While Stella hums and begins to neatly fold the shopping bags, I roll my eyes and follow Andy to the foyer on our purported frame-reconnaissance mission.

"I'm so sorry," he starts in a whisper, leaning on the high-gloss mahogany table (yet another "gift" from his parents), where our wedding photos are displayed. His expression and body language are sincere, even earnest, but I can't help wondering how much of his readiness to repent is tied into his mother's presence in our home. How the Grahams seem to do everything with one another in mind. "I'm really sorry," he says.

"Me, too," I say, feeling at war with myself as I avoid his gaze. Part of me desperately wants to make up with Andy and feel close to him again, but another part almost wants to keep things broken so I can justify what I'm doing. Whatever it is that I'm doing.

I cross my arms tightly across my chest as he continues, "I should have said something last night… about the wine comment…"

I finally look into his eyes, feeling slightly defeated that he actually seems to believe that our fight was about a lackluster vineyard near Pittsburgh. Surely he can tell there is more happening here-issues much larger than last night. Like whether I'm happy in Atlanta, if we're as compatible as we once thought, and why our fledgling marriage feels so strained.

"It's okay," I say, wondering if I'd be so conciliatory if I hadn't just spoken to Leo. "I probably overreacted."

Andy nods, as if in agreement, which bolsters my dwindling indignation enough for me to add a petty footnote. "But I really, really can't stand Ginny and Craig."

Andy sighs. "I know… But they're going to be pretty hard to avoid…"

"Can we at least try?" I say, nearly smiling for real this time, as I drop my arms to my sides.

Andy laughs quietly. "Sure," he says. "We'll try."

I smile back at him as he says, "And the next fight-let's make up before we go to sleep. My folks have never gone to bed mad at each other-probably why they've lasted so long…"

Another smug notch for the perfect Grahams, I think, as I say, "Well, technically, I went to the couch mad."

He smiles. "Right. Let's not do that either."

"Okay," I say with a shrug.

"So we're good?" Andy says, the worry lines gone from his forehead.

I feel a stab of resentment at how easily he thinks we can move on, gloss over our troubles, my feelings. "Yeah," I say reluctantly. "We're fine."

"Just fine?" Andy presses.

I look into his eyes, and briefly consider spelling everything out for him. Telling him that we're in the midst of a small crisis. Telling him everything. In my heart, I know that is the only way to fix everything, make us whole again. But because I'm not quite ready to be whole again, I halfheartedly smile and say, "Somewhere between fine and good."

"Well, I guess that's a start," Andy says, leaning down to give me a hug. "I love you so much," he breathes into my neck.

I close my eyes, relax, and hug him back, trying to forget about our fight, and all my complaints about our life, and most of all, how Margot might have doctored my past, with good intentions or otherwise.

"I love you, too," I tell my husband, feeling a wave of both affection and attraction-and then relief that I still feel this way about him.

But in the instant before we separate, right there by our wedding photos and with my eyes still closed, all I see is Leo, standing in my lobby all those years ago. And now, sitting in his apartment in Queens, listening to Bob Dylan, and waiting for me to call him back.

twenty-eight

Despite the near-constant urge to do so, I manage to go the rest of the weekend without calling or e-mailing or texting Leo. Instead I do all the right things-all the things I'm supposed to do. I reframe our wedding photos. I write Stella a cheerful, almost-completely-sincere thank-you note. I go to church and brunch with the entire Graham clan. I take nearly one hundred quality black-and-white photos of Webb and Margot and her belly. All the while, I squelch any uprising of anger, reassuring myself that I'm not taking the assignment out of spite or revenge or to revisit the past. Rather, I'm going to New York for the work-and to spend a little time with Leo. I have a perfect right to work-and to be friends with Leo. And neither of these things should, in any way, detract from my marriage or my friendship with Margot or my life in Atlanta.

So, by Sunday evening, as I hunker down at the computer to buy a nonrefundable airline ticket to New York, I am fully convinced that my intentions, if not entirely pure, are pure enough. Yet when I find Andy in the family room watching golf on television and casually mention that I have a shoot on Coney Island for Time Out, my heart fills with familiar guilt.

