by Emily Giffin
Some time later, I restlessly head downstairs where everything is dark and tidy, just the way Andy and I left it when we went to bed. I make a beeline for the liquor cabinet, where I pour vodka, straight up, into a small juice glass. Drinking alone feels like a depressing cliché, and I desperately don’t want to be a cliché. And yet, vodka is exactly what I want in this moment, and what Ellen wants feels like the emerging theme of the evening. Or so I’m sure my husband would say.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, suddenly craving fresh air, too, so I head for the back door, noticing that Andy reset the security alarm as he departed; he might hate me, but he still wants me to be safe. At least that’s something, I think, as I sit on the top step, which has become my favorite spot in Atlanta, sipping vodka and listening to crickets and thick, muggy silence.
Long after I’ve downed my drink, called Andy’s cell one final time, gone back inside, relocked the back door, and placed my glass in the sink, I find his note. I don’t know how I missed it before, as it is in the middle of the counter, written on a yellow Post-it note—the kind we usually reserve for notes of a very different kind. For “I love you” and “Have a nice day,” or “Need razor refills.” My stomach drops as I hold the square pad up, under the stove light, reading Andy’s block letters:
IF YOU GO, DON’T COME BACK.
I peel the note from the pad and consider not what I should do in the morning, but simply what to do with the note itself. Do I write a response on the blank lines underneath his instruction? Leave it on the counter in a crumpled ball? Toss it into the garbage? Press it into my journal as a sad memento of a sad time? None of the choices seem quite right—so I simply place it back on the pad, carefully aligning the edges to create the appearance that it was never disturbed, never read. I look at it one more time, feeling a sharp pang of remorse and regret that we have become the kind of couple who not only fights in the middle of the night but leaves ultimatums on Post-it notes in the kitchen.
We might even become the Buckhead couple that people talk about over a cocktail at the club. Did you hear about Ellen and Andy? Did you hear what she did? How he laid down the law?
I can just hear the Ginnys of the world: And then what happened?
She left.
Then he left her.
I stand at the counter for a long time, flashing back to the distant past and then the recent past, and a few snapshots in between, wondering if I believe Andy’s words. I decide that I do. He might change his mind, but for right now, he means it.
And yet, instead of striking fear in my heart, or giving me pause of any kind, I feel all the more calm, resolute, indignant, as I head back upstairs and get back under the covers. How dare he draw a line in the sand? How dare he not even try to understand what I’m feeling? How dare he back me into a corner with his demands? I try to turn the tables, imagining Andy, homesick, wishing to reconnect with something or someone. And then I realize that that is why I moved to Atlanta. With him. For him. That is why I’m here now.
I fall asleep, dreaming random, banal vignettes about getting the easy chair in our bedroom slip-covered, and spilling sweet tea on my keyboard, and assembling a last-minute, makeshift gypsy costume for a neighborhood Halloween party. Dreams that, even under heavy scrutiny, make no sense at all given that I am at a crossroads, in a crisis.
When I wake up for good, it is four-fifty-nine, one minute before my alarm is set to go off. I arise, shower, dress, and go through all the matter-of-fact motions of a normal travel day. I gather my camera equipment, reorganize my suitcase, print my boarding pass, even check the weather in New York. Mid-sixties and scattered showers. Oddly enough, I can’t conjure what mid-sixties feels like, perhaps because I’ve been hot for so long, so I focus on the rain, packing my umbrella and a black trench coat.
All the while, I think of Andy’s note, telling myself I can always back out at the last minute. When the sun rises, I can decide to stay. I can ride the MARTA train to the airport, weave my way through security, meander the whole way to my gate, and still come home.
But deep down, I know that’s not going to happen. I know that I will be long gone when Andy returns home to find his note, undisturbed on our marble counter.
Five blurry hours later, I find myself in the cab line at LaGuardia, the sounds, smells, sights all so achingly familiar. Home, I think. I am home. More than Pittsburgh, more than Atlanta, more than anywhere. This city, this very cab line, feels like coming home.
“Where are you headed?” a young girl behind me asks, interrupting my solitude. With ripped jeans, a ponytail, and an oversized backpack, she looks like a student. I imagine that she is near broke, and hoping to split cab fare into the city.
I clear my throat, realizing that I have not yet spoken today. “Queens,” I say, hoping she’s Manhattan bound. I am not in the mood for conversation, but don’t have the heart to turn her down.
“Oh, drats,” she says. “I was hoping we could share a cab…I was going to take the bus, but I’m kinda in a hurry.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, not because I really want to know, but because I can tell she’s dying for me to ask. I bet a boy’s involved. A boy is always involved.
Sure enough, she says, “To see my boyfriend. He lives in Tribeca.”
She says Tribeca proudly, as if the word has only rolled off her tongue a few times before now. Perhaps she just learned that it stands for Triangle Below Canal Street. I remember when I learned that tidbit—just as I remember mispronouncing Houston Street, saying it like the city in Texas, and how Margot corrected me, admitting that she made the same mistake just the day before.
“Hmm,” I murmur. “Great area.”
