Love the One You're With

by Emily Giffin

  He looks at me expectantly, innocently, as I think to myself, You are so damn happy. It feels like both praise and criticism. It is one of the things I dearly love about him, yet in this moment it is also what I wish I could change about him. Not to make him unhappy, of course, but to make him just a little less…simple. Doesn’t he see this decision as at all nuanced? Doesn’t he have any reservations about living so close to family? Working for his father? Leaving the city we love?

  My heart suddenly floods with resentment, and although I try to pin some of this on Andy’s fervor, I know that my emotion is emanating from one source, one place, one internal conflict.

  Leo.

  As Andy awaits my response, I remind myself that no matter what the decision on this particular house, or whether we move to Atlanta at all, my life will go on without Leo in it. So I need to remove him from the equation and decide what is right for Andy and me.

  But as I stare into my husband’s eyes, the wall between the two worlds crumbles—the world on the plane last night and all that could have been, and my life with Andy, moving forward, in our home in Atlanta. A home with two, maybe three, cars in the garage. And a slobbering golden retriever chasing fuzzy yellow tennis balls across a lush, green lawn. And Margot, right down the street, ready to swap recipes and neighborhood gossip. And Andy heading out every morning to get the newspaper in his plaid flannel robe and old-man slippers. And chubby, chirpy, blue-eyed children with neon orange water wings splashing in their backyard pool. And me, standing at the kitchen window, peeling an apple as I wistfully recall my former life, the kind of jobs I used to get. The time I photographed Drake Watters out in L.A. The last morning I saw Leo.

  I look down at the table, wondering how much time will pass before I no longer think of his touch on the plane. Before that final moment in the back of the cab is no longer burned in my mind like a haunting black-and-white still frame. And the fear that it could be forever grips my heart and makes me open my mouth and say, Let’s do it.

  On the face of things, I am only giving my spouse permission to send a fax. I am only agreeing to a change of venue, the purchase of some real estate in Atlanta. But, deep down, it feels like much more. Deep down, I am also repenting. I am proving my love. I am renewing my vows. I am safeguarding my marriage. I am choosing Andy.

  “You don’t want to go down and see it for yourself?” he asks again, gently resting his fingertips in the crook of my elbow.

  It is my final out, the last loophole. All I would have to do is go see the house and come up with something, anything, that doesn’t feel quite right about it. A vibe I can’t put my finger on. A particular, unpleasant feng shui that Andy, and two Southern women with an impeccable sense of aesthetics, somehow missed. I might appear irrational or ungrateful, but I could buy myself a little more time. Although time for what, I’m not quite sure. Time to keep checking voicemail in vain, hoping that he came up with “one more thing” to tell me? Time to look for him in every intersection, every diner, every bar? Time to make the big mistake of jumping in a cab and returning to Newton Avenue? So I fight against what I want in this moment and instead nod and say, “I trust your judgment.”

  It is the truth, of course. I do trust Andy’s judgment. At this point, I trust it even more than my own. But I also feel some other subtle emotions at work—unhealthy trace elements of passive-aggressiveness and a stoic resignation toward becoming a dutiful, traditional wife, and accepting a lopsided dynamic that has never existed, in any form, in our relationship.

  These feelings will pass, I think. This is a blip on the relationship radar screen. Just stay the course.

  “Are you sure, honey?” Andy asks softly.

  My hand reflexively moves over my heart, and I say loudly and clearly, as if for a court reporter on permanent, irrefutable record, Yes. Let’s do it. I’m sure.

  Nineteen

  Margot cries when we tell her that we’re making an offer on the house, and my mother-in-law ups the ante even further by declaring that the news is the answer to her prayers. Now granted, Margot is an easy cry even when she’s not pregnant, tearing up at long-distance commercials or a few bars of “Pomp and Circumstance,” and Stella prays over a whole lot less than her beloved son returning home after so many years “up North.” But still. There really is no turning back after those reactions—you just don’t screw around with familial heartstrings.

  So as spring comes to New York, my split-second, gut decision made over toaster waffles, no sleep, and a large dose of guilt takes on a crazy forward motion of its own.

