Love the One You're With

by Emily Giffin

  “Really?” Margot and Stella said at once.

  “Yup,” Andy said.

  “Potential?” Margot asked.

  Andy nodded as Mr. Graham looked up from the newspaper with minor curiosity. Margot once told me that her father’s only wish was that Andy someday move back to Atlanta and take over his law practice—and viewed his marrying a Yankee as the only significant roadblock to his dream.

  Sure enough, Mr. Graham peered over the paper and said, “Is she from the South, by chance?”

  “No,” Andy said. “But I think you’d all really like her.”

  I smiled, blushed, and looked down at my letters, taking it as a good sign that I had an F, A, T, and E on my rack.

  So that’s how Andy and I got our start. Which is why visiting Margot’s family (whom I now refer to as Andy’s family, having made the switch somewhere between our first date and marriage) always feels like a bit of a sentimental journey for me, like reading an old love letter or returning to the site of an early-relationship date. And I am thinking of all of this now, about a week after Margot’s big baby news, as Andy and I fly to Atlanta for a weekend visit.

  It is a smooth flight and there is not a cloud in the cobalt blue February sky, but I am still a bit on edge. I am a nervous flyer, perhaps inheriting the skittishness from my mother who refused to do so altogether. Not that my parents could ever afford to fly anywhere, a fact that pains me as I watch my father and Sharon jet off to Florida every winter, where they embark on their gaudy Caribbean cruises. I want my father to be happy, but sometimes it doesn’t seem fair that Sharon gets to enjoy the fruits of my father’s retirement—and the fact that I have long since learned that life’s not fair doesn’t really ease the blow.

  In any event, the flight attendant now makes a chipper announcement that we are nearing Hartsfield-Jackson Airport and that we should return our seats and tray tables to their upright position. Andy follows instructions and repositions his USA Today crossword to his lap. He taps his paper with his pen and says, “I need a four-letter word for summit?”

  “Apex,” I say.

  Andy shakes his head. “Doesn’t fit.”

  I try again. “Acme?”

  He nods. “Thanks,” he says, looking proud of my crossword prowess. He is the lawyer, but I am the wordsmith. Like his mother, I now routinely kick his ass in Scrabble and Boggle—and really all board games. Which is fine by Andy—he has almost no competitive instinct.

  As the plane softly swerves, I grip my armrest with one hand, Andy’s leg with my other. I close my eyes, thinking again of that moment in the kitchen so many years ago. It might not be as titillating as striking a love connection with a dark stranger while sequestered on a murder trial, but in some ways it was even better. It had substance. A sweet, solid core. A foundation of friendship and family—the simple things that really mattered, things that lasted. Andy wasn’t about mystery because I already knew him by the time he asked me out. Maybe I didn’t know him well, and the knowledge I did have was mostly filtered through Margot—but I still knew him in some fundamental, important way. I knew where he came from. I knew who he loved and who loved him back. I knew that he was a good brother and son. I knew that he was a funny, kind, athletic boy. The sort of boy who helps with the dishes after Thanksgiving dinner, ulterior motive or not.

  So when Andy and I went on our first date a few days later, we were much farther along than your average couple out on a first date. We were at least in fourth-date terrain, able to skip the autobiographical, get-to-know-you fare and just relax, have a good time. There was no pretense, positioning, or posturing, which I had grown accustomed to at the end of my relationship with Leo—and on so many bad first dates beyond. Everything felt easy and straightforward, balanced and healthy. I never had to wonder what Andy was thinking, or how he felt, because he was an open book, and so consistently happy. Moreover, he was concerned with making me happy. He was a polite, respectful Southern gentleman, a romantic and a pleaser at heart.

  Somewhere deep down, I think I knew from the start that our relationship lacked a certain intensity, but not in a way where I felt something was missing. To the contrary, it felt like a huge relief never to fret—sort of like your first day of feeling healthy after a vicious case of the flu. The mere absence of feeling miserable was euphoric. This, I thought to myself as Andy and I gradually grew closer, was the way things were supposed to be. This was how love was supposed to feel. More important, I believed that it was the only kind of love that wouldn’t burn out. Andy had staying power. Together, we had the potential to last forever.

