"Just wait! Just wait until you see what I have," I can hear her tell him from halfway across the room. One beat later, they are both beside me, and as I thank her for coming, I realize in an off-kilter, slow-motion panic, what she is about to unveil at our going-away party.

Sure enough, her full, magenta lips pucker dramatically as she pulls the oversized magazine from her fringed, white Balenciaga bag and then trills to her ever-growing audience, "Platform magazine! Hot off the presses!"

"I thought it wasn't coming out until later this month," I say, feeling numb and exposed as I envision not my photos of Drake that I toiled over and perfected for so many hours, but the byline of the piece.

"Well, you're right, it doesn't hit the newsstands for another couple weeks," Cynthia says. "But I worked my magic and got an early copy for you… Thought it would be the perfect going-away present for you, pookie." She bends down and taps my nose twice with her index finger.

"Oh, man. Awesome," Andy says. He rubs his hands together eagerly and calls a few more of his friends, including Webb, over to the table.

"You've already seen the shots," I tell Andy in a small, worried voice, as if there is anything I can do to stop Cynthia's attention-grabbing tide.

"Yes, but not on a big, glossy cover," Andy says, standing behind me and massaging my shoulders.

Another full, torturous minute passes as Cynthia continues her suspense-building mission by pressing the cover against her substantial cleavage and delivering a Shakespearean monologue about how gifted I am, and how proud she is to represent me, and how I'm headed for true greatness, no matter where I live.

Meanwhile, I fix my eyes on the back of the magazine, a black-and-white ad featuring Kate Moss, by far my favorite model, and someone I'd love to shoot. In the photo, her lips are slightly parted, her windswept hair partially covers her right eye, and her expression is serene but suggestive. As I stare into her smoky eyes, I have the sudden, ridiculously narcissistic sense that she is there on that page not to advertise David Yurman watches, but specifically to taunt me. You should have told them sooner, I hear her say in her English accent. You've had weeks and weeks to tell them, but instead you wait for a packed house on your final night in New York. Nice job.

"C'mon, Cynthia!" Andy shouts, interrupting my paranoid thoughts. "Show us the darn magazine!"

Cynthia laughs and says, "Okay! Okay!" Then she flips Kate around, thrusts the magazine high over her head, and slowly spins to reveal Drake, in all his glory. For a few seconds, as her small but rapt audience claps and whistles and cheers, I have a surreal sense of satisfaction that that is actually my cover. My shot of Drake Watters.

But my fear returns in full force when Cynthia hands the magazine off to Andy and says, "Page seventy-eight, lambkin."

I hold my breath and feel all my muscles tense as Andy takes a seat next to Julian and flips eagerly to the Drake story. Meanwhile, everyone gathers behind him, oohing and aahing over the photographs that I labored over and virtually memorized but can't bring myself to look at now. Instead, I focus on Andy's face, feeling a sense of profound relief when I determine that he is slightly more intoxicated than I am, and in no shape to be reading the article let alone focusing on any words on the page. Instead, he is all smiles, basking in the running commentary among my photographer friends who kindly praise the more artistic elements of my shots, while the rest of the crowd asks eager questions about what Drake was like in person, and Margot, in her typical nurturing fashion, instructs everyone to be careful not to wrinkle or spill anything on the pages. This chatter goes on for some time, as the magazine works its way around the table and ends up in front of Margot and me, on the last page of the article.

"This is amazing," she whispers. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," I say, watching her slowly flip backward through the five-page spread until she returns to the beginning again.

"I think this one's my favorite," Margot says, pointing to the very first shot of Drake, framed by Leo's text, with his name floating there at the top, centered on the page. Although my eyes are drawn right to it, the point size is actually not as big as I had feared, nor is it very dark or bold. So as Margot chatters about how hot Drake is, and how I so perfectly captured his essence, I conclude that I might just escape tonight unscathed. In fact, I might even get away with this forever. I feel a jolt of adrenaline-my sense of relief and triumph outweighing any shame that I know I should feel. It is the way I imagine a shoplifter must feel as she nods her placid good-bye to a store security guard, while feeling her stolen goods pressed into the lining of her pockets.

