Love the One You're With

by Emily Giffin

  “This is so stupid,” Suzanne would always say as we watched the couples on our favorite soaps. She’d roll her eyes as she pointed out the improbabilities and inconsistencies of the on-screen romances, but there she’d sit, riveted to the television, hungry for more.

  Similarly, as we ate our burgers, Suzanne wanted all the details on Margot’s upcoming nuptials, ferreting out any potential drama.

  “That was a short engagement, wasn’t it?” she asked, brows raised. “Could she be knocked up?”

  I laughed and shook my head.

  “So what’s the hurry?”

  “They’re in love,” I said, thinking that their entire courtship was storybook, including its brevity. Their engagement preceded mine, despite the fact that Andy and I were dating first.

  “How big’s the ring?” she asked, somewhat critically.

  “Huge,” I said. “Colorless, flawless.”

  Suzanne digested this and said, “What kind of a name is Webb?”

  “Family name. Short for Webster.”

  “Like the television show,” she said, laughing.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Do you like him?” she asked.

  Given her mood, I considered lying and giving her an unequivocal yes, but I have never been able to lie to Suzanne. Instead, I told her the truth—that although he seemed to be the perfect guy, I wasn’t all that psyched about Margot marrying him. I felt selfish and disloyal admitting it, and even more so when Suzanne probed, “Why? Does she blow you off for him?”

  “No. Never,” I said, which was the truth. “She’s not like that.”

  “So what is it then?…Does he intimidate you?”

  “No,” I said quickly, feeling myself becoming defensive. I loved my sister, but it was not an uncommon dynamic between us since I had moved to New York and she had stayed put in our hometown. She’d subtly attack, and I’d subtly defend. It was almost as if she resented me for leaving Pittsburgh for good. Or worse, she assumed that I felt superior—which was completely untrue. In all the important ways, I felt like the exact same person I had always been. I was just exposed to more. I had a layer of sophistication and worldliness that comes with living in a big city, and frankly, being around the Grahams. “Intimidated by what?”

  “I don’t know. By his looks? His money? His whole slickster, tennis boy, agent bag?”

  “He’s not really a slickster,” I said, trying to remember what exactly I had told Suzanne about Webb in the past. She had an infallible memory—that she often used against me. “He’s actually pretty down-to-earth.”

  “A down-to-earth multimillionaire, huh?” she said.

  “Well, yes, actually,” I said, thinking that I had long since learned that you couldn’t lump all people with money into one category. The wealthy were as varied as the downtrodden. Some were hardworking, some lazy. Some self-made, some born with a silver spoon. Some modest and understated, some ostentatious braggarts. But Suzanne’s views had never evolved beyond our Dallas and Dynasty and Love Boat watching days (my sister and I watched a lot of television growing up, unlike Andy and Margot who were limited to a half-hour per day). To Suzanne, every “rich” person (a term she used derisively) was the same: soft, selfish, and likely “a lying snake of a Republican.”

  “Okay, then,” she said. “So maybe you’re just intimidated by the fact that he belongs in Margot’s world, and you…don’t.”

  I thought it was a harsh and narrow-minded thing to say and told her as much. I went on to say that I was well beyond such adolescent insecurities, and that the intimidation factor ended in college sometime after sorority rush when Margot was swept up in a sea of blond, BMW-driving debutantes, and I had incorrectly feared that her going Greek would dilute our friendship. Moreover, I told my sister that I clearly did belong in Margot’s world. She was my best friend and roommate. And I was likely going to marry her brother, for God’s sake.

  “Okay. Sorry,” Suzanne said, sounding not at all sorry. She shrugged as she took a bite of her burger. She chewed and swallowed slowly, took a long drink of Coke from her straw and said with annoyed sarcasm, “It was just a theory. Please forgive me.”

