Love the One You're With

by Emily Giffin

  Webb massages her neck and says, “Sure thing. Let’s get you home, sweetie.”

  “Yeah,” Andy says, yawning and then taking a long drink of beer. “We better hit it, too. Ellen has a big day tomorrow. She’s going to New York for a big shoot.”

  “I’ve heard,” Margot says. Her expression is blank and her voice is drained of any emotion—but it is still perfectly obvious, at least to me, that she is upset about something more than potential contractions. I watch her, desperate to make final eye contact, although I’m not sure what I wish to communicate. An appeal for mercy? A final explanation? An outright apology? When she finally glances over at me, I give her a plaintive look that covers all of the above. She shakes her head in refusal, looks down at Ginny’s stone floor, and moves her lips almost imperceptibly, as if formulating what she’s going to say to her brother in his hour of need.

  That evening, after Andy and I return home, we are the portrait of a normal couple sharing a Sunday evening, at least on the surface. We make a chopped salad to go with our pepperoni pizza from Mellow Mushroom. We watch television, passing the remote control back and forth. I help him gather our garbage for pickup in the morning. He sits with me while I pay the bills. We get ready for bed together. Inside, though, I am a total wreck, replaying my conversation with Margot, jumping whenever the phone rings, and desperately trying to recruit the words—and the strength—to make my confession.

  Then, finally, Andy and I are in bed with the lights off, and I know it is my absolute last chance to say something. Anything. Before Margot says it for me.

  A hundred different openers flash through my mind as Andy leans over to kiss me goodnight. I kiss him back, lingering for a few seconds longer than normal, feeling both nervous and profoundly sad.

  “It was great meeting Lucy today,” I say when we finally separate, cringing at how lame I am for trying to drum up the can-you-be-friends-with-exes discussion.

  “Yeah. She’s a nice girl,” Andy says. He sighs and adds, “Too bad she married an ass.”

  “Her husband’s an ass?”

  “Yeah…Apparently he missed his own son’s birth.”

  “Well. I can see how that could happen. Did he have a good reason?” I say, hoping that my forgiving mood will be contagious.

  “I know it could happen,” Andy says. “If the baby came early or something…But he went on a business trip on his kid’s due date…And then surprise, surprise, couldn’t get back in time.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Luce.”

  In spite of everything, I flinch at the abbreviated pet form of her name. Andy must hear it, too, because he clears his throat quickly and corrects himself, saying, “Lucy told me.”

  “When?” I ask, shamelessly angling for shared culpability. “I thought you guys didn’t talk anymore?”

  “We don’t,” he quickly replies. “She told me a long time ago.”

  “Her son’s five. We’ve been together longer than five years.”

  “He’s almost six,” Andy says, adjusting the covers around him.

  “You have his birthday memorized?” I shoot back, only half kidding.

  “Easy, Inspector Gadget,” Andy says, laughing. “You know Lucy and I haven’t talked in years. It was just one of those final, post-relationship talks where you check on each other and—”

  “And confide how miserable your current relationship is? How your husband can’t hold a candle to your first love?”

  Andy laughs. “No. She actually didn’t seem to think that her husband missing the birth was that big of a deal. It was sort of an incidental part of her story…She was always one of those girls who seemed to care more about babies than husbands.”

  “So did she call you?…Or did you call her?” I ask, feeling increasingly queasy.

  “Jeez, Ell. I honestly don’t remember…We didn’t talk for long…I think we both wanted to make sure the other was okay…That there were no hard feelings.”

  “And were there? Hard feelings?” I say, thinking that Leo and I never had such a conversation. We never had any closure, unless you count our red-eye flight—which obviously didn’t do the trick.

  “No,” he says, and then sits up and gently asks, “Where are you going with this?”

  “Nowhere,” I say. “I’m just…I just want you to know that it’d be okay with me if you did talk to her…if you want to be friends with her.”