  Fortunately, once Andy gives jubilant notice at his law firm, he, too, seems to have at least ambivalent feelings about our impending move, although his focus is more on the big picture and has an almost merry abandon to it—sort of the same way that high school seniors barrel toward prom and graduation. He furiously makes plans with our closest friends, schedules final dinners at our favorite restaurants, and snaps up tickets to Broadway shows we’ve been meaning to see for ages. One Saturday morning, he even insists that we take a ferry out to the Statue of Liberty—a landmark I vowed to only ever admire from an airplane window, almost as a point of pride. Then, as we endure packs of tourists, misty rain, and a brutally monotone guide, Andy encourages me to snap photos of the view, so that we can display the prints in our new home. I humor him, but can’t help thinking that a framed shot of New York Harbor, no matter how spectacular (if I do say so myself), isn’t going to provide much solace when I’m missing the intangible energy of New York.

  To this point, it’s the little things that get to me the most as we wind down our affairs in the city and hurtle toward our June closing date. It’s the rich fabric of my daily life—things that barely registered before but that now feel sentimental. It’s my walk to work and the silent camaraderie of other commuters swelling in the crosswalks around me. It’s Sabina and Julian’s spirited banter in our workroom, and the pungent aroma of Oscar’s printing press. It’s our dry cleaner’s deep frown lines as he determinedly knots the plastic around Andy’s shirts and then tells us to have a nice day in his Turkish accent, and my Korean manicurist’s chipper command to “pick polish,” even though she must know by now that I always bring my own. It’s the sway of the subway careening efficiently along the tracks, and the satisfaction of flagging down a cab on a bustling weekend night in the Village. It’s the burgers at P.J. Clarke’s, the dim sum at Chinatown Brasserie, and the bagels at my corner bodega. It’s knowing that when I walk out of our brownstone, I will see something new every single day. It’s the diversity of choices and people, the raw urban beauty, the endless hum of possibility everywhere.

  Underscoring all of this is Leo—his constant presence in my mind, along with the troubling realization that I deeply associate him with the city and vice versa. So much so, in fact, that leaving New York feels an awful lot like leaving him.

  Not once do I contact him, though. Not even when I think of at least a half-dozen near-perfect, work-related excuses and just as many clever rationalizations about why a little more closure might be a good thing for everyone. Not even when the temptation is so strong that it actually frightens me—in the way that I imagine I would feel about cocaine if I ever tried it.

  Rather, I steadfastly cling to the lofty notion of right versus wrong, black versus white, and one hundred percent loyalty to Andy. As the ultimate insurance policy, I make a point to keep him nearby whenever possible, which means pretty much all the time once he is freed from his firm. I encourage him to accompany me to work or my shoots, tag along with him to the gym, and plan all our meals together. I constantly initiate physical contact with him—both in our bedroom at night and in small ways out in public. I tell him often that I love him, but never in an automatic, rote way. Rather, I really think about the words, what they mean. Love as a verb. Love as a commitment.

  All the while, I tell myself that I’m almost to the finish line. My emotions will soon run their course, and things will return to normal
—or at least the way they were before that moment in the intersection. And, if that doesn’t happen before we leave the city, it will most certainly happen in Atlanta, in a brand-new context, far from Leo.

  But as the days pass, and our departure approaches, I find myself wondering what exactly normal ever was. Were things normal when Andy and I started to date? Were they normal by the time we got engaged or walked down the aisle? Was I ever truly over Leo? At one time I was sure that the answer was yes. But if seeing him again—and merely touching his hand—could peel back so many layers of my heart, then did I ever stop loving him the way you’re supposed to stop loving everyone but the one you’re with? If the answer is no, then will the lapse of time or a change of geography really fix the problem? And regardless of the answer, what does the mere question say about my relationship with Andy?

  Making matters more upsetting is the strange, vague sense that this emotional terrain isn’t completely foreign—that I experienced some of these same feelings a long time ago when my mother died. The parallels are by no means perfect as there is no tragic element in leaving New York or not talking to Leo. But, in some unsettling way that is difficult to precisely pinpoint, there is a distinct overlap.

