Since when have you needed anyone to come to your rescue? … You seem to be perfectly self-contained these days.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap back at him.
“You know what it means,” he says—which pisses me off even more.
Is he referring to the fact that I’m all alone here while he works and plays golf? Or that I have nothing in common with the women in my neighborhood? Or that we hardly ever make love anymore—and when we do, we barely talk afterward?
“I actually
don’t
know what it means,” I sputter. “But what I
do
know is that it would have been nice if my husband had something to say to that
bitch
and her dumbass, red-faced husband when she—”
“Give me a break. When she
what
?” Andy says. “When she made a
joke
about wine?”
“Real funny joke,” I say.
“Oh, come
on,
” Andy says. “She thought it was Margot’s … Does that really make her a bitch?”
“She
is
a bitch. That just makes her a snob on top of it … A snob with absolutely
nothing
to back it up,” I say, thinking that
this
is the most offensive part of Ginny and Craig. Snobs are
always
offensive, but less so if they have some kind of game. But Ginny and Craig have
no
game—they are just insufferable bores whose self-identity is inextricably tied to
things
. To fancy cars and expensive wines, to staid pearls and seersucker shorts.
“So she’s a snob,” Andy says, shrugging. “You used to just laugh people like that off … And now … now you’ve got this huge fuck-you-Atlanta thing going on and you take everything so personally.”
“Last night
was
personal,” I say.
“Well, I’d argue that it wasn’t,” he says, using his calm lawyerly tone. “But let’s say it was.”
“Yes.
Let’s,
” I say, flashing a big, fake smile.
He ignores my sarcasm and continues, “Was it really worth making my sister and Webb uncomfortable?”
My sister,
I think. Andy never refers to Margot as his sister when he’s talking to me, and I can’t help thinking that this is very telling of his mindset. A mindset that is starting to mirror my own.
You versus them,
I can hear Suzanne saying.
You do not belong with them
.
“Well, apparently I thought it was,” I say, thinking that’s the price of having such jackass friends.
“And apparently I thought it wasn’t,” Andy says.
I look at him, feeling totally defeated and isolated, thinking that it’s pretty impossible to argue with a controlled, holier-than-thou husband who has just told you, in so many words, that he prioritizes other people’s feelings. Feelings other than mine, that is. So I say, “Well, you’re much better than I am. Clearly.”
“Oh, come
on,
Ellen. Get that chip off your shoulder, would you?”
It occurs to me that he’s absolutely right—I do have a chip on my shoulder. A huge one. Yet this realization does nothing to soften my heart. If anything, it only makes me angrier—and more determined to stay that way.
“Just go run your errands,” I say, waving him toward the door. “I’ll just be here ironing all day.”
He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Okay, Ellen. Be a martyr. Have it your way. I’ll see ya later.” Then he turns and walks toward the door.
I make a face and hold up both middle fingers at his back, then listen to the garage door open and Andy’s BMW start up and pull away, leaving me in deafening quiet. I sit for a few minutes, feeling sorry for myself, wondering how Andy and I got here, in both the state of Georgia and the strained emotional state of our marriage. A marriage that is not yet a year old. I think of how everyone says the first year is the hardest and wonder when—
if
—it will get easier. And, in those silent moments, I succumb to what I’ve been contemplating doing since we arrived in Atlanta.
I make my way upstairs to the office, dig to the very bottom of my desk drawer, and excavate the forbidden
Platform
magazine that I have not cracked since our going-away party in New York. Not even when I spotted the magazine in the checkout line at Kroger or when Andy proudly showed his own purchased copy to his parents.
For several minutes, I stare at the cover photo of Drake. Then, something clicks inside me, and I take a deep breath, sit down, and flip to the story. My heart pounds when I see the bold byline, and the blocks of Leo’s text, and my photos—photos that evoke all the emotions of that day—the stomach-churning anticipation, the desire. Foreign emotions these days.
I close my eyes, and when I open them, I start reading, hungrily devouring the story. When I get to the end, I read it twice more, slowly and methodically, as if searching for a secret, double meaning hidden in the paragraphs, sentences, words—which I manage to find, over and over, until my head spins, and all I want to do is talk to Leo.