  I feel the plane begin to make its final descent as Andy folds his newspaper, stuffs it into the duffel bag at his feet, and squeezes my hand. “You doing okay?”

  “Yes,” I say, thinking that’s the thing about Andy—I’m always at least okay when I’m with him.

  Moments later we land safely in Atlanta, pulling into our gate several minutes ahead of schedule. Andy stands to retrieve our coats from the overhead bin while I turn on my phone to see if Margot has called. Our plan as of last night was to meet outside at Delta arrivals at nine-thirty sharp, but Margot often runs late or changes plans midstream. Sure enough, there is a blinking mailbox icon on my phone. One new message. I hit play, quickly realizing with both excitement and dread that the message is not from Margot. The message is from Leo. Leo, who, two weeks after our meeting, is apparently making good on his promise of a renewed friendship.

  Flustered, I glance at Andy who is oblivious. I could easily listen to the whole message without his knowledge, and a guilty part of me is dying to hear what Leo has to say. Instead, I let him get no farther than, “Hey, Ellen. Leo here,” before shutting off my phone and silencing him. I will not allow him to say more than that in Andy’s hometown. In Andy’s presence, period.

  Nine

  Andy and I make our way to baggage claim, and then outside to arrivals in record time. “Like poetry in motion,” he says, proud of his ability to travel efficiently, just as we spot Webb and Margot’s silver Mercedes SUV.

  To our amusement, Margot appears to be in a clash of wills with a husky policewoman perched on a bicycle seat that looks way too small for her mammoth hips. She is undoubtedly telling Webb and Margot that there is no curbside waiting allowed. I can see through the half-open car window that, although Margot is wearing her sugar-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression, she is fully entrenched, determined not to back down and lose her spot. Her charm, however, does not seem to be doing the trick on the officer. Sporting a mullet and lug-soled, black motorcycle boots, she blows her whistle and then bellows, “Loading and unloading only, lady! Move it now!”

  “My good-ness,” Margot says, pressing her hand to her chest, before looking up, seeing us, and announcing, “Why look here! My family has arrived. We’re loading now!”

  I smile, thinking that Margot has prevailed again, ever elegantly.

  The officer turns and glowers at us, vigorously pedaling on to her next victim. Meanwhile, Margot bounds out of the car. She is wearing a long, belted, camel-colored cashmere sweater, dark jeans tucked into chocolate suede boots, and oversized sunglasses (a look she stuck to even in the late nineties when small frames were the rage). She looks every bit the fashion plate she was in New York, maybe more so.

  “We’re so glad you’re here!” she squeals, gathering Andy and me in a joint, but still dainty hug. Even though I knew she couldn’t yet be showing, her petite frame and sprightly movements belie pregnancy. Only her chest gives her secret away; her C cups seem to be tipping over into the D range. I smile, thinking that it’s the sort of thing you’d only notice on a best friend. I gesture toward them, and mouth, “Nice.”

  She laughs and says back, “Yeah, they’ve already gotten a little bigger…But this is mostly just a quality push-up.”

  Andy pretends to be embarrassed by our conversation as he tosses our oversized duffel bag into the back of the car. Seconds later, after a hearty greeting from Webb, we
are exiting the airport and whizzing along the highway. Margot and I are in the backseat, all of us talking excitedly about the baby and their back-wing addition where the baby’s room will be.

  “Our contractors are as slow as molasses,” Margot says. “I told them they’d better be finished by the time this baby arrives.”

  “No way they’ll finish by then, hon. Not with their hourly coffee breaks,” Webb says, running his hand back and forth over his chiseled jaw. I notice that he is also wearing a camel-colored sweater, and I wonder if he and Margot purposely matched. It is the sort of thing they’ve been known to do, the most egregious example being their his-and-hers orange driving moccasins.

  Webb glances over his shoulder before switching lanes to pass a slow-moving Volkswagen and says, “So did Margot tell y’all about our leather floors in the basement?”