  I forgave her, as I could never stay mad at Suzanne—but I didn’t soon forget it. In fact, the next time Andy and I went out to dinner with Webb and Margot, I fretted that my sister was right. Maybe I was the odd woman out. Maybe Margot would finally come to her senses about how different we were and Webb would steal her away for good. Maybe Webb really was an elitist snob, and he just hid it well.

  But as the evening wore on, and I paid close attention to him and all his mannerisms, I decided that Suzanne truly was off the mark. There was nothing not to like about Webb. He was a genuinely good guy. It was just an inexplicable disconnect with another person. Webb gave me the same feeling I had as a kid when I slept over at a friend’s house and discovered an odd smell in their basement or a foreign cereal selection in their cupboard. He didn’t intimidate me; he didn’t offend me; he didn’t worry me with respect to Margot. He just made me feel vaguely…homesick. Homesick for what, I wasn’t sure.

  But despite this, I was determined to bond with Webb on some nonsuperficial level. Or, at the very least, get to the comfortable stage of things where we could be alone in a room together and I wouldn’t be casting about, hoping for a third party’s return.

  So when Margot passes Webb the phone now, and he booms a confident “Hey, there!” into the phone, I pump up my own volume to match his exuberance and give him an enthusiastic, “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you!”

  “We’re pretty happy, too…for lo, these forty-five seconds! Your girl doesn’t waste much time, does she?”

  I laugh, wondering if he’s annoyed or amused by our constant phone lifeline and our vow to visit one another at least once every other month, and then say, “Look forward to seeing you guys next weekend. We’ll have to celebrate.”

  “Yeah, we’ll have fun,” he says. “And you, Andy, and I will just have to suck it up and drink for Margot, too.”

  I force another chuckle and say, yes, we’ll have to do just that. Then Webb passes the phone back to Margot, and she tells me she loves me. I tell her I love her, too. Andy tells me to tell her that he loves her. And we both say we love the baby on the way. Then I hang up and lie back down next to Andy. We are facing each other, our feet touching. His hand is resting on my hip, just under my oversized T-shirt. We smile at each other, but say nothing, both of us processing the big news. News that feels way bigger than, say, running into an ex-boyfriend on the street.

  And so, for the first time since I left that intersection, I feel a sense of perspective wash over me. Perspective that wasn’t ushered in by sex. Or a fun dinner out. Or a night sleeping next to my adorable husband and awaking every few hours to hear his reassuring, steady breathing. Leo has no place in this moment, I think. He has no part in Andy’s family. Our family.

  “You want one, too?” Andy says, his hand moving around me, and then massaging the small of my back.

  “One what?” I say, even though I know what he’s referring to.

  “A baby,” he says. “I know you and Margot like to do things together.”

  I can’t tell whether he’s joking or propositioning me or speaking theoretically, so I just murmur, “Someday.”

  Andy’s hand moves more slowly and gradually stills. Then he closes his eyes for a few more minutes of sleep while I watch his eyelids flutter and imagine someday, every day, with Andy.

  Seven

  Thoughts of Leo fade almost completely over the next week, which I credit to my contented life with Andy, Margot’s exciting news, and maybe most of all, my work. It’s amazing what a productive, satisfying week of work can do for your psyche, and I consider myself very lucky (or as Margot would say—blessed—a nice, spiritual spin on the source of good fortune) to have the kind of job I can get happily lost in. I read once that when the hours pass in a blur while you work, you know you have found your cal
ling, and although every day isn’t like this for me, I certainly am no stranger to that immersed feeling.

  I now own my own one-woman photography business, working on a freelance basis. I have an agent who books assignments for me—anything from advertising shoots for hefty sums, sometimes as much as several thousand dollars for a couple days’ work, to smaller, editorial assignments, which I actually prefer from a creative standpoint.