So I keep on going.
I turn on the computer, and type out his e-mail address and a message to him:
Leo,
I just read your article. It is perfect. So satisfying. Thanks again for everything.
Hope you’re well.
Ellen
Then, before I can second-guess myself, I hit send. Just clicking the key wipes away all my frustration and resentment and angst. Somewhere deep down, I know I’m in the wrong. I know I’m rationalizing my actions, and worry I might even be manufacturing problems with Andy to get this result. I also know that I’m only inviting more trouble into my life. But for now, I feel good.
Really
good. Better than I’ve felt in a long,
long
time.
twenty-six
Exactly four minutes later, Leo’s name appears in my inbox. I stare at the screen in amazement, as if I’m my grandmother marveling over technology—
How in the world did that get here?
—and for a second, regret what I’ve started. I actually consider deleting his e-mail, or at least getting up from the computer for a few hours to diffuse the knot in my chest.
But the temptation is too great. So, instead, I kick into rationalization overdrive and tell myself that I did not come to this point easily. I did
not
contact Leo on a whim. I did
not
write to him after a meaningless marital spat. It’s taken weeks of loneliness and depression and frustration—bordering on desperation—to get here. It took my husband turning his back on me last night—and then again this morning. Besides, it’s just an e-mail. What could it hurt?
So, I take a deep breath, and click open Leo’s response, my heart pounding harder than ever as I read his message, all intimately lowercased:
thanks. i’m glad you liked it. that was a great day. leo
ps what took you so long?
I feel flushed as I hurriedly type back:
To read your story or get in touch?
He answers me almost instantly:
both.
I feel my stress melt away as I smile, and then struggle to come up with something clever but truthful. A careful response that will keep the conversation rolling yet won’t cross a line into flirtatious territory. I finally type:
Better late than never?
I hit send, then lean toward the computer, my fingers poised over the keyboard in the home position I learned in junior-high typing class, my whole body alert as I anticipate his response. A moment later it comes:
my point all along.
I tilt my head, mouth agape as I contemplate his precise meaning. I think of all those years that lapsed with no contact at all, and then the days since our flight. I think of how hard I tried,
still
try, to resist him—and our dangerous chemistry. I wonder what it all means—it has to mean
something
. And that
something
terrifies me and fills me with the deepest Catholic-schoolgirl guilt.
But then I picture Andy—tight-lipped at the table last night, then buttoning his starched pajamas before bed, then standing over the couch this morning with judgment all over his face. And, I envision him now, frolicking about town, waving
hey
to acquaintances and strangers alike, making small talk everywhere he goes. Small talk on the golf course, small talk in church, small talk at the gas station. Insouciant, jaunty, very
small
talk.
My breathing grows more rapid as I type:
I’ve missed talking.
I stare at the bold sentence, then delete it, watching the letters erase backward. Yet even when they’re gone, I can still see them on my screen. Can still feel them etched across my heart. It is the truth, exactly what I feel,
exactly
what I want to say. I have missed talking to Leo. I have for years—and especially since our flight. So I retype them, then close my eyes and hit send, instantly feeling both queasy and relieved. When I open them, Leo has already responded:
i’ve missed you, too, ellen.
I gasp. There’s something about him using my name. Something about his
too
—as if he knows, without my saying it, how much I’ve missed not only
talking
to him, but
him
. And there’s something about how the words look on the screen—plain and bald and frank, like it’s no big deal to say it, because it’s the most obvious, undeniable thing in the world. Paralyzed, I consider my options while another e-mail lands in my inbox.
I click and read:
you still there?
I nod at the screen, picturing his face waiting expectantly for my responses, and thinking that Andy could return home, start a small fire in the kitchen, and then hover over my shoulder, and I’d probably stay fixed to this chair.
Yes.
I hit send, wait. He writes back:
good.
And then, seconds later, in a separate e-mail:
this might be easier on the phone … can I call you?
This,
I think. What is
this
?
