Love the One You're With

by Emily Giffin

“Liar.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I kinda hated you.”

  “I know you did.”

  “And now?” I say, daring myself to look into his brown eyes. “Do I have the same look now?”

  Leo squints, as if searching for an answer on my face. Then he says, “Nope. It’s gone. That look has been gone since…since our flight from L.A. when I saved you from that dirty old man.”

  I laugh and pretend to shudder. “He was gross.”

  “Yes. He was. Thank goodness…Otherwise you might not have been so happy to see me.”

  I shake my head, not in a contradictory way, but in a way that says, No comment—at least none that I can share.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. Ten minutes into my “work” trip—and I am already drifting into decidedly dangerous territory.

  “Tell me,” he says.

  “You tell me,” I say, taking my first sip of coffee. It is a little too hot—but otherwise perfect.

  “Well…Let’s see…What can I tell you?…” Leo looks up at the ceiling as I take in his clean shave, crisp sideburns, olive skin. “I can tell you that I’m happy you came…I’m happy to see you…I’m very happy to see you.”

  “I’m very happy to see you, too,” I say, overcome with sudden shyness.

  “Well, good,” Leo says, nodding, sipping his coffee, then kicking his legs up onto the coffee table. “We got that goin’ for us, huh?”

  “Yes,” I say as we both stare down at the floor. “We do.”

  Seconds later, our eyes lock again, our smiles fade, and although I don’t know how, I am quite sure his heart is pounding as hard as mine. I think of Andy, realizing that my guilt is starting to recede, which in turn fills me with fresh guilt, especially when Leo clears his throat and says my husband’s name aloud.

  “Does Andy know you’re here?” he asks.

  It is a simple question, but undercut with bold recognition that I might be here for a little more than a photo shoot.

  “Yes,” I say, realizing that my answer clarifies nothing. My yes could mean that I view the trip as purely professional, therefore telling my husband only about the work. Or it could mean that I confessed everything. Or it could mean that I told him only enough to result in a big fight and a Post-it note ultimatum.

  “And?…Was he okay with it?” Leo asks, looking concerned.

  I look down at my coffee and shake my head, hoping that that says enough.

  It must, because Leo simply says, “I’m sorry.”

  I nod my thanks, realizing that so much of our interaction is—and has always been—about subtext, what’s happening beneath our surface.

  “So…what about your girlfriend?” I ask, turning the tables.

  He shakes his head, slices his hand through the air, and makes a clicking noise. “That’s done,” he says.

  “You broke up?”

  “Yup.” He nods.

  “When?” I ask—but what I really want to know is, Why? Who did it? “A few weeks ago,” he says vaguely.

  “Do you…want to talk about it?”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he says.

  “If you do,” I say tentatively.

  Leo shrugs, and then starts speaking in choppy, matter-of-fact sentences. “I told her I was talking to you again. She overreacted. I told her it wasn’t like that. That you’re married. She said what is it like, then? I said it wasn’t anything, but she accused me of still having feelings for you.” He looks over at me, as I drop my gaze from his eyes to chin, then up to his lips.

  “And?” I say.

  “And.” Leo shrugs again. “I couldn’t tell her what she wanted to hear. So she took off.”

  I imagine that stark, sickening conversation, my heart filling with empathy for a woman I’ve never met. “You just…let her leave?” I say, in awe of his honesty—which can also come across as cruelty. One of the best—and worst—things about him.

  Leo slowly nods. Then he puts his coffee down, shifts his body to face me, and says, “Yeah. Well. The problem is…she was right. I do have feelings for you, Ellie.”

  I swallow hard, my heart now in my throat, my ears, on the coffee table, as I replay his words and against my better judgment ask, “What kind of feelings?”

  “Feelings I should have sorted out a long time ago,” he says, meeting my eyes for a second and then staring across the room. “Feelings that resurfaced when I saw you again…Feelings I shouldn’t have for…a married woman.”

  There it is again. Married.

  I open my mouth, but can’t find any words of my own. At least not words that I can say aloud.

