Love the One You're With (15 page)

The flight attendant makes an announcement that the seatbelt sign is still illuminated, and the captain will inform us when it is safe to move about the cabin.
Perfect
, I think. Absolutely trapped by no doing of my own.

A few minutes of charged silence pass as I close my eyes, thinking that miraculously, I’m no longer worried about flying.

“So,” Leo finally says as I open my eyes and the plane begins to steady in the California night sky. “Where were we, anyway?”

seventeen

I can’t remember how I answer that first question of Leo’s; only that we successfully dance around any discussion of our relationship, or how exactly it ended, or really anything of a personal nature, for a very long stretch of the flight. Instead we stick to safe harbors like movies and music, travel and work. It is the sort of conversation you have when you first meet someone you would like to know better—or an acquaintance you haven’t seen in a long time. We stay on the surface of things, yet there is an underlying ease, too, a natural flow of questions and answers, marked by stretches of comfortable silence. They are so comfortable, in fact, that we are eventually lulled back into intimate terrain.

It happens innocently enough, as I finish telling him about a recent shoot I did in the Adirondacks. “There’s just something about photographing a small town, the locals,” I say, “people who are tied so inextricably to their geography … It’s so satisfying …”

My voice trails off as I feel Leo’s gaze. When I turn toward him, he says, “You really love your work, don’t you?” His tone is so admiring that it makes my heart flutter.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I do.”

“I could see that today … I loved watching you work.”

I smile, resisting the urge to tell him that I loved watching him during his interview, too. Instead, I let him continue.

“It’s funny,” he says, almost as if he’s thinking aloud. “In some ways you seem like the same Ellen I once knew, but in other ways … you seem so …
different
…”

I wonder what exactly he’s basing this assessment on, as our cumulative exchanges since passing in the intersection can’t exceed an hour. Then again, I find that my sense of Leo is shifting, too, and it occurs to me that not only are there two sides to every story, but that those versions can also evolve over time.

I watch Leo take a sip from his plastic cup of ginger ale on ice and suddenly see myself through his eyes. Then and now. Two very contrasting portraits with something of the same core. I glimpse my former self—the needy, lonely, motherless young girl, new to the big city, struggling to find her own identity, an identity apart from her suffocating hometown, her sheltered college experience, her shiny best friend.

I see myself falling in love for the first time, and how that all-consuming love—how
Leo
—seemed to be my answer. He was everything I wanted to be—passionate, soulful, strong—and being with him made me feel at least a byproduct of all those things. Yet the more I tried to entrench myself in that relationship, the more insecure I became. At the time, this all felt like Leo’s fault, but looking back, I can see that I have to share the blame. At the very least, I can see why I became less attractive to him.

I think back to Leo’s earlier comments today, about how he took himself too seriously. Maybe that was true, but I can also see that I didn’t take myself seriously
enough
. And it was that lethal combination that made our breakup virtually inevitable.

“Yeah. I like to think I’ve evolved a little,” I finally say, as more snapshots of our relationship return to me—things I had suppressed or simply forgotten. I recall, for example, how much Leo loved a good debate, and how his face would flicker with annoyance when I had no opinion. I remember his frustration at my lack of independence, his irritation at my tendency to settle or take the easy way out—whether in a job or mindset.

“We both had a lot of growing up to do … A lot of the world to see and figure out on our own,” Leo says, confirming that I’m not the only one thinking in terms of our relationship.

“So?” I say hesitantly. “Have you figured things out?”

“A few things,” he says. “But life’s a long journey, ya know?”

I nod, thinking of my mother.
If you’re lucky
.

Several minutes pass, as I realize that for the first time since meeting Leo at jury duty, I can no longer neatly categorize what he was during our time together. He was not the man of my dreams, the perfect guy I once put on a pedestal; nor was he the villain who Margot had done her best to demonize; nor really any guy on that particular continuum. He was just the wrong guy for me at the time. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You must be exhausted,” Leo says after a long silent stretch. “I’ll let you get some sleep.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “Let’s talk some more …”

I can hear the smile in Leo’s voice as he replies. “That’s what you always used to say …”

A dozen things cross my mind in that instant—all inappropriate and half of which I nearly blurt out. Instead, I divert the conversation and ask the question I’ve been dying to ask since seeing him in the intersection. “So. Are you with someone now?”