This
conversation?
This
confessional?
This
dance toward infidelity? I hesitate, knowing how much safer e-mail is and that agreeing to a phone call is another bridge crossed. But the part of me that wants to talk to him, wants to understand what we had together and why it ended, can’t stop myself from typing:
Yes.
And so he does. I hear the muffled sound of my cell phone ringing merrily in my purse, thrown in my closet the night before, and rush to get it before it rolls to voicemail.
“Hi,” I say, trying to catch my breath and sound casual, as if I’m not positively ecstatic to hear his voice again.
I can tell he’s smiling when he says, “Hi, Ellie.”
My heart melts, and I grin back at him.
“So,” he says. “You really
just
read my article?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, staring out the window to our driveway below.
“Didn’t your agent give you the copy I sent?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, feeling strangely contrite for appearing so indifferent to his story. He must know better, though. He must know how much that day meant to me—which was the real reason I waited so long to read his article. Still, I flounder for an excuse, saying, “She did. I’ve just been … busy lately.”
“Oh, yeah?” he says. “Working a lot?”
“Not exactly,” I say, as I hear Bob Dylan singing “Tangled Up in Blue” in his background.
“Busy with what then?” he presses.
Busy making labels and watching
Oprah
and ironing,
I think, but say, “Well, I moved to Atlanta, for one.” I pause, awash with renewed guilt over my use of
I
. But I don’t correct myself. After all, these days it feels like
I
.
Leo says, “Atlanta, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You liking that?”
“Not one bit!” I say with breezy, upbeat irony.
Leo laughs and says, “Really? A buddy of mine lives in Atlanta—Decatur, I think? He says it’s pretty cool there. Lots to do … good music, culture.”
“Not so much, really,” I say, thinking that I’m probably not being fair to Atlanta. That it’s probably just the Graham version of Atlanta I have a problem with. Which, of course, is a pretty major problem.
“What don’t you like about it?” Leo asks.
I hesitate, thinking I should keep it vague, general, brief, but instead I detail all my misgivings about the so-called good life, tossing out words like
insular
and
pampered, social climbing
and
stifling
.
Leo whistles. “Man,” he says. “Don’t hold back.”
I smile, realizing how much better I feel after my diatribe—and better still when Leo says, with a note of hopefulness, “Can you move back to New York?”
I let out a nervous laugh and force myself to say my husband’s name. “I don’t think Andy would appreciate that too much.”
Leo clears his throat. “Right. I guess not … He’s … from there, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking,
He’s quite the hometown hero
.
“So have you told him you think his city blows?” Leo asks. “That living anywhere other than New York is like drinking warm soda that’s lost its fizz?”
“Not exactly,” I say lightly, walking a tightrope of loyalty. I have always felt that griping about your spouse is, in some ways,
worse
than physical betrayal; I’d almost rather Andy kiss another girl than tell that same girl that I was, say, lousy in bed. So, despite our argument last night, I change my tone and try to be as fair as possible. “He’s really happy here … he’s working with his dad now … you know, the whole family-business thing … and we already bought a house.”
“Lemme guess,” Leo says. “A big-ass, phat house with all the trimmings?”
“Pretty much,” I say, feeling embarrassed by my riches—yet also the slightest bit defensive. After all, I agreed to them. I
chose
Andy. His family. This life.
“Hmm,” Leo says, as if contemplating all of this.
I continue, “His family would die if we moved back.”
“So Margot’s there, too?” Leo asks with a hint of disdain.
Feeling conflicted, I say, “Yeah. She moved here about a year ago … and she’s about to have a baby … So … it’s … really too late to move back.”
Leo makes a sound—like he’s laughing or exhaling hard.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing,” he says.
“Tell me,” I say softly.
“Well,” he says. “Didn’t we just say … that it’s never too late?”
I feel my stomach drop, shake my head, and mouth
fuck
. I am fucked. And this feeling only intensifies when Leo says, “Maybe you’d feel better if you came back for another shoot?”
“To New York?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“With you?” I ask hesitantly, hopefully.