  “So,” Leo says, letting me off the hook. He rubs his hands together, then folds them, blowing across his knuckles before throwing out one of those profound, yet meaningless sentences he’s so fond of. “It is what it is.”

  I nod my safe agreement.

  “I mean…what’re ya gonna do, right?” Leo asks.

  It is a rhetorical question, but I answer it anyway, treading carefully. “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head.

  Leo gives me a raised-brow look, as if he understands exactly how I feel, exactly what I’m trying to say—and that, if nothing else, at least we’re in this thing together.

  Thirty-Three

  An hour of safe conversation and two cups of coffee later, Leo and I are aboard a virtually empty N train, making our way to the southernmost tip of Brooklyn. We are pretending to be in work mode, but our undercurrent remains, and if anything, is growing stronger the more we don’t talk about it.

  As I count the number of stops on the subway map to Stillwell Avenue, estimating that we have at least an hour left on the train, Leo leans down to double knot the laces of his black tennis shoes. When he sits back up, he gives me an incredulous look and says, “So really? You’ve never been to Coney Island?”

  I shake my head. “No…I feel like I have, though. I guess from movies and photographs.”

  Leo nods and says, “That’s how I feel about a lot of places.”

  “Like where?” I ask, ever curious about all of Leo’s thoughts and feelings—no matter how trivial, how unrelated to us.

  “Like…Stonehenge,” he says. “I mean, who needs to go there once you’ve seen a few photos? Big rocks in an open field. I get it.”

  I laugh at his random example, and then say, “Tell me about your article. Did you write it yet?”

  “Yeah. Mostly,” he says. “Still needs to be fine-tuned.”

  “What’s it about, exactly?”

  “Well…I guess you could say it’s about the conflict between the old and new Coney Island. The inevitable changes on the horizon.”

  I give him an inquisitive look, realizing that for someone who has tried to convince everyone, including myself, that this trip is about work, I know almost nothing about the piece I’m shooting for. Or about Coney Island, for that matter.

  “What changes?” I ask.

  Leo unzips his messenger bag and pulls a Coney Island flyer from it, pointing to an aerial photograph of the beach. “In a nutshell, a major developer bought ten acres of the amusement district, and plans to give it a two-billion-dollar makeover—rezone it, put in high-rise hotels, condos, the whole nine yards…Some say it’s exactly what Coney Island needs. You know, revitalize a neighborhood in decay…restore its old glory.”

  “And others?”

  “Others take a more nostalgic view. They worry that new construction will displace the locals, obscure the classic views, kill the mom-and-pop shops and rides, and basically undermine the kitschy, old-time character of the so-called Nickel Empire.”

  “Nickel Empire?” I ask, as our train slows to a stop at Queensboro Plaza. The doors open, letting in a handful of passengers, all of whom glance our way, but choose another bench.

  “Way back in the day, the subway ride to get to Coney Island was a nickel. The rides were a nickel. Nathan’s hot dogs were a nickel…Coney Island actually started out as a r
esort for the wealthy, but quickly evolved into a working-class playground, where you only needed a nickel to escape, let loose, forget your troubles,” Leo explains as we careen forward, under the East River, toward Fifty-ninth and Lex. “And I think, in many ways, Coney Island still has that feel.”

  “Did you interview a lot of people?” I ask.

  He nods and says, “Yeah. I spent a few days there, hanging out on the beach, wandering around Astroland, and all over Mermaid Avenue, talking to the locals…the ‘old salts’ as they call themselves. Heard so many great coming-of-age stories about the boardwalk, and all the old games and rides.” He smiles and says, “Everyone has a story about the Cyclone.”

  “Is that the roller coaster?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you ride it?”

  “Yeah…as a kid,” he says. “And lemme tell you…that thing kicks your ass. Seventy-some years old, made of wood and it’s no joke…I actually had a great conversation with the Cyclone manager—tattooed old guy who has run the ride for over thirty years but has never been on it.”

  “Come on,” I say. “Really?”

  Leo nods.

  “Is he afraid of heights?”