"That's great," Andy says, his eyes glued to Tiger Woods.

"Yeah… So I think I'll fly up the week after next… do the shoot… then stay for a night… maybe catch up with a few friends," I say as if I'm thinking aloud. My heart pounds with worried anticipation. I cross my fingers, hoping that Andy won't ask too many questions, and that I won't have to lie about how I got the assignment.

But when he only says, "Cool," rather than inquiring about any specifics, I can't help feeling somewhat slighted, if not downright neglected. After all, we constantly discuss his cases, as well as the interpersonal dynamic in his office-interactions with his father, the secretaries, and the other junior associates. He routinely practices his opening and closing arguments in front of me. And, last week, I went to watch the climax of testimony in an insurance-recovery case, getting gussied up and sitting in the front of the courtroom to silently cheer him on as he led the purportedly very injured plaintiff, sporting a full-body cast, down a path of lies before showing video footage of the guy playing Frisbee in Piedmont Park. Afterward, we laughed in the car, high-fiving each other and gleefully repeating, "You can't handle the truth!"-our favorite line from A Few Good Men.

And yet-this is the best I can get when my work is involved? One word of generic praise. Cool?

"Yeah," I say, picturing working alongside Leo. "It should be good."

"Sounds good," Andy says, frowning as Tiger attempts a long putt. The ball heads straight for the hole, drops in, but then pops back out. Andy slams his fist on the coffee table and shouts, "Dammit! How does that not go in?"

"So, what, he's like one shot behind now?" I say.

"Yeah. And he really needed that one." Andy shakes his head and bends the rim down on his green Masters cap, which he superstitiously wears to bring good luck to his idol.

"Tiger always wins," I say as the camera zooms in on his doting, gorgeous wife.

I find myself wondering just how solid their marriage is as Andy says, "Not always."

"Sure seems like it. Give someone else a chance," I say, and although I'm somewhat annoyed with Andy, I'm also disgusted with myself for trying to drum up a debate about something as uncontroversial as the universally adored Tiger.

"Yeah," Andy says, as if barely hearing me. "I guess so."

I turn my head to look at him, studying the faint, sexy hair growth along his jaw, his ears that seem to jut out a bit when he wears a cap, and the soothing blue of his eyes-a dead match for the azure stripes in his polo. I sidle closer to him on the couch, so there is no space between us and our thighs are touching. I rest my head on his chest and intertwine our arms. Then I close my eyes and tell myself to stop being so irritable. It's not fair to put Andy on trial-particularly when he has no clue he's being judged. Several minutes pass and we stay in that cozy position, as I listen to the lulling sound of the commentators and the occasional ripple of applause from the otherwise respectfully silent crowd and tell myself, over and over, that I am happy.

But, a few minutes later, when something else goes awry for Tiger, and Andy is up like a shot, waving his arms and talking to the television, offering more support than he has given me in weeks-"C'mon, buddy. You never miss these when they matter!"-I can't help feeling a fresh wave of indignation.

No wonder we're having trouble, I think, now putting an official label on what seemed to be only a one-sided undercurrent before. My husband shows more passion for golf-even golf on television-than he does for our relationship.

I watch him for a few more minutes, stoically observing the domestic scene that single-handedly assuages any guilt I have for going to New York. Then I stand, head upstairs, find my cell phone, and call Leo.

He answers on the fourth ring, sounding slightly out of breath, as if he ran to get the phone.

"Don't tell me you changed your mind," he says before I can say hello.

I smile and say, "No way."

"So you're coming?"

"I'm coming."

"For sure?"

"Yes," I say. "For sure."

"When?"

"Next Monday."

"Cool," Leo says-the exact same way Andy ended our conversation downstairs.

I stare up at the ceiling, wondering how the very same word can sound so different coming from Leo. How different everything feels with Leo.

The next morning, I catch Suzanne on her morning commute to the airport, and fill her in on the latest chapter in the seemingly never-ending Leo saga. When I come to the part about Margot, she is predictably outraged.