  “C’mon, Ell. You know I have no desire to be friends with Lucy.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t,” he says. “For one, I don’t have any friends who are girls. And for another…I don’t even know her anymore.”

  I consider this statement, realizing that despite my bad breakup with Leo, and despite the fact that we didn’t talk for years, I never had this feeling about him. I might not have known details of his day-to-day life, but I never felt like I stopped knowing him.

  “That’s sad,” I muse, although suddenly I’m not sure which scenario is sadder. Then, for the first time ever, I find myself wondering what it would be like if Andy and I ever went our separate ways—which breakup camp we’d fall into. I push the thought aside, telling myself it could never happen. Or could it?

  “What’s so sad about it?” Andy asks nonchalantly.

  “Oh, I don’t know…” I say, my voice trailing off.

  Andy rolls over to face me as my eyes make another incremental adjustment to the dark.

  “What’s on your mind, Ell?” he says. “Are you upset about Lucy?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “Not at all. I really enjoyed meeting her.”

  “All right,” he says. “Good.”

  I close my eyes, knowing I’ve come to my moment of truth. I clear my throat, lick my lips, and stall for a few final seconds.

  “Andy,” I finally say, my voice starting to shake. “I have to tell you something.”

  “What?” he says softly.

  I take a deep breath and exhale. “It’s about the shoot tomorrow.”

  “What about it?” he asks, reaching out to touch my arm.

  “The shoot…is with Leo,” I say, feeling both relieved and nauseous.

  “Leo?” he says. “Your ex-boyfriend?”

  I make myself say yes.

  “What do you mean it’s with Leo?” Andy says.

  “He’s writing the piece,” I say, delicately choosing my words. “And I’m taking the photos.”

  “Okay,” he says, switching on his bedside lamp and gazing directly into my eyes. He looks so calm and trusting that for the first time, I actually consider canceling my trip. “But how?…How did this come about?”

  “I ran into him in New York,” I say, knowing that I’m confessing way too little, way too late. “And he offered me an assignment…”

  “When?” Andy asks. He is clearly trying hard to give me the benefit of the doubt, but I can tell he’s slipping into his deposing-attorney mode. “When did you run into him?”

  “A few months ago…It was no big deal…”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, a logical question and the clear crux of the matter. After all, it clearly was a big deal—and how all of this started back on that wintry day in the intersection when I returned home and decided to keep that very first secret from my husband. For a second, I wonder if I would go back and do things differently.

  I hesitate and then say, “I didn’t want to upset you.”

  This is the truth—the cowardly truth, but the truth nonetheless.

  “Well, not telling me makes it a big deal,” Andy says, his eyes wide and wounded.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry…But I…I really want the work…this kind of work,” I say, struggling to put the best possible spin on things. In my heart, I truly believe that part of the reason I am going is for the work. That I need more in my life than simply sitting around a big, beautiful house and waiting for my husband to come home. That I want to be doing my own thing again. Feeling a small boost,
and a measure of hope that he might actually understand, I add, “I really miss it. I really miss New York.”

  Andy pulls on his ear, his face clearing for a second as he says, “We can go back and visit…Go to dinner and a show…”

  “I don’t miss it like that…I miss working in the city. Being a part of it…the energy.”

  “So go work there,” he says.

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “But why does it have to be with Leo? You suddenly can’t work without Leo? You shoot Drake Watters for the cover of Platform, but now you need your ex-boyfriend to help you get work?” Andy asks, sounding so succinct in the trap he’s just set for me that for a second, I think that he must have noticed Leo’s byline after all. Or perhaps Margot already told him about that piece. Even Andy never gets this lucky on cross-examination.

  “Well. Actually,” I say, glancing down at my day-old manicure before returning his probing gaze. “He got me that assignment, too.”

  “Wait. What?” Andy says, the first real traces of anger on his face as he begins to put it all together. “What do you mean? How did he get you that shoot?”