  “No,” I say, looking at Margot and wondering how that one fell through the cracks in our daily chats.

  She nods and gestures toward Webb as if to say, “His idea, not mine,” but I can tell she’s proud of her husband’s lofty sense of aesthetics.

  “Leather floors?” Andy whistles. “Holy smokes.”

  “Yeah. Those bad boys are decadent,” Webb says. “Wait ’til you try ’em out.”

  “Won’t they get all scuffed?” I say, realizing that I often sound overly practical, even pedestrian, around Webb.

  “A little scuffing adds character,” Webb says. “Besides, they’ll mostly get barefoot traffic.”

  Margot explains, “We saw them at a spa in Big Sur and couldn’t resist them…It’s where I’ll do my yoga and meditating.”

  Naturally, I think fondly, but say, “You’re taking up yoga?”

  Margot has never been very into workouts, and when she did go to the gym in New York, she was more a reclined-bike-with-People-magazine-in-hand sort of girl.

  “Since the baby,” she says, rubbing her nonexistent tummy. “I’m trying to become more…centered.”

  I nod, thinking that the shift seemed to happen even before the baby news, around the time she moved from New York. It’s not surprising—even leaving the city for a weekend has a calming effect on me. And although Atlanta is a major city by any measure, it feels so open, relaxed, and downright lush in contrast to New York. Even the downtown area, which we are passing now, looks like a very manageable Fisher Price-sized town after growing accustomed to New York’s skyline.

  Minutes later, we arrive in the heart of Buckhead, the affluent section of North Atlanta where Andy and Margot grew up. After first hearing the odd-sounding name Buckhead (apparently derived from a long-expired tavern that displayed a large buck’s head), I conjured quaint, rustic images, but the area actually has a very cosmopolitan edge. Its shopping district comprises two high-end malls where Margot gets her Gucci and Jimmy Choo fix, as well as luxury hotels, condos, art galleries, nightclubs, and even five-star restaurants, hence earning the monikers Silk Stocking District and the Beverly Hills of the South.

  But the real essence of Buckhead comes in the residential areas, along the winding, tree-lined streets, dotted with graceful Georgian mansions and stately neoclassical homes like the one Margot and Andy grew up in. Others, like Webb and Margot’s 1930s painted brick house, are slightly more modest, but still utterly charming.

  As we pull into their cobblestone driveway lined with white camellias, I feel the urge to use the words lovely or delightful—which aren’t normally in my vocabulary.

  Webb opens my car door, and I thank him and announce that I’m in the mood for sweet tea already. Sweetened iced tea is one of the things I love about the South, right up there with homemade biscuits and cheese grits. Andy and I simply don’t understand why the beverage, present in virtually every home and restaurant in the South, including most fast-food chains, hasn’t made inroads north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

  Margot laughs. “Well, you’re in luck,” she says. “I made up a batch this morning.”

  Undoubtedly, she made more than just tea as Margot is a fabulous hostess, just like her mother. Sure enough, we walk into what could be a spread in Southern Living. In Margot’s words, the style of their home is “transitional with a Deco twist.” I’m not sure what that means exactly, but I love that it’s beautiful without being at all predictable or overly traditional. The floor plan is open, her kitchen and living area spilling together with an array of seating areas. Her dominant color scheme is chocolate brown and pale sage, and silken fabrics softly drape the windows, creating a feminine, almost dreamy effect. Clearly Webb lets Margot call the shots when it comes to matters of décor because it’s certainly not what you’d expect of a strapping sports agent. To this point, his framed, autographed jerseys and pennants, omnipresent in his bachelor pad in Manhattan, are now relegated to the basement and his manly, dark-wood-paneled office.

  Andy points to the cream-colored couch in the living room adorned with a carefully arranged sage throw and coordinating pillows. “Is that new?”

  Margot nods. “Uh-huh. Isn’t it yummy?”

  “Yeah,” Andy deadpans, and I can tell a joke is coming. “Real yummy when the kid drops his SpaghettiOs all over it.”