  “Nah. Says he’s climbed the thing plenty of times…he just has no desire to feel the plunge.”

  I smile, thinking about how many times Leo has given me that stomach-dropping feeling.

  “So anyway…Coney Island’s at a crossroads,” Leo says, looking grave. “The old versus the new.”

  “And what camp are you in?” I ask. “Old or new?”

  Leo ponders my question for a few seconds and then gives me a knowing, look “I don’t know. Change can be good…sometimes,” he says cryptically. “But it’s always tough to let go of the past.”

  I’m not sure exactly what he means, but I still murmur my agreement as our subway car sways along the tracks, and we fall into another long stretch of very loud silence.

  The afternoon is bleak and somehow seasonless when we emerge from underground, spilling onto Stillwell Avenue. Steel gray clouds hover low in the sky, promising a downfall soon. It is not exactly cold, but I still cinch the belt of my trench coat and cross my arms tight across my chest as I look around, memorizing my first glimpse of this famed sliver of New York. Of Americana. It is exactly how I pictured it would look during the off-season—dingy, faded, desolate—but still magical, special. The stuff of great photographs. The backdrop of indelible memories.

  “So here we are,” Leo says, looking stoic.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “To the water first?” Leo asks.

  I nod, as we stride, side by side, toward the boardwalk. Once there, we find a bench and sit, gazing toward the wide stretch of muted sand and dark, colorless surf. I shiver from the slight chill in the air, the stark view, and most of all, from Leo beside me.

  “Beautiful,” I finally say, catching my breath.

  Leo’s face glows—as if he himself were an “old salt” with his own tales to tell. I suddenly imagine him on this very beach as a child, in the height of summer, with his shovel and pail. Then again, as a teenager, sharing blue cotton candy with a pig-tailed girl, and carefully aiming a rifle with hopes of winning her a stuffed unicorn.

  He cocks his head and says, “Really?”

  I nod and say, “Yes. It has…so much character.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “I’m really glad you think so.”

  We stay that way for a long time—slightly reclined on our bench, taking in the scenery, watching the few souls out on such a questionable day—until at some point, I wordlessly pull my camera out of my bag, slide between the bars separating the boardwalk and sand, and head for the ocean. I snap a few dozen aimless mood shots, feeling myself relax, as I always do when I start to work. I photograph sky and sand and ocean. I photograph a middle-aged, long-haired woman in a brown tweed coat, deciding that she doesn’t look quite shabby enough to be a bag lady, but is definitely down on her luck, sad about something. I turn and snap the storefronts along the boardwalk, most closed, some boarded up altogether, and a cluster of seagulls, circling a red-and-white-striped bag of popcorn, searching for remaining kernels. Then, on a final whim, I photograph Leo, still leaning back on our bench, his hands clasped behind his head, elbows out, watching and waiting.

  He gives me a little wave and a twinkling, self-deprecating smile as I approach him. “That last one’s a keeper,” he says, as I recall my Central Park bench shots of him, how Margot had viewed them with disdain, calling him smug and affected. I think back to that day, realizing that she was wrong about that moment, captured on film. She was wrong about a lot.

  I sling my camera over my shoulder and sit back down, letting out a sigh that sounds wearier than I intended.

  Leo gives me a pretend-stern look as he elbows me and says, “Remember what I told you, Dempsey? People come here to forget their troubles.”

  Dempsey, I think, as my left thumb reaches over to stroke my wedding band. I force a smile, and say, “Right,” as we watch the waves break, again and again. After a few minutes, I ask Leo if the tide’s coming in or out.

  “In,” he replies so quickly that I’m impressed, the same way I’m impressed when people—typically men—instinctively know that they are driving, say, northwest.

  “How can you tell?” I ask, thinking that we haven’t been watching long enough to observe a trend.

  “No wet sand,” Leo says as thunder rumbles in the distance. “If it were going out, there’d be a band of wet sand.”

  “Oh. Sure,” I say, nodding. And then, “You know what?”

  “What?” Leo says, his face alert, expectant—as if he’s ready for a big confession, or maybe something profound.