  I brace myself for the worst as I say, “He wrote the article…He called my agent about that assignment.”

  “Was he in L.A.?” Andy asks, his voice growing progressively louder, more distressed. “Did you see him?”

  I nod, struggling to mitigate my admission. “But I swear I never knew he was going to be there…We didn’t hang out…or go to dinner…or anything…I was with Suzanne the whole time. It was all…strictly business.”

  “And now?” he says, asking an open-ended question that fills me with trepidation.

  “And now…we have another shoot,” I say.

  “So what? Y’all are going to be some kind of team?” he asks as he bolts out of bed, crosses his arms, and glares at me.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not like that.”

  “So explain. What is it like?” he asks, his chest puffing with a surge of testosterone.

  “We’re friends,” I say. “Who work together…occasionally. Twice. Not even occasionally.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that.”

  “Why not?” I say, as if there is any doubt why not.

  “Because…Because I’ve never heard one good thing about the guy…and now you want to rekindle a friendship with him?”

  “Margot’s not fair to him,” I say. “She never has been.”

  “You told me awful things about him, too.”

  “I was hurt.”

  “Yeah,” Andy says, rolling his eyes. “By him.”

  “He’s a good person,” I say.

  “He’s a jerk.”

  “He’s not a jerk…And I care about him…He’s…”

  “What?”

  “He’s…important to me.”

  “Well, that’s just great, Ellen. That’s great,” Andy says, his voice drenched in sarcasm. “Your ex-boyfriend is important to you. Just what every husband wants to hear.”

  “Lucy came to your sister’s shower,” I say, circling back to my starting point. “And Ty does your sister’s yard.”

  “Yeah,” he says, pacing at the foot of the bed. “But she got that invite, and he does the yard, precisely because they’re not important. They’re just people from our past that we used to date. That’s it…It doesn’t seem that you can say the same about Leo.”

  I can tell that he’s asking a question, that he’s desperate for me to jump in and change my answer—disclaim any feelings for Leo.

  But I can’t. I just can’t lie to Andy on top of everything else.

  So instead I say, “Don’t you trust me?” Asking the question makes me feel instantly better—makes me, somehow, trust myself.

  “I always have,” Andy says, clearly implying that that’s no longer the case.

  “I’d never cheat on you,” I say, instantly regretting my verbal promise, knowing it should be an unspoken given. Something you don’t have to say.

  Sure enough, Andy says, “Well, gee, Ellen. That’s really something. Thank you. We’ll be sure to include that on your ballot for Wife of the Year.”

  “Andy,” I plead.

  “No. Seriously. Thank you. Thank you for promising not to cheat on me with your important ex-boyfriend for whom you care so deeply,” Andy says, as I realize I’ve never seen him so angry.

  I take a deep breath, desperately shifting into last resort, offensive mode. “Okay. I won’t go. I’ll cancel the trip and stay here and take some more snapshots of Margot’s belly and…and lemonade stands while you…play golf all day.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Andy says, squinting with confusion.

  “It means your life is grand. And mine sucks.” I hate the bitter sound in my voice—and yet it captures exactly how I feel. I am bitter.

  “Okay. So let me get this straight,” Andy shouts. “You’re flying up to New York to hang out with your ex-boyfriend because I like to golf? Are you trying to get back at me for golfing?”

  “Stop oversimplifying everything,” I say, while I’m actually thinking, Stop being so simple.

  “Well, you suddenly seem to be telling me that this is my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault, Andy…It’s nobody’s fault.”

  “It’s somebody’s fault,” he says.

  “I…I’m not happy here,” I say, my eyes filling. I hold them open, willing myself not to cry.

  “Here? Here where?” Andy demands. “In this marriage? In Atlanta?”

  “In Atlanta. In your hometown…I’m so tired of pretending…”

  “Pretending what, exactly?” Andy says. “Pretending that you want to be with me?”

  “Pretending to be someone I’m not.”