“Yuh,” she says, as I detect a Minnesotan or Canadian accent. “He just found this awesome loft.” She flaunts the word loft as I’m sure he did to impress her. I wonder if she’s seen this “awesome” space yet, imagining it to be cramped and gray—yet still somehow wonderful.
I smile, nod. “And where do you live?”
She pulls a wrinkled jean jacket out of her roller bag, as I think denim on denim—not good. She buttons it almost to the top, making the look even worse, and says, “Toronto…My boyfriend’s an artist.”
It is a glorious non sequitur once again proving her love, proving that everything comes back to him.
Dangerous, I think, but smile again and say, “That’s great,” wondering how they met, how long they’ve been together, whether she’ll move to New York to be with him. How their story will end. If it will end.
The line snakes forward, bringing me inches closer to Leo.
“So…are you coming home?” she asks.
I give her a puzzled look until she clarifies, “Do you live in Queens?”
“Oh…no,” I say. “I’m meeting someone there…for work.”
“You’re a photographer?” she asks.
For a second, I am amazed by her intuition, but then remember my bags, my equipment.
“I am,” I say, feeling more and more like myself by the minute.
I am a photographer. I am in New York. I am going to see Leo.
She smiles and says, “That’s cool.”
Suddenly reaching the front of the line, I tell my new, nameless friend good-bye.
“Good-bye,” she says, so happily. She waves—which is an odd gesture when you’re standing so close to someone.
“Good luck,” I tell her.
She says thanks, but gives me an inquisitive look, likely wondering what luck has to do with anything. I want to tell her a lot. It has a lot to do with everything. Instead, I give her a smile, then turn to hand my bags to the cabbie.
“Where to?” he asks as we both climb in the car.
I give him the long ago memorized address, nervously checking my makeup in my compact mirror. I am wearing only mascara and lip gloss, and resist the temptation to add more, just as I made myself stick with a ponytail and a simple outfit of jeans, a white button-down shirt rolled at the sle
eves, and black flats. This trip might be about more than work, but at least I have dressed the part.
I nervously pull my phone out of my bag just as Leo texts me: You here yet?
My heart pounds as I envision him freshly showered, checking his watch, waiting for me.
I send back: In a cab. See you in a few.
An instant later, he texts a lone smiley face, which puts me at ease, but also surprises me. Leo has never been an emoticon type of guy, unless you count his occasional colon-dash-slash face :-/ that he sometimes tacked onto the end of his e-mails, mocking my slightly asymmetrical lips—something Andy has never noticed, or, at least, has never pointed out.
I smile back at my phone, in spite of my mood—which isn’t bad, but is by no means smiley. Then I slip my earphones on, turn on my iPod, and listen to Ryan Adams singing “La Cienega Just Smiled,” one of my favorite songs that can make me feel either really happy or really sad, depending. Right now, I am both, and as I listen to the words, I marvel at how closely aligned the two emotions are.
I hold you close in the back of my mind,
Feels so good but, damn, it makes me hurt.
I jack up the volume as I hear my mother saying, “You’ll go deaf, Ellie.” Then I close my eyes, thinking of Leo, then Andy, then Leo again.
After all, I think, isn’t it always about a boy?
Thirty-Two
As we turn onto Newton Avenue, I can’t decide whether it seems like only yesterday or a lifetime ago that I was last here, dropping Leo off after our return from California, sure that we had come to the end. I fleetingly revisit the emotions of that morning—how chokingly sad I was—wondering if I truly believed that I’d never see him again. I also wonder what, exactly, brought me back here, to this moment. Was it the move to Atlanta and all that came with it? My discovery about that distant December day when he tried to come back? Or was it simply Leo’s inexplicable, inexorable pull on my heart? We stop at the curb in front of his place, and I pay my fare, hoping for some answers today. I need to find some answers.
“Receipt?” my cabbie asks as he pops the trunk and steps out of the cab.
“No, thanks,” I say, even though I know I should keep track of my expenses—that doing so would make my trip more of a legitimate business venture.
As I slide out of the taxi, I catch my first glimpse of Leo, leaning on the railing on his porch. He is barefoot, wearing jeans and a charcoal gray fleece, squinting up at the sky as if checking for rain. My heart skips a beat, but I calm myself by looking away, focusing only on the transaction of bags from the trunk to the sidewalk. I can’t believe that I’m actually here, not even when I muster the courage to meet Leo’s gaze. He raises one arm and smiles, looking perfectly at ease.
“Hi,” I say, my voice getting lost in a sudden gust of wind and the loud slam of the trunk. I hold my breath as my taxi vanishes from sight. My visit is now official.
Seconds later, Leo appears beside me.
“You made it,” he says, seemingly acknowledging that it took a lot more than merely getting on a plane to arrive here. He is right about this, I think, picturing the note on the counter, and Andy finding it still there this morning—and his wife gone.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling a wave of guilt. “I made it.”
Leo looks down at my bags and says, “Here. Let me get these for you.”
“Thanks,” I say and then fill the ensuing awkward silence with, “Don’t worry…I’m not staying here. I got a hotel.” Which, of course, makes everything all the more awkward.
“I wasn’t worried about that,” Leo says, as if he was worried—but about something else altogether.