  So one late night when Andy is out with the guys, I cave and call my sister, hoping that I will find the right opening—and the right words—to convey what I’m feeling without elevating Leo’s importance or disrespecting our mother’s memory.

  Suzanne answers in a good mood—and tells me Vince is out with the guys, too, which in his case is par for the course. We make small talk for a few minutes, and then I indulge her complaints of the week, mostly Vince related, with a few colorful flight attendant tales in the mix. My favorite features a crazy old woman in first class who spilled Bloody Mary mix not once, not twice, but three times on the passenger beside her, and then became belligerent when Suzanne refused to serve her a fourth drink.

  “Belligerent how?” I say, always enjoying—and marveling over—the in-flight drama.

  “She called me a bitch. Good times, huh?”

  I laugh and ask her what she did next, knowing full well that there will be some sort of retaliation involved.

  “I had a few marshals meet her drunk ass at the gate.”

  We both burst out laughing.

  “She was right. You are a bitch,” I say.

  “I know,” she says. “It’s my calling.”

  We laugh again, and a beat later, Suzanne comes right out and asks me if I’ve heard from Leo.

  I consider telling her about our flight, but decide that it is something I will forever keep private, sacred. Instead, I just say no, sighing so loudly that it invites a follow-up.

  “Uh-oh,” she says. “What’s up?”

  I cast about for a few seconds—and then confess that ever since L.A. I continue to miss Leo in a way that hasn’t really subsided at all. That something about my mood reminds me of “that one winter”—which is the veiled way we often refer to Mom’s death when we’re not in the mood to fully revisit our grief.

  “Whoa, Ell,” she says. “Are you comparing not talking to Leo to Mom dying?”

  I quickly and vehemently say no and then add, “Maybe I’m just melancholy about leaving the city…all the changes.”

  “So…what? You’re comparing leaving New York to death?”

  “No. Not that exactly either,” I say, realizing that I shouldn’t have bothered to try to convey such a subtle feeling, even to my sister.

  But in Suzanne fashion, she presses me to explain. I think for a second and then tell her that it’s more the sense of impending finality, and that as much as I prepare myself for what is coming next, I really don’t know what to expect. “And there is this fear packed in the waiting period,” I say tentatively. “Like with Mom…We knew for weeks that the end was really near. Nothing about her death was a surprise. And yet…it still felt like a surprise, didn’t it?”

  Suzanne whispers yes, and for a moment I know we are both silently remembering that day when the school guidance counselor appeared in our respective classrooms and then waited with us, outside by the flagpole and an exhaust-covered drift of snow, until our father arrived to pick us up, and take us home to her for the last time.

  “And then after that,” I say, commanding myself not to cry or conjure any other visual specifics of that horrible day or the ones that followed. “I just felt desperate to finish the school year, get in a new routine…a new place where I wasn’t always reminded of Mom…”

  “Yeah,” Suzanne says. “Going away to camp that summer did sort of help.”

  “Right,” I say, thinking that was part of my motivation to look at colleges far from Pittsburgh, in places Mom never visited or talked about, with people who didn’t know that I was motherless. I clear my throat and continue, “But at the same time, as much as I wanted to get away from the house and all of Mom’s things and Dad’s tears—and even you—I also felt scared that once I got away, or turned the calendar, or did anything at all differently than the way we did things with her, that we would be losing her all the faster. That we would almost be…erasing her.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” Suzanne says. “Exactly…But…Ellie…”

  “What?” I ask softly, knowing that a difficult question is likely coming my way.

  Sure enough, Suzanne says, “Why don’t you want to erase Leo?”

  I think for a long minute, silence filling the airwaves. But as hard as I try, I can’t come up with a good answer—or for that matter, any answer at all.

