by Emily Giffin
“I needed to go,” I said. “I had to go.”
I waited for her to meet my gaze, and when she did, I could see in her eyes that something had clicked, and she finally understood that my feelings for Leo had nothing to do with her brother, nothing to do with our friendship.
She rocked the baby gently and said, “I’m sorry, Ellen.”
I nodded as she continued. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you he came back. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you…”
“I’m sorry, too,” I said. “I really am.”
Then we both cried for a long time, right along with Louisa, until we finally had no choice but to laugh. It was a moment only best friends or sisters could share.
I close my eyes now, as the plane gathers speed on the runway, and we ascend into the sky. I no longer fear flying—at least not in the way I used to—but my heart still races, the old stirrings of anxiety commingling with memories of the past. It is the only time I really think of Leo anymore. Perhaps because of that red-eye flight we shared. Perhaps because I can practically look down and see his building from my window, the spot where I last saw him a year and a day ago.
I have not spoken to him in that long. Not to return his two calls. Not even when I sent him the photos from Coney Island, including the one I took of him on the beach. There were things I considered saying in an enclosed note. Thank you…I’m sorry…I’ll always love you.
They were all true—and still are—but were better left unsaid, just as I decided never to confess to Andy how close I came to losing everything. Instead, I hold that day deep within myself, as a reminder that love is the sum of our choices, the strength of our commitments, the ties that bind us together.
A Reading Group Guide
Ellen and Leo’s meeting at the crosswalk is accidental—or is it fate? Do you believe in fate or destiny? How have fate and destiny played a role in your own life?
After running into Leo on the street, Ellen becomes very preoccupied with thoughts of him. Do you think that this is a normal reaction to running into someone you once loved? Do you feel that it is okay to maintain relationships with exes? Explain.
The Grahams’ world is vastly different from the world in which Ellen grew up. Would you be attracted to the Grahams’ world? Do you feel that a desire to leave her roots behind played a role in Ellen’s initial friendship with Margot? Do you think it is possible to maintain a close friendship with someone from a much different background? Why or why not?
In many ways, Andy seems to be an ideal husband. He is thoughtful, considerate, successful. How do you feel about the fact that Ellen often questions her relationship with him? How do you feel when she compares Andy and Leo?
How is Leo different from Andy? Can you think of any ways in which they are similar? What do their similarities and differences say about Ellen? Are the two men reflections of truly different sides of her?
Margot was the first person to be supportive of Ellen’s desire to be a photographer. Was Leo? Was Andy supportive of her career? Why or why not?
What do you think it says about Ellen that she likes to view the world through the lens of her camera?
Do you think that Ellen made the right decision by taking the offer to shoot Drake Watters? At what point do you feel Ellen should have told Andy about Leo’s involvement with the Drake and/or Coney Island projects? Do you feel he would have been accepting if she had been straightforward with him? Do you think it is ever okay to withhold the truth from a spouse? Explain.
When Andy suggests the move to Atlanta, did you find yourself rooting for Ellen to agree—or hoping that she’d stay in New York? Do you feel she had good reasons for her decision?
What are your overall thoughts on Leo? Do you feel that he is genuine in what he says to Ellen throughout the book? Did your thoughts change at all as the story progressed?
Margot doesn’t tell Ellen that Leo came back to the apartment to see her. She does this for Ellen’s “own good.” Do you agree? Do you see this as a betrayal or act of friendship—or both? If you were in Ellen’s shoes, would you be angry?
In many friendships, there is a delicate balance of power. Whom do you feel has the power in Margot and Ellen’s relationship? Does that balance of power shift? If so, what causes it to shift?
At Ellen and Andy’s going-away party, Margot recognizes Leo’s byline in the magazine and puts the pieces together. How do you think Margot feels being caught between her loyalty to her best friend and her brother? Do you feel she handled her conflicting loyalties well throughout the book?
Describe the relationship between Ellen and her sister, Suzanne. Do you think Suzanne has a positive or negative influence on Ellen and her decision making? Do you feel Suzanne is a truer friend to Ellen than Margot? If so, how? If not, why not?
After the Coney Island shoot, Leo and Ellen go back to Leo’s apartment and are interrupted by a phone call from Suzanne. Do you feel Ellen would have gone further with Leo had her sister not called when she did? Do you feel that Ellen had already cheated on Andy prior to this moment?
