Love the One You're With Read Free Page A

pre-algebra teacher before she died of lung cancer, even though she had never smoked, the day before my thirteenth birthday.
    Margot had two older brothers, both of whom adored her. Her family was the Southern WASP equivalent of the Kennedys, playing touch football on the beach at Sea Island, taking ski trips every winter, and spending occasional Christmases in Europe. My sister and I spent our vacations at the Jersey Shore with our grandparents. We didn’t own passports, had never been out of the country, and had only been on an airplane once.
    Margot was a cheerleader and former debutante, brimming with the brand of confidence that belongs to wealthy, well-traveled WASPs. I was reserved, slightly neurotic, and despite my strong desire to belong, far more comfortable on the sidelines of things.
    Yet despite our differences, we became best friends. And then, years later, in what would make a perfect documentary-style couch story, I fell in love with her brother. The one I just knew would be as cute as he was nice.
    But a lot of things had to happen before I married Andy and after that letter from Margot arrived in the mail. A lot of things. And one of them was Leo. The one I would love before I loved Andy. The one I would grow to hate, but still love, long after we broke up. The one I would finally, finally get over. Then see again, years later, in a New York City crosswalk.

three
    Where are you now?” Leo asks.
    I inhale sharply as I consider my answer. For one beat I think he means the question in a philosophical sense— Where are you in life? —and I nearly tell him about Andy. My friends and family. My career as a photographer. What a good, contented place I’m in. Answers that, until recently, I scripted in the shower and on the subway, hoping for this very opportunity. The chance to tell him that I had survived and gone on to much greater happiness.
    But as I start to say some of this, I realize what Leo is actually asking me. He means literally where am I sitting or standing or walking? In what little corner of New York am I digesting and pondering what just transpired?
    The question rattles me in the same way you feel rattled when someone asks you how much you weigh or how much money you make or any other personal, probing question you’d strongly prefer not to answer. But, in refusing to answer it outright, you’re afraid you’ll look defensive or rude. Later, of course, you replay the exchange and think of the perfect, politely evasive response. Only my scale knows the truth … Never enough money, I’m afraid . Or in this instance: Out and about .
    But, there in the moment, I always clumsily blurt out the answer. My true weight. My salary down to the dollar. Or, in this case, the name of the diner where I am having coffee on a cold, rainy day.
    Oh well, I think, once it’s off my tongue. After all, it is probably better to be straightforward. Being evasive could translate as an attempt to be flirtatious or coy: Guess where I am . Come find me, why don’t you .
    Still, Leo answers quickly, knowingly. “Right,” he says, as if this diner had been a special hangout of ours. Or, worse, as if I were just that predictable. Then he asks if I’m alone.
    None of your business, I want to say, but instead my mouth opens and I serve up a plain, simple, inviting yes. Like a single red checker sidling up to double-decker black ones, just waiting to be jumped.
    Sure enough, Leo says, “Good. I’m coming over. Don’t move.” Then he hangs up before I can respond. I flip my phone shut and panic. My first instinct is to simply get up and walk out. But I command myself not to be a coward. I can handle seeing him again. I am a mature, stable, happily wed woman. So what is the big deal about seeing an ex-boyfriend, having a little polite conversation? Besides, if I were to flee, wouldn’t I be playing a game that I have no business playing? A game that was lost a long time ago?
    So instead I set about eating my