Love the one youre with

sure of the culprit, he checks caller ID-which is completely unnecessary. Short of an outright emergency, it can only be Margot. Sure enough, her husband's name, Webb Buffington, lights up the screen, along with Atlanta, Georgia, where, much to my disappointment, they returned last year. I always knew the move was inevitable, particularly after she met Webb, who was also from Atlanta. As much as Margot loved New York and her career, she's a Southern girl at heart and desperately wanted all the traditional trimmings that come with a genteel life. Moreover, Webb was, in his words, 'So over the city.' He wanted to golf, wanted to drive, wanted space for all his fancy electronic toys.

As evidenced by this morning's call, Margot and I still talk daily, but I miss the face-to-face time with her. I miss having brunch on the weekends and drinks after work. I miss sharing the city-and some of the same friends. Andy misses her, too, except in intrusive moments like these, when his sleep is impacted.

He jams the talk button with his thumb and barks into the phone, 'Jesus, Margot. Do you know what time it is?'

I can hear her high voice say, 'I know. I know. I'm really sorry, Andy. But it's legitimate this time. I promise. Put Ellen on. Please?'

'It's not even seven o'clock,' he says. 'How many times do I have to ask you not to wake us up? That the only decent part of my job is the late start time? Would you do this if Ellen were married to someone else? And, if not, how about asking yourself if you shouldn't respect your own brother just a little bit more than some random guy?'

I smile at some random guy, thinking that the guy wouldn't be random if I were married to him. Then I think of Leo again and cringe, knowing that he will never only be some random guy to me. I get Andy's point, though, and I'm sure Margot does, too, but he doesn't give her a chance to respond. Instead, he thrusts the phone at me and dramatically buries his head under his pillow.

'Hey, Margot,' I say as quietly as possible.

She issues a perfunctory apology and then trills, 'I have news!'

They are the exact words, the same singsongy, confiding tone she used when she called me the night she and Webb got engaged. Or, as Webb is fond of saying in the retelling of their betrothal, before she could even muster a yes to him. He is exaggerating, of course, although she did call me first, even before her mother, which gratified me in a way I couldn't quite pinpoint. I think it had something to do with not having my own mother and the reassurance that friends might supplant family, even in the absence of death.

'Omigod, Margot,' I say now, fully alert and no longer concerned about disturbing Andy.

Andy uncovers his head and says with a contrite, almost worried, expression, 'Is she all right?'

I nod happily, reassuringly, but he continues to look fearful as he whispers, 'What is it?'

I hold up a finger. I want confirmation even though there is absolutely no doubt in my mind what her news is. That voice of hers is reserved for exactly two things-weddings and babies. She had at least three significant promotions at J.Crew and had been blase about every one. It wasn't so much modesty as it was that she never cared all that much about her career, despite how good she was. Maybe because she knew it had a self-imposed expiration date. That at some point around thirty, she would voluntarily retire and begin the next phase of things, i.e., marry, move back to Atlanta, and start a family.

'Are you?' I ask, fast-forwarding to envision Margot, swollen-bellied, in a couture maternity gown.

'Is she what?' Andy mouths.

I look at him, wondering what else he thinks we could possibly be talking about. I feel a surge of affection for his boyish cluelessness. Yes, Andy, she is making snickerdoodles this morning. Yes, Andy, she is in the market for a baby grand piano.

'Uh-huh!' Margot squeals. 'I'm pregnant! I just took a test!'

'Wow,' I say, feeling overwhelmed even though I knew that they were trying, and that Margot nearly always gets what she wants-in part due to her dogged, Type-A personality. But more because she's just one of those charmed people for whom things just work out. Small things, big things, in-between things. I've known her for fifteen years and literally the only setback I've ever witnessed, the only time she genuinely struggled, was when her grandfather died during our senior year. And you really can't count a grandparent's death as a serious hardship. At least not once you've experienced the premature death of a parent.

I say all of this about Margot without resentment. Yes, my mother died at age forty-one, and yes, I grew up wearing hand-me-downs on class-picture day, but I still wouldn't say that I come from the school of hard knocks. And I've certainly had it pretty good in my adulthood, at least so far. I'm not unemployed or directionless or prone to depression. I'm not sick or alone. Besides, even if those things were all true, I'm simply not in a competition with my best friend. I've never understood those women, those troubled, complicated relationships, of which there seem to be plenty. Am I occasionally envious of Margot-particularly when I see her with her mother? Do I wish I had her fashion sense and confidence and passport stamps? Yes, of course. But that is not to say that I would ever take those things from her-or begrudge her happiness in any way. Besides, I'm in her family now. What's hers really is mine now.

So, despite the fact that this good news is far from unexpected, here I sit, stunned and giddy and overcome with joy. After all, there is a huge disparity between planning to have a baby, and actually getting that positive pregnancy test. Of knowing that in a matter of months you'll become somebody's mother-or in my case, somebody's aunt.

'Congratulations,' I say, feeling teary.

'She's pregnant?' Andy finally guesses, wide-eyed.

I nod and smile. 'Yeah… Are you still pissed off, Uncle Andy?'

He grins and says, 'Gimme the phone.'

I hand it over.

He says, 'Maggie Beth! You should have just said so!'

I can hear her say, 'You know I had to tell Ellen first.'

'Over your own flesh and blood?'

'Only one of you