At what point does a relationship with another man become a true infidelity? When you share secrets with him? When there is physical contact? Do you believe Ellen cheated on Andy on the red-eye flight with Leo?
Throughout the book, did Leo give any warning signs that he wouldn’t be good for Ellen? Do you feel Andy gave any warning signs that he also might not be good for Ellen?
Do you feel Ellen made the right decision at the end of the book? Were you surprised by her choice?
Do you think Ellen and Andy’s relationship was changed by this experience? Do you think Ellen ever confesses to what happened in Leo’s apartment? Would you confess?
Discuss Ellen’s revelation that love is a choice and not a surge of passion. Do you agree?
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heart of the matter
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Copyright © 2009 by Emily Giffin
One: Tessa
Whenever I hear of someone else’s tragedy, I do not dwell on the accident or diagnosis, or even the initial shockwaves or aftermath of grief. Instead, I find myself reconstructing those final, ordinary moments. Moments that make up our lives. Moments that were blissfully taken for granted—and that likely would have been forgotten altogether but for what followed. The before snapshots.
I can so clearly envision the thirty-four-year-old woman in the shower one Saturday evening, reaching for her favorite apricot body scrub, contemplating what to wear to the party, hopeful that the cute guy from the coffee shop will make an appearance, when she suddenly happens upon the unmistakable lump in her left breast.
Or the devoted young father, driving his daughter to buy her first-day-of-school Mary Janes, cranking up “Here Comes the Sun” on the radio, reminding her for the umpteenth time that the Beatles are “without a doubt the greatest band of all time,” as the teenaged boy, bleary-eyed from too many late-night Budweisers, runs the red light.
Or the brash high-school receiver, full of promise and pride, out on the sweltering practice field the day before the big football game, winking at his girlfriend in her usual post at the chain-link fence, just before leaping into the air to make the catch nobody else could have made—and then twisting, falling headfirst on that sickening, fluke angle.
I think about the thin, fragile line separating all of us from misfortune, almost as a way of putting a few coins in my own gratitude meter, of safeguarding against an after happening to me. To us. Rosie and Frankie, Nick and me. Our foursome—the source of both my greatest joys and most consuming worries.
And so, when my husband’s pager goes off while we are at dinner, I do not allow myself to feel resentment or even disappointment. I tell myself that this is only one meal, one night, even though it is our anniversary and the first proper date Nick and I have had in nearly a month, maybe two. I have
nothing to be upset about, not compared to what someone else is enduring at this very instant. This will not be the hour I will have to rewind forever. I am still among the lucky ones.
“Shit. I’m sorry, Tess,” Nick says, silencing his pager with his thumb, then running his hand through his dark, wavy hair. “I’ll be right back.”
I nod my understanding and watch my husband stride with sexy, confident purpose toward the front of the restaurant where he will make the necessary call. I can tell, just by the sight of his straight back and broad shoulders navigating deftly around the tables, that he is steeling himself for the bad news, preparing to fix someone, save someone. It is when he is at his best. It is why I fell in love with him in the first place, seven years and two children ago.
Nick disappears around the corner as I draw a deep breath and take in my surroundings, noticing details of the room for the first time. The celadon abstract painting above the fireplace. The soft flicker of candlelight. The enthusiastic laughter at the table next to ours as a silver-haired man holds court with what appears to be his wife and four grown children. The richness of the cabernet I am drinking alone.
Minutes later, Nick returns with a grimace and says he’s sorry for the second, but certainly not the last, time.
“It’s okay,” I say, glancing around for our waiter.
“I found him,” Nick says. “He’s bringing our dinner to go.”
I reach across the table for his hand and gently squeeze it. He squeezes mine back, and as we wait for our filets to arrive in Styrofoam containers, I consider asking what happened, as I almost always do. Instead, I simply say a quick, simple prayer for the people I don’t know and then one for my own children, tucked safely into their beds.
I picture Rosie, softly snoring, all twisted in her sheets, wild even in her sleep. Rosie, our precocious, fearless firstborn, four going on fourteen, with her bewitching smile, dark curls that she makes even tighter in her self-portraits, too young to know that as a girl she is supposed to want what she does not have, and those pale aquamarine blue eyes, a genetic feat for her brown-eyed parents. She has ruled our home and hearts since virtually the day she was born—in a way that both exhausts me and fills me with admiration. She is exactly like her father—stubborn, passionate, breathtakingly beautiful. A daddy’s girl to the core.