I keep my expression even while I brace myself for his answer, fearing a wave of jealousy that I desperately don’t want to feel. But when he nods, I am only relieved, even as I envision a statuesque beauty with a foreign accent, a captivating wit, and an intriguing, irresistible mean streak. The sort of diva Nico sings about in the Velvet Underground’s “Femme Fatale.” I imagine that she has her pilot’s license and can do tequila shots with the boys, yet also knits Leo sweaters and cooks with at least three different varieties of olive oil. She is lithe, long-limbed, and looks as good in an evening gown as she does in a white tank and a pair of Leo’s boxers.

“That’s great,” I say, a little too enthusiastically. “Are you … is it … serious?”

“I guess so … We’ve been together a couple of years …” he says. Then he surprises me by reaching into his back pocket for his wallet and pulling out a snapshot of her. Leo does not strike me as the type to have a photo of his girlfriend in his wallet, and certainly not the type to pass it around. But I am even more shocked when I turn on my overhead light and look down at a rather nondescript blonde, posing next to a man-sized cactus.

“What’s her name?” I say, observing her hard, tanned arms, short pixie cut, and broad smile.

“Carol,” he says.

I repeat the name in my head, thinking that she looks
exactly
like a Carol. Wholesome, uncomplicated, kind.

“She’s pretty,” I say, as I hand him back the photo. It seems like the right thing—really the
only
thing—to say.

Leo slides the photo back into his wallet and nods in such a way that tells me he agrees with my assessment, yet doesn’t find her appearance terribly interesting or important.

Still, despite her ordinary looks, I feel an unexpected competitive pang I don’t believe I would have felt if he had shown me the woman I was expecting. It is one thing to be defeated by an Angelina Jolie look-alike, another to lose to someone so squarely in my league. I remind myself that it’s not a contest as I flip off my overhead light and ask, “So where’d you and Carol meet?”

Leo clears his throat, as if contemplating a revision to the truth, but then says, “It’s actually not much of a story.”

This, of course, makes me happy.

“C’mon,” I press, rooting for a blind-date scenario—which I believe to be at the bottom of the romance totem pole.

“Okay,” he says. “We met in a bar … on the most repugnant night of the year … at least in New York.”

“New Year’s Eve?” I say, smiling, pretending not to feel any residual bitterness.

“Close,” Leo says, winking. “St. Patrick’s Day.”

I smile, thinking how I share his disdain for March seventeenth.

“C’mon. What’s wrong with you? You don’t love a good, raucous pub crawl?” I say. “Whoopin’ and hollerin’ and sippin’ green beer first thing in the morning?”

“Sure,” Leo says. “About as much as I love all the Upper East Side frat boys puking all over the Six train.”

I laugh. “What were
you
doing out on St. Patrick’s Day, anyway?”

“I know. Shocking huh? … I’m still not going to win any popularity contests, but I guess I’m not quite as antisocial as I used to be … I think some Irish buddy must have twisted my arm that night …”

I resist the temptation to say,
More than I could do
, and instead ask, “And Carol? Is she Irish?”

It is a stupid, throwaway question, but it allows me to stay on track with the subject of Leo’s love life.

“Something like that. English, Scottish, Irish. Whatever.” Then he adds, somewhat randomly, “She’s from Vermont.”

I force a pleasant smile as I cringe a bit on the inside, picturing Carol, swinging open her family’s barn door on a crisp autumn day, proudly demonstrating how to milk a cow to her boyfriend from the big city … the two of them laughing uncontrollably when he can’t seem to get the maneuver down … milk squirting into his face before he topples off the painted wooden stool into a bed of hay … she falling on top of him, sliding off her overalls …

I block out the image and allow myself one final inroad into Carol. “What does she do?” I say. “For a living?”

“She’s a scientist,” he says. “A medical researcher at Columbia … She studies cardiac arrhythmia.”

“Wow,” I say, impressed in the way I think all right-brained people feel about left-brained people—and vice versa.

“Yeah,” Leo says. “She’s a smart one.”

I look at him, waiting for more, but it is clear that he is finished talking about Carol. Instead he crosses his legs and says with what seems to be a purposefully breezy air, “Your turn. Tell me about Andy.”