  “Who’s asking you to do that?” he says, unfazed by my emotion—which has the odd effect of making my tears spill over. “When have I ever asked you to be someone you’re not?”

  “I don’t fit in here,” I say, wiping my face with the edge of our sheet. “Can’t you see that?”

  “You act like I made you move here,” Andy says, his face twisted in frustration, “when you told me it was what you wanted.”

  “I wanted to make you happy.”

  Andy laughs a sad, defeated laugh and shakes his head. “Clearly. That’s your mission in life, Ellen. To make me happy.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “But I have to do this.”

  He watches my face, as if waiting for something more—a better explanation, a more thorough apology, reassurance that he is the only one for me. But when I can’t find the right words—or any words—he looks down at the rug and says, “Why do you have to do this?”

  When he finally looks up at me, I say, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I feel like I don’t know anything anymore…”

  “Well, Ellen,” he says, as he hurriedly puts on his jeans and shoes and scoops his keys and wallet off the nightstand. “I guess that makes two of us.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask through more tears.

  “Out,” he says, running his hand through his hair as if to comb it. “I’m certainly not gonna sleep here tonight and kiss you good-bye in the morning like some kind of stupid chump.”

  I look at him, overcome with heartbreak and desperation as I babble, “Andy…please try to understand. It’s not you…It’s me…I just…need to do this. Please.”

  He ignores me and walks toward the door.

  I get out of bed and follow him, my throat constricting as I say, “Can’t we talk about it more?…I thought we said we wouldn’t go to bed mad?”

  Andy turns and looks at me, then right through me. “Yeah,” he says sadly. “Well, we said a lot of things, Ellen…didn’t we?”

  Thirty-One

  In a moment more surreal than sad, I stand at our bedroom window, watching Andy back slowly and deliberately down the driveway, then use his turn signal as he
makes his way onto the main drag of our neighborhood. I can almost hear the sound of it—blinka, blinka, blinka—in the quiet of his still new-smelling car, and persuade myself that a man who bothers with his turn signal isn’t that angry. I’m not sure whether this is a comfort or convoluted evidence that we aren’t meant to be together. That Suzanne’s implication is right—we are short on passion, and merely have a caring, pleasant union that isn’t even all that pleasant anymore.

  I turn away from the window, telling myself that I’m not looking for proof of any kind, one way or the other. Maybe I’m in denial, but I just want to get on a plane in the morning, and go to New York, and do my job, and see Leo, and try to feel better about everything—the past, my marriage, my friendship with Margot, my work, myself. I’m not sure exactly how that’s going to happen, but I know it won’t happen if I stay here, in this house.

  I switch Andy’s lamp off again, and get back in bed, feeling as if I should cry, but realizing with a mix of fear and relief that all my emotions are dulled and watered-down versions of what I felt just minutes before when Andy was in the room with me. In fact, I’m so composed and detached that it’s almost as if I’m watching the aftermath of another couple’s big fight, merely waiting to find out what will happen next: Will she stay or will she go?

  I close my eyes, exhausted and quite certain that I could fall asleep with just a little effort. But I don’t let myself try; I have at least some right on my side, and sleeping might eviscerate it, turn me into the callous wife who gets a good night’s rest while her devastated husband is driving in circles through the empty streets.

  So instead of sleeping, I try Andy’s cell, fully expecting to get his cheerful voicemail with that familiar, errant taxi honking in the background. Don’t ever change that outgoing message, I recently told him, unsure whether I wished to preserve his happy voice or the New York background noise. In either case, he doesn’t answer now—or any of the three times I hit redial. Clearly, Andy does not want to talk to me, and because I have no idea what to say to him, I don’t leave a message. I decide against calling Margot’s house, where I am pretty sure he’ll end up eventually. Let them gang up on me. Let them invite Stella over, open a good bottle of wine, and simmer in their superiority. Let them do their thing while I do mine. I stare into the dark, feeling lonesome and yet so glad to be alone.