I watch him lift my suitcase with his right hand, despite the rolling option, while swinging my camera bag over his other shoulder. I suppress a feeling of longing as I follow Leo up the stairs to his front porch, then into his apartment where I inhale coffee and his familiar, old-house smell. I glance around his living room, overcome by an avalanche of memories, mostly good. Sensory overload, I think, feeling weak, nostalgic, twenty-three again.
“Well?” Leo says. “What do you think?”
I’m not sure what he’s asking so I keep it safe and focus on anything other than the past. “You got new furniture,” I say admiringly.
“Yeah,” he says, pointing to a black-and-blue abstract painting and a cinnamon-colored, distressed-leather couch below it. “I’ve made a few changes here and there…That okay with you?” He gives me a lighthearted look.
“Sure,” I say, trying to relax, trying not to look in the direction of his bedroom, trying not to remember quite so much. At least not all at once.
“Good,” he says, feigning relief. “You get married and move to Georgia…I’m at least allowed to get a new couch.”
I smile. “Well, I think you’ve done a bit more than that,” I say, referring to his work mostly, but also to Carol. I glance around again, looking for signs of cohabitation. There are none whatsoever. No feminine touches, no photos of Carol. No photos at all, in fact.
“Looking for something?” he asks teasingly, as if he knows exactly what I’m doing, thinking.
“Yeah,” I shoot back. “What’d you do with my photo?”
He shakes his index finger at me, then takes two steps toward an old, banged-up hutch, pulls open a drawer and rifles through it. “You mean…this one?” he says, holding up the front-toothless shot of me.
“Shut up,” I say, blushing.
He shrugs, looking both smug and sheepish.
“I can’t believe you still have that,” I say, feeling way more delighted than I should.
“It’s a good shot,” he says, as he props the photo up on a shelf, meant for china, but covered with newspapers. As before, everything about Leo’s place is pared-down minimalism, except for all the paper. Books and newspapers and magazines and notepads are strewn and stacked literally everywhere—on the floor, coffee table, chairs, shelves.
“So,” he says, turning and heading for his kitchen, the only completely unchanged room in view, including a 1970s-green linoleum floor. “Are you hungry? Can I make you something?”
“No, thanks,” I say, thinking that even if I were, I could never eat right now.
“Coffee?” he asks, as he refills his own mug. A peach mug. A-ha, I think. Carol.
“Sure,” I say. “Just…half a cup.”
“Half a cup?” he says, pushing his sleeves up. “Who are you? My grandma?”
“Aw,” I say fondly, remembering his feisty grandmother. I only met her once—at a birthday party for his nephew—but she was the kind of vivid, eccentric older woman who says exactly what’s on her mind and can get away with it only because of her age.
“How is your grandma?” I ask, realizing we didn’t talk much about our families on that red-eye flight.
“Still kicking…Still bowling, in fact,” he says, pulling a non-matching, white mug down for me. Something is written on the side of it, but I can’t read it from where I’m standing.
“That’s awesome,” I say. My mother flits into my head, as she always does when I hear about elderly relatives alive and well, but I refuse to let her fully form in my already crowded mind.
“So really?” Leo asks. “Just half a cup, Gram?”
I smile and say, “All right, fine. I’ll have a full cup…I just think—”
“What?”
“That we should get going…”
“Are we in a hurry?”
“It might rain.”
“So?”
“I have to take photos,” I say emphatically.
“I know that,” he says just as emphatically.
“Well,” I say, as if I’ve already made my point and what’s wrong with him for not grasping it.
“You can’t shoot in the rain?”
“Of course I can.”
“Well?” he says, imitating my inflection.
We are now in full banter mode—which is a scary place when you are determined not to do
something you might regret.
“I’m just saying…” I say, my favorite junior-high retort, good for almost any uncomfortable situation.
“Well, I’m just saying that rainy Coney Island shots wouldn’t be so bad…would they?”
“Guess not,” I say, thinking that they might actually be better in the rain. That spending time with Leo might be really nice in the rain, too.
“So sit down,” Leo says, interrupting my meandering thoughts. He points to his couch, looks into my eyes, and says, “Stay a while.”
I hold his gaze, both fearing and hoping what a while might bring. Then I turn to sit on the far end of the couch, propping my elbow on the armrest, waiting for my coffee, for him. I watch him fill my mug, saving only enough room for a dash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar. “Light and sweet, right?” he asks.
“What makes you think I still like my coffee that way?” I say, giving him a coy smile.
“Oh, I know,” Leo says in a deadpan that still manages to come across as flirtatious.
“How do you know?” I ask, flirting right back.
“You had it that way at the diner,” he says, handing me my cup and sitting on just the right spot on the couch—close, but not too close. “Back in January.”
“You noticed my coffee?” I say.
“I noticed everything,” he says.
“Like?” I press, that familiar Leo-induced, dizziness sweeping over me.
“Like…the blue sweater you were wearing…Like the way you cocked your head to the side when I walked in…Like your expression when you told me you were married—”
“And what was that?” I interrupt, wishing he’d stop using the word married.
“You know the expression.”
“Tell me.”
“The I-hate-you expression.”
“I never hated you.”
