by Emily Giffin
So after Andy and I got engaged, he passed along these details to me, expressing his gratitude for my dad’s generosity, telling me how much he really liked my old man, and how much he wished he could have taken my mother to lunch, too. Meanwhile, though, Andy and I both knew without saying it that seven thousand dollars would not make a dent in the cost of our lavish wedding—and that the Grahams were going to make up the rather significant shortfall. And I was okay with this. I was okay playing the role of gracious daughter-in-law, and I knew I wouldn’t have to hurt my dad’s feelings by telling him that his contribution would barely cover the cost of all those pink roses.
The problem was the dress. At some point, my dad insisted that he wanted me to send him the bill directly. This left me with two unpalatable choices—buy an inexpensive dress, or choose something my father could not afford. So with this conundrum in mind, off I went, uneasily dress shopping with Stella, Margot, and Suzanne, constantly trying to check the price tags and find something for less than five hundred dollars. Which simply doesn’t exist in Manhattan, at least not at the couture Madison and Fifth Avenue stores where Margot had booked our appointments. Looking back, I know I could have confided all of this in Margot, and that she would have tailored our search accordingly, finding us a boutique in Brooklyn that fit my dad’s budget.
Instead I had to go and fall in love with a ridiculously expensive Badgley Mischka gown at Bergdorf Goodman. It was the dream dress I didn’t know I had to have until I saw it—a simple but lush ivory crêpe sheath gown with a beaded netting overlay. Stella and Margot clasped their hands and insisted that I just had to get it, and even Suzanne got a little weepy as I spun around on my toes in front of the three-way mirror.
When it came time to pay, Stella whipped out her Amex Black card, insisting that she really, really wanted to do this. I hesitated and then accepted her generous offer, shamelessly pushing aside my dad—and, even worse, my mother—and filling my head with rationalizations of every kind. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I won’t have my mother at my wedding—at least I can have my dream dress. She’d want me to have this.
The next day, after much thought and angst, I came up with the perfect strategy to cover my tracks and keep my dad’s pride intact. I went back to Bergdorf, selected a five-hundred-dollar veil, and told the clerk that my father wanted to buy it and would be calling with his credit card details. I also hinted rather directly that I wanted him to think the charge covered my dress, too. The clerk, a thin-lipped, fine-boned woman named Bonnie whose affected Upper East Side accent I will never forget, winked as if she understood, called me dear, and conspiratorially said she’d handle it, no problem whatsoever.
But of course ole Bonnie screwed everything up, sending my father the receipt and the veil. And although he never said a word about it, the look on his face when he handed me that veil in Atlanta said it all. I knew how much I had hurt his feelings, and we both knew why I had done it. It was the most ashamed I have been in my life.
I never told Andy the story—never told anyone the story—so great was my desire to forget it all. But I think those emotions resurfaced at Margot’s dinner table tonight, and now again, in the middle of the night, as I am filled with shame all over again. Shame that makes me wish I could turn back time and wear a different dress on my wedding day. Wish I could take back that look on my father’s face. Which obviously I can’t do.
But I can stand up to the Ginnys of the world. And I can let her—and anyone else—know that I’m proud of where I come from, proud of who I am. And, by God, I can sleep on the couch in protest if my own husband doesn’t get it.
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, fee
ling 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.