  I smile and say, “I’m starving.”

  “Me, too,” he says, grinning. “Wanna get a hot dog?”

  “This is the birthplace of the hot dog, right?” I say, recalling a scrap of Coney Island history that I picked up somewhere. Perhaps from Leo himself, a long time ago.

  “True,” Leo says, smiling.

  We stand and slowly retrace our steps to the corner of Stillwell and Surf, the site of the original Nathan’s, which according to Leo, was built in 1916. We duck inside, finding a longer line than you’d expect at nearly two o’clock in the off-season, even for the most famous hot dog stand in the world. I snap a few photos of the restaurant, the other customers, and the sweaty men behind the grill while Leo asks what I want.

  “A hot dog,” I say, giving him a no-duh look.

  “Can you be more specific?” Leo asks, his smile broadening. “A chili dog? Plain? With relish? Fries?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” I say, waving the details off.

  “Cheddar dogs, fries, root beer,” Leo says decisively.

  “Perfect,” I say, remembering how much he loves root beer.

  Moments later, after Leo has paid and I’ve gathered napkins, straws, and packets of mustard and ketchup, we select a table by the front window just as the rain starts to fall.

  “Perfect timing,” Leo says.

  I look across the table at him, while suddenly picturing Andy at his desk, in his jacket and tie. I marvel at the contrast between the two worlds—a hot dog stand in Brooklyn and a shiny law office in Buckhead. I marvel even more at the contrast between the two men—the way each makes me feel.

  “Not really,” I say, holding his gaze. “Pretty shitty timing actually.”

  Leo looks up from his crinkle-cut fries, surprised. Then he picks one up, points at me with it, and says, “You.”

  “No. You,” I say.

  “You,” he says again, firmly.

  It is the way we used to talk—our between-the-lines language, seemingly nonsensical, but steeped in meaning. It is a way I’ve never talked to Andy—who is always so open, candid. I decide, for at least the hundredth time today, that one way isn’t better than the other; they are just different.

  Leo
and I finish our lunch in virtual silence. Then, without hesitation, we head back outside into a light, steady rain, wandering up and down Surf, Neptune, and Mermaid Avenues. Leo holds my umbrella over me as I take endless photos. Photos of shut-down games and rides. Of the famed Cyclone and the impossibly large, iconic Wonder Wheel. Of a three-on-three pickup basketball game. Of litter-strewn, barren lots. Of the people—a butcher, a tailor, a baker.

  “Like a nursery rhyme,” I say.

  “Yeah. If only we could find a candlestick maker,” he says.

  I laugh, as I notice two teenaged girls checking the prices on a tattoo-parlor window.

  “Ohh. I love the orchid,” one says. “That’s so cool lookin’.”

  “Yeah…But I like the butterfly better,” the other says. “On my shoulder? But in purple?”

  I snap their picture, thinking, Don’t do it. You’ll be sorry someday.

  It is dusk on Coney Island, and I am finally satisfied, at least as far as photos go. The rain has cleared, along with all the clouds, promising a crisp, breezy autumn night. Leo and I return to our bench, damp, tired, and chilled. As we sit even closer than before, he casually drapes his arm around my shoulders in a gesture that feels equal parts comfortable and romantic. I fight the urge to rest my head on his shoulder, and close my eyes, realizing that this would be so much easier if I could more neatly categorize my feelings. If Leo was all one thing, and Andy another altogether. But it’s not that simple or clear-cut—and I wonder if it ever is when it comes to matters of the heart.

  “What are you thinking?” Leo says, his warm breath on my hair.

  I cave to the truth. “I’m thinking about that day in December…when you came back,” I say softly.

  Leo breathes again, this time near my neck, sending a cascade of goose bumps down my arms and legs.

  “I wish I had known,” I say.

  “I wish you had, too,” Leo says. “I wish I had known that it might have made a difference.”

  “It would have made a difference,” I finally confirm, feeling a wave of wistfulness and bitterness, guilt and longing.

  “It could still be different,” Leo says, his hand on my chin, moving it to look into my eyes.