But one beat later, my fortune fades as I feel Margot freeze beside me and then recoil. I look at her, and she looks right back at me, and I can tell in an instant that she has seen Leo's name, registered the import of it, and knows. Obviously she can't know exactly what I've done or haven't done, but she is certain that I've been dishonest with her and more important, her brother. If it were anyone else, I'd brace myself for a wave of wrath, or at the very least, a string of questions or accusations. But I know Margot better than that. I know how restrained she is, how careful with her words, how non-confrontational. And beyond that, I know that she would never in a million years say anything to ruin this party, any party. Instead, she doles out a far-worse punishment. She becomes silent, her expression stony and stoic, as she closes the magazine and turns away from me for the rest of the night.

twenty-one

Do you really think she's pissed at you for taking an assignment?" Suzanne asks the following morning when I call her from a gift shop at LaGuardia, give her a rundown of the night before, and solicit her advice about how to approach Margot when we meet her at our gate in a few minutes. "Maybe you're just being paranoid?"

I nervously assess Andy's progress in line at an adjacent Starbucks and say, "Yeah. Pretty sure. Except for a quick good-bye at the end of the night, she didn't speak to me again. Not once."

Suzanne clears her throat and says, "Is that all that unusual at a big party? Weren't a bunch of your friends around? Would you guys normally be connected at the hip all night?"

I hesitate, knowing that these questions are somewhat pointed-Suzanne's not-so-subtle way of criticizing what she believes is, and once even referred to as, my codependence with Margot. And, although I'd usually finesse the inquiry and defend the friendship, I don't have time now to take that detour. Instead I just reiterate, "Look, Suzanne. She's definitely not happy about the whole thing… And to be fair-I can't really blame her. I'm married to her brother, remember?… Now any ideas about how to handle it?"

I hear the sound of running water and the clatter of breakfast dishes-or in Suzanne's case, what could likely be the dinner dishes from last night. "What should you do or what would I do if I were in your shoes?" she asks.

"I don't know. Either," I say impatiently. "And talk fast… Andy will be back any second."

"Okay," Suzanne says, turning off her faucet. "Well, I'd go on the offensive and tell her to get a grip. Stop being so high and mighty."

I smile, thinking, Well, of course you would, as she continues her rant. "I mean, what's the big fucking deal? Your ex-boyfriend gave you the professional lead of a lifetime-the chance to photograph an A-list celebrity-and you appropriately and wisely seized that chance… for your career, not to rekindle a romance."

When I don't respond, Suzanne prompts me. "Right?"

"Well, right," I say. "Of course."

"Okay. So then you fly to L.A. and unbeknownst to you, Leo is there, too. Not something you planned, correct?"

"That's correct, too," I say, perking up somewhat at this benign, yet so far completely accurate, version of events.

"Then, you decline Leo's invitation to dinner-really you diss him completely-and hang with me all night."

I nod eagerly, thinking that I should have phoned Suzanne from the bar last night; I could have avoided quite a bit of internal strife with this pseudo-pep talk.

She continues, "And at the actual shoot the following day, you spend about ten minutes with him total, always conducting yourself in a completely professional manner. Right?"

Technically, all of this is true, too, but I hesitate, thinking of my lustful thoughts the night before the shoot; Leo's lingering look at the diner; and of course, that long, intimate, heart-pounding, hand-holding flight. Then I clear my throat and say with a little less conviction, "Right."

"And you haven't spoken to him since you got back to the city?"

"No," I say, thinking this much is true-and a credit-worthy feat given the number of times I wanted to call him. "I haven't."

"So tell me?" Suzanne says. "Where's the big affront to the Graham family?"

I pick up an "I love New York" snow globe from a shelf crammed with plastic trinkets and gently shake it. As I watch the flakes fall onto the Empire State Building, I say, "There isn't one, I guess."

"Come to think of it," Suzanne says, more riled by the second. "Does Margot even know that you saw Leo at all?"