“Yeah,” Leo says. “With me.”
I inhale, rake my teeth across my lower lip, and say, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea …” My voice trails off, leaving us in loaded, heart-thudding silence.
He asks why—although he
must
know why.
“Lemme see,” I say, putting up a shield of playful sarcasm. “Let’s see … Maybe because I’m married? … And you’re my ex-boyfriend?” Then, despite my better judgment, I can’t resist adding, “My ex-boyfriend who disappeared into thin air years ago, never to be seen or heard from again, until he happened to run into me totally randomly one day?”
I wait for him to reply, nervous that I’ve said too much. After what feels like a long while, he says my name—
Ellie
—sounding exactly the way he used to, in the beginning.
“Yeah?” I whisper back.
“I have to ask you something …”
I freeze, anticipating his question as I say, “What’s that?”
He clears his throat and says, “Did Margot ever tell you … that I came back?”
My mind spins in a hundred directions, wondering what he’s talking about, fearing the worst—which is also the
best
.
“You came back?” I finally say, the import of his words making me dizzy. I turn away from the window. “When did you
come back
?”
“About two years after,” Leo says.
“After what?” I say, already knowing the answer.
Sure enough, he says, “Two years after we broke up—”
“When exactly?” I say, frantically piecing together the time frame—about a month after Andy and I started to date, possibly even the very day we first slept together—December twenty-ninth.
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometime right after Christmas …”
I digest the crazy, unlikely chronology, and then ask, “To our apartment?”
“Yeah. I was in your neighborhood … and just … came by to see you. She didn’t tell you, did she?”
“No,” I say breathlessly. “She didn’t … She never told me that.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I didn’t think so.”
I pause, feeling giddy and weak and even more floored than I did that day in the intersection. “What did you say to her? What did you want?”
“I don’t remember … exactly,” Leo says.
“You don’t remember what you wanted? Or what you said?”
“Oh, I remember what I wanted,” Leo says.
“And?”
“I wanted to tell you that … I was sorry … That I missed you …”
Nauseous and lightheaded, I close my eyes and say, “Did you tell Margot that?”
“I didn’t get the chance.”
“Why not? What happened? Tell me everything,” I demand.
“Well. She wouldn’t buzz me up … she came down instead … We talked in your lobby … She made it pretty clear how she felt about me.”
“And how was that?” I say.
“That she hated me,” he says. “Then she told me you were in a relationship … that you were very happy. She told me to leave you alone—that you wanted
nothing
to do with me. Something like that …”
I try to process his words as he continues, asking, “So were you … in a relationship?”
“Starting one,” I say.
“With Andy?”
“Yeah.” I shake my head, anger welling up inside me. Anger left over from last night. Anger at the timing. Anger at myself for feeling so fragile, exposed. And most of all, anger toward Margot for not telling me such an important fact. Even after all these years.
“I can’t believe she never said anything,” I say, tears stinging my eyes, wondering why he didn’t call or e-mail. How could he have relied on Margot?
“Yeah,” he says. “Although … I know it wouldn’t have made a difference.”
Silence fills the airwaves once again, as I consider how to respond. I know what I
should
say. I should say that he’s right—it wouldn’t have made a difference. I should tell him that he was too late, and I would have made the same decision that Margot made for me. I should tell him that she was acting in my best interest. That Andy’s
still
in my best interest.
But I can’t make myself say any of this. I can’t get over the feeling of being cheated. At the most, I was cheated out of the choice for a different life—a choice I had the right to make and that nobody else should have made for me. At the very least, I was cheated out of the all-important closure—knowledge that would have made me feel better about the worst thing to ever happen to me short of my mother dying, as well as the chance to reconcile my feelings for Leo with the way things ended between us. Yes, we broke up. Yes,
Leo
did the breaking up. But he regretted it. He loved me enough to come back. I was worth coming back for. It might not have made a difference in my life, but it would have made a difference in my heart. I close my eyes, riding a wave of resentment and indignation and more anger still.
“Anyway,” Leo says, sounding slightly uneasy as he struggles to change the subject, return to the present.