  Twenty

  It is the first Saturday in June, and our final one in New York. A trio of thick-necked movers from Hoboken arrived this morning, and nine mad hours of packing later, our apartment is completely barren save for a few suitcases by the front door, some bits of duct tape stuck to the kitchen counters, and a hundred dust bunnies swirling along the hardwood floors. Andy and I are sweaty and exhausted, standing in what was once our family room while we listen to the hum of the window air-conditioning unit straining in the heat.

  “I guess it’s time to hit it,” Andy says, his voice echoing off the white walls that we never had time to paint a more interesting shade. He wipes his cheek on the sleeve of his old, stained T-shirt, one of about thirty he has designated for “moving and painting,” even though I’ve teasingly pointed out that he can’t possibly be in a situation where he’s painting or moving for a solid month.

  “Yeah. Let’s go,” I say, my mind already shifting to the next step in our journey—our cab ride to our hotel where we will shower and change for our going-away party this evening. Andy’s two closest friends from law school are hosting the event, although friends from all segments of our New York life will be in attendance. Even Margot and Webb are flying up for the festivities, only to return to Atlanta with us in the morning where they will become our official greeters. I clasp my hands together and force a peppy, “Let’s get the show on the road.”

  Andy pauses and then says, “Should we do something…ceremonious first?”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “I don’t know…Maybe take a picture?”

  I shake my head, thinking that Andy should know me better by now; I might be a photographer, but I’m not really one to document symbolic moments like these—endings, beginnings, even holidays and special occasions. I much prefer to capture the random stuff in the middle—a fact that my friends and family seem to find puzzling—and sometimes frustrating.

  “Nah,” I say. I shift my gaze out the window and follow a pigeon’s trek on the cement terrace across the street from us.

  After a long moment, Andy takes my hand and says, “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine,” I say, which I’m relieved to realize is the truth. “Just a little sad.”

  He nods, as if to acknowledge that endings are almost always a little sad, even when there is something to look forward to on the other side. Then, without further fanfare, we turn and walk out of our first mar
ried home together.

  A few minutes later our cab pulls up in front of the Gramercy Park Hotel, and I realize with a wave of remorse and panic that Andy and I have suddenly, instantly morphed into visitors—tourists—in a city where we once resided.

  But as we enter the gorgeous, eclectic lobby filled with Moroccan tiles, handwoven rugs, Venetian-glass chandeliers, and sprawling works by Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Keith Haring, I reassure myself that there is a distinct upside to experiencing the city this way.

  “Wow,” I say, admiring the huge stone-and-marble fireplace and a sawfish-snout lamp in front of it. “This place is very cool.”

  Andy smiles and says, “Yup. Haute bohemian cool. Like my girl.”

  I smile back at him as we stroll over to the front desk where a sultry brunette, whose name tag reads Beata, welcomes us in a thick eastern European accent.

  Andy says hello, and the well-groomed, proper boy in him feels the need to explain our grubby appearance, so he mumbles apologetically, “We just moved out of our apartment today.”

  Beata nods her understanding and politely inquires, “To where are you going next?”

  I answer for us, saying Atlanta, Georgia, as grandly as possible, even adding a hand-in-the-air flourish, as if I’m revealing a well-kept North American secret, a jewel of a town she should be sure to visit if she hasn’t already. I’m not sure exactly why I feel the need to hype Atlanta to a complete stranger—whether it’s to make myself feel better, or to counteract the defensiveness I feel whenever I tell someone in the city where we’re moving and inevitably get a pitying stare or a downright critical, “Why Atlanta?”

  Andy takes it a bit more personally—as I do when I hear anyone bad-mouth Pittsburgh—but I actually don’t think this reaction is an affront to Atlanta as much as it is a function of the New York superiority complex, a smug sense that the rest of the world, or at least the rest of the country, is sterile and homogenous and somehow lacking in comparison. And, while I resent that attitude now, the uncomfortable truth is, I don’t altogether disagree with the assessment, and know I’ve felt similarly when friends have left the city—whether for a job, or a relationship, or to have babies in the suburbs. Better you than me, I’ve thought, even though I might have been bitterly complaining about the city the moment before. After all, I think it’s that intense edge that is the most compelling part about living in New York, and the very thing that I will miss most.