  “Or her SpaghettiOs,” Margot says as she leads us into the kitchen where she has prepared a brunch of fruit salad, spinach quiche, and cheese crêpes. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Starving,” Andy says.

  Margot suggests that we eat now as we have early dinner reservations at Bacchanalia, the Grahams’ favorite restaurant in town.

  “Mother and Daddy are joining us. I promised that we wouldn’t monopolize you now that we live here.”

  “Yeah. Andy and I were wondering about that. Does she mind that we’re staying with you?” I ask.

  “She understands,” Margot says, drizzling raspberry compote over her crêpes. “But she also informed me, in no uncertain terms, that she expects that her son will continue to sleep under her roof when he’s in Atlanta for the holidays.” Margot finishes the sentence in her mother’s regal Charleston accent.

  Andy rolls his eyes, and I smile, feeling grateful that although he is a dutiful son, he shows no signs of being an outright mama’s boy. I don’t think I could handle that routine. I went to a wedding recently where the mother of the groom had to be peeled off her son at the end of the reception as she sobbed, “I don’t want to lose you!” The whole scene bordered on unwholesome. Margot’s theory on the topic is that when a woman has only sons, and no daughters, this dynamic is more likely to kick in. Perhaps because the mother hasn’t had to share any of the limelight with another woman, perhaps because of that adage, “A son is a son ’til he gets a wife, but a daughter is a daughter all her life.” She might be right about this because although Stella adores her sons, she focuses most of her time and energy on her daughter.

  As I watch Margot maneuver around her kitchen, I ask if there’s anything I can do to help. She shakes her head and pours tea from a big glass pitcher into three rock-cut glasses and Perrier into her own. Then she calls us to sit down, prompting Webb to say a quick blessing, a practice that seems more cultural than religious, as the two abandoned it, along with church attendance, while in New York.

  As Webb finishes his short, formal prayer, and Margot smiles and says, “Enjoy!” I have the fleeting sense that we have little in common other than our shared past. But within seconds, that feeling is gone, as Margot and I move rapid-fire from topic to topic, discussing and analyzing everything and everyone with what most, Webb and Andy included, would view as excruciating detail. More than anything, it is why Margot and I are such close friends—why we connected in the first place, despite being so different. We simply love to talk to each other.

  As such, we barely let the guys get a word in, covering New York and Atlanta gossip with equal scrutiny and fervor. We discuss our single New York friends who still get wasted every night and wonder why they can’t meet a nice guy, and then the girls in her neighborhood who have full-time help so that they can play
tennis, shop, and lunch every day.

  “Who would you rather be?” I ask. “If you had to pick.”

  “Hmm,” Margot says. “Not sure. Both extremes are sort of sad.”

  “Do you ever miss working?” I ask her tentatively. Although I can’t imagine giving up my career, I’m not yet a mother-to-be. That might change everything.

  Margot shakes her head. “I really thought I would…but I’m just so busy.”

  “Playing tennis?” Andy deadpans.

  Margot’s mouth twitches ever so defensively. “Some,” she says. “But also decorating the house…getting ready for the baby…and doing all my charity work.”

  “She bagged the Junior League, though,” Webb says, reaching for another helping of crêpes. “It was too much to take. Even for her.”

  “I didn’t say the Junior League was too much to take,” Margot says. “I simply said that the Atlanta League is young. I felt like the old mother hen around all those early-twenty-something girls, most of them fresh out of college and already married to their high school sweethearts.”

  Webb’s face lights up, as he says, “Speaking of…Tell your brother and Ellen who you hired to do our landscaping.”

  Margot says her husband’s name in a playful reprimand, her fair skin turning azalea pink. I smile, ever amused at how easily she and Stella embarrass, even blushing on behalf of others, so great is their empathy. In fact, Stella can’t even watch award shows—she is too nervous watching the acceptance speeches.

  “C’mon,” Webb says, grinning. “Go on and tell ’em, honey.”

  Margot purses her lips as Andy clamors, “Who?”

  “Portera Brothers,” Webb finally says, which everyone in the room knows is the last name of Margot’s high school boyfriend, Ty, the one who still drops by every Thanksgiving.