And then there’s Frankie, our satisfying baby boy with a cuteness and sweetness that exceeds the mere garden-variety-baby cute and sweet, so much so that strangers in the grocery store will stop and remark. He is nearly two, but still loves to cuddle, nestling his smooth round cheek against my neck, fiercely devoted to his mama. He’s not my favorite, I swear to Nick in private, when he smiles and accuses me of this parental transgression. I do not have a favorite, unless perhaps it is Nick himself. It is a different kind of love, of course. The love for my children is without condition or end, and I would most certainly save them over Nick if, say, all three were bitten by rattlesnakes on a camping trip and I only had two antivenom shots in my backpack. And yet, there is nobody I’d rather talk to, be near, look at, than my husband, an unprecedented feeling that overcame me the moment we met.
Our dinner and check arrive moments later, and Nick and I stand and walk out of the restaurant into the star-filled, navy night. It is early October, but feels more like winter than fall—cold even by Boston standards—and I shiver beneath my long cashmere coat as Nick hands the valet our ticket and we get into our car. We leave the city and drive back to Wellesley with little conversation, listening to one of Nick’s many jazz CDs.
Thirty minutes later, we are pulling up our long, tree-lined driveway. “How late do you think you’ll be?”
“Hard to say,” Nick says, putting the car into park and leaning across the front seat to kiss my cheek. I turn my face toward him and our lips softly meet.
“Happy anniversary,” he whispers.
“Happy anniversary,” I say.
He pulls away, and our eyes lock as he says, “To be continued?”
“Always,” I say, forcing a smile and slipping out of the car.
Before I can close the door, Nick cranks up the volume of his music, dramatically punctuating the end of one evening, the start of another. As I let myself into the house, Vince Guaraldi’s “Lullaby of the Leaves” echoes in my head where it remains long after I’ve paid the babysitter, checked on the kids, changed out of my backless black dress, and eaten cold steak at the kitchen counter.
Much later, having turned down Nick’s side of the bed and crawled into my own, I am alone in the dark, thinking of the call in the restaurant. I close my eyes, wondering whether we are ever truly blindsided by misfortune. Or, somehow, somewhere, in the form of empathy or worry or a premonition deep within ourselves, do we feel it coming?
I fall asleep, not knowing the answer. Not knowing that this will be the night I will return to, after all.
also by emily giffin
Something Borrowed
Something Blue
Baby Proof
Heart of the Matter
Acknowledgments
Deepest gratitude to Mary Ann Elgin, Sarah Giffin, Nancy Mohler, Lisa Elgin, and Stephen Lee, who were with me from start to finish. I am so lucky to have you.
Many thanks to my amazing editor and friend, Jennifer Enderlin, and to so many others at St. Martin’s Press, especially Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, John Murphy, Matt Baldacci, Steve Troha, Dori Weintraub, Alison Lazarus, Tom Siino, Jeff Capshew, Andy Lecount, Brian Heller, Rob Renzler, Ken Holland, Christine Jaeger, Nancy Trypuc, Anne Marie Tallberg, Mike Storrings, Harriet Seltzer, Christina Harcar, Kerry Nordling, Sara Goodman, Jeff Cope, Jeff Willmann, and the entire Broadway and Fifth Avenue sales forces.
Heartfelt appreciation to my parents, family, and friends, with special thanks to Allyson Jacoutot, Jennifer New, Julie Portera, Brian Spainhour, Laryn Gardner, Michelle Fuller, Jim Konrad, and Yvonne Boyd. Thanks also to Stephany Evans, Theresa Park, and Carrie Minton.
An abiding thank-you to David “Sarge” Tinga, my one-of-a-kind mentor and dear friend who will never be forgotten.
And finally, my thanks and love to Buddy, Edward, George, and Harriet.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
LOVE THE ONE YOU’RE WITH. Copyright © 2008 by Emily Giffin. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
The Library of Congress has catalogued the hardcover edition as follows:
Giffin, Emily.
Love the one you’re with / Emily Giffin.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-3774-0
1. Married women—Fiction. 2. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3607.I28 L68 2008b
813'.6—dc22 2008008505
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