It is a hard question to answer, even when you’re not talking to an ex, so I smile and say, “I know you’re a reporter—and love those open-ended questions—but can you be more specific? What do you want to know?”

Leo says. “Okay. You want specific … Let’s see … Does he like board games?”

I laugh, remembering how Leo would never play board games with me. “Yeah,” I say.

“Ahh. Very good for you,” Leo says.

I smile, nod and say, “Anything else?”

“Hmm … Does he skip breakfast—or believe that it’s the most important meal of the day?”

“The latter.”

Leo nods as if taking mental notes. “Does he believe in God?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And Jesus, too.”

“Very well … And … does he … strike up conversations with people on planes?”

“Occasionally,” I say, smiling. “But generally not ex-girlfriends. As far as I know …”

Leo gives me a sheepish glance, but doesn’t take the bait. Instead he sighs loudly and then says, “Okay … How about this one? … Does your husband seem genuinely surprised when he unscrews the cap on his Coke and discovers that,
lo and behold, holy shit
, he’s ‘Not a Winner This Time’?”

I laugh. “That’s so funny!” I say. “Because
yes
! He
expects
to win … He’s an eternal optimist.”

“So,” Leo says. “Looks like you found yourself a solid, Checkers-playing, Cheerios-eating, God-fearing, glass-half-full kinda guy.”

I burst out laughing, but then worry that I’ve sold Andy short with Leo’s round of Q&As—or, worse, somehow belittled who he is. So I end on a decidedly loyal note. “Yeah. Andy is a great guy. A really good person … I’m very lucky.”

Leo turns in his seat and looks at me, his smile quickly fading. “He’s lucky, too.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling myself blush.

“It’s true,” he says. “Ellen … I don’t know how I let you get away …”

I give him a small smile, feeling very bashful as I marvel how such a simple statement can be so healing and thrilling and unsettling, all at once.

And it only gets worse—
and
better—when Leo reclines his seat and moves his arm onto the rest against mine so that our skin is touching from elbow to wrist. I close my eyes, inhale, and feel a rush of heat and energy that takes my breath away. It is the feeling of wanting something so much that it borders on an actual need, and the power and urgency of this need overwhelms me.

I command myself to move my arm, knowing how imperative it is that I do the right thing. I can hear the scream inside my head—
I am a newlywed, and I love my husband!
But it does no good. I literally cannot make myself retreat. I just can’t. Instead I recline my seat to be flush with his and uncurl my fingers, desperately hoping that he’ll find them. He does, tentatively at first, our pinkies barely touching, then overlapping slightly, then a bit more, and more still, as if there is a tide pulling him toward me, over me.

I wonder if he is still watching me through the shadows of the cabin, but I don’t open my eyes to find out, hoping the dark will make me feel less culpable, make what I’m doing seem less real. Yet the effect is actually the opposite—it all feels
more
real, more intense, in the way that you can always focus more on one sense when others are shut off.

Time passes, but neither of us speaks, as Leo’s hand completely covers mine. The weight and warmth of it is the same as it was at the diner, the day all of this began, but the gesture feels completely different. This contact is not incidental to a conversation. It
is
the conversation. It is also an invitation. An invitation I accept with a languid turn of my wrist until my palm is up, facing his, and we are officially holding hands. I tell myself that it is the most innocent of gestures. Grade-school crushes hold hands. Parents and children hold hands.
Friends
hold hands.

But not like this.
Never
like this.

I listen to the sound of Leo breathing, his face close to mine, as our fingers interlock, unlace, rearrange. And we fly east that way, eventually drifting off, suspended in the sky, in time, together.

The next parcel of time is hazy as I fall in and out of sleep. I vaguely hear the flight attendant’s announcements, but don’t awaken for good until we begin our final descent into JFK. Groggily, I look out the window at the lights of the city, then turn to find Leo still sleeping, still holding my hand. His neck is bent, his body curled slightly toward me, his face illuminated by the bright cabin lights. I frantically memorize the dark whiskers across his jaw; his slightly disheveled sideburns; the long, straight bridge of his nose; and his large, domed eyelids.

My stomach churns as it occurs to me that I feel almost exactly as I did the morning after we first made love. I had awakened before sunrise that day, too, and can distinctly recall being frozen next to him, watching him sleep, his bare chest rising and falling, as I thought to myself,
What next?