  I love portraiture most of all—perhaps because I’m not a very outgoing person. I don’t talk easily to strangers, although I wish I could, and taking someone’s portrait allows me to make that inroad. I enjoy meeting someone for a leisurely afternoon, becoming acquainted over lunch or coffee, and then getting down to business. I love the trial and error of it all, tinkering with various positions and lighting until I get it just right. There is nothing more satisfying than capturing that one, perfect image. My interpretation of another soul. I also love the variety of the work. Shooting an entrepreneur for Business Week, for example, feels very different from taking photos for a piece in The New York Times Style section or a glossy spread for Town & Country, and the people I’m photographing vary as much as the publications. In the past few weeks alone, I’ve shot a bestselling author, the cast of an art-house film, a college basketball star and his legendary coach, and an up-and-coming pastry chef.

  In short, I’ve come a long, long way since my days of processing film on Second Avenue, and my only lingering regret about my encounter with Leo—other than that it happened at all—is that I didn’t have the chance to tell him about my career. Of course I would rather he know about Andy than my work; but ideally, I wish he knew about both. Then again, perhaps he knows more than he let on. Perhaps the reason that he didn’t ask about my career is that he has already found my Web site or stumbled across one of my more prominent credits. After all, I’ve sheepishly poked about for his bylines, skimming his features with a bizarre combination of detachment and interest, pride and scorn. It’s a matter of curiosity—and anyone who says they are utterly indifferent to what their significant exes are doing is, in my opinion, either lying or lacking a certain amount of emotional depth. I’m not saying it’s healthy to be past-obsessed, ferreting out details of every ex. But it’s simply human nature to have an occasional, fleeting interest in someone whom you once loved.

  So assuming Leo has come across my Web site or work, I hope he goes on to surmise that our breakup was a catalyst in my life—a springboard for bigger and better things. In some ways, he would be right about this, although I don’t believe you can fully blame anyone else for your own lack of ambition—which was certainly a trend during our relationship.

  To this point, I cringe when I think back to how complacent I became on the career front when I was with Leo. My love for photography never waned completely, but I certainly loved it with far less urgency—just as everything in my life became secondary to our relationship. Leo was all I could think about, all I wanted to do. He filled me up so completely that I simply had no energy left to take photos. No time or motivation to even contemplate the next rung on my career ladder. I remember riding the bus to the photo lab every day, well after I had learned everything I could possibly learn from Quynh, and saying things to myself like, “I don’t need to look for another job. Money isn’t important to me. I’m happy with a simple life.”

  After work, I’d head straight for Leo’s new place, back in Queens, ever available to him, only returning to my own apartment when he had other plans or when I needed a fresh supply of clothes. On the rare nights we were apart, I sometimes went out with Margot and our group of friends, but I preferred staying in, where I would daydream about Leo or plan our next adventure together or compile cassette mixes of songs that seemed cool enough, smart enough, soulful enough for my cool, smart, soulful boyfriend. I wanted so much to please Leo, impress him, make sure that he needed and loved me as much as I needed and loved him.

  At first, it seemed to work. Leo was just as smitten as I, only in the less sappy guy way. He never completely abandoned his work like I did, but he was also older, and further established in his career, with important assignments and hard deadlines. He did, however, include me in his professional life, letting me tag along to his interviews or bringing me into his office on the weekends where I’d organize his files or simply watch him while he typed up his stories (or seduced me on his desk). And he was just as willing as I was to blow off his friends and family, preferring our time together to be alone, just the two of us.

  For months, things stayed that way, and it felt blissful, magical. We never tired of talking. Our good-byes, whether on the phone or in person, were always lingering, as if it might be the very last time we would ever speak. We sacrificed sleep for conversation, asking endless questions about each other and our respective pasts. No childhood detail was too trivial, which is always a sure sign that someone is in love—or at the very least obsessed. Leo even took a photo of my six-year-old front-toothless self from an album in my bedroom, declaring it “the cutest thing ever” before tacking it up on a bulletin board in his kitchen.

  I exposed every part of myself to him, keeping no secrets, no defense mechanism in place. I revealed all my insecurities, from insignificant but embarrassing things, like how I’ve always hated my knees, to deeper issues about how I sometimes felt inadequate around Margot and our other well-traveled, wealthy friends in the city. Most important, I told him all about my mother, including uncut details of her death that I had never discussed with anyone. How she looked so frail that it conjured images from the Holocaust. How I had watched my father clear out her throat with his hand one night when she literally couldn’t breathe—an image that continues to haunt me now. How at one point I actually said a prayer for the end to just come—and not only so she’d be put out of her misery but so the hospice people and the smell of sickness would be purged from our house, and my father could stop worrying about her death, hiding his notebook of funeral arrangements whenever I came in the room. And then how horribly guilty I felt the moment it finally happened, almost as if I made her die sooner than she would have otherwise. I told Leo how I sometimes felt almost ashamed to be motherless, like no matter what else I did in life, I would always be marked and categorized and pitied for that one fact.

  At every turn, Leo listened and consoled me and said all the right things—that although I had lost her at a young age, she had still formed the person I was today. That my memories of her would never fade and the good times would slowly supplant the end. That my descriptions and stories were so vivid, that he felt like he knew her.

  Meanwhile, the confessions weren’t one-sided. Leo shared his own secrets, too—mostly dysfunctional family tales about his passive, homemaker mother who had no self-esteem, and his mean-spirited, controlling father whose approval he could never quite win. He told me that he wished he had had the money to go to a better, bigger-named college and actually graduate, and that he, too, sometimes felt intimidated by the Manhattan rich-kid set with their fancy journalism school credentials. I felt it hard to believe that someone as amazing as Leo would have any insecurities, but his vulnerability only made me love him more.

  And then, aside from everything else, and maybe more important than everything else, there was our chemistry. The physical connection. The mind-blowing, ridiculous sex which was the stuff of both poetry and porn—so unlike anything else I had ever experienced before. For the first time, I wasn’t at all self-conscious or inhibited when it came to sex. There was nothing that felt off-limits. Nothing I wouldn’t do for him, to him, with him. We kept saying that surely it couldn’t get any better. But somehow it did, again and again.

  In short, we were completely in sync, insatiable, and sickeningly, crazy in lust and love. So much so that it seemed too good to be true. And so it shouldn’t have surprised me to discover that it was too good to be true.

  I can’t say exactly when it happened, but about one year into our relationship, things began to change. There
was nothing dramatic that happened—no rift based on a major life issue, no big fight with nasty, irretrievable words. Nobody cheated or lied or moved across the country or delivered an ultimatum about what should come next. Instead, there was just a shift I couldn’t quite pinpoint, a quiet transfer of power. It was so subtle, in fact, that for a while I thought I was just being paranoid—a typical, needy girl, something I had always prided myself on not being, and something I never had to be with Leo. But after a while, I knew it wasn’t in my head. Leo still loved me; he told me he did, and he would never say those words if he didn’t mean them. But our feelings definitely became lopsided. Only slightly perhaps, but that’s the thing about love—even slight differences are readily apparent, marked by small but irrefutable changes in behavior. Little things, like instead of calling me right back, he’d wait a few hours, sometimes even a full day. He started going out with the boys on a regular basis again, and joined an ice hockey intramural team that played on Saturday nights. We began to watch television at night rather than just talk, and sometimes he was too tired for sex, unfathomable in our early days when he’d often wake me up in the middle of the night, touching me everywhere. And when we did make love, there was all too often a feeling of remoteness afterward. A disconnect as he’d roll away from me or stare into space, lost in his own, private thoughts, another mysterious place.

  “What are you thinking?” I’d ask, a question both of us once posed ad nauseam, the other answering with exacting detail. A question that now seemed to set him on edge.

  “Nothing,” he’d snap.

  “Nothing?” I’d say, thinking that such a thing is impossible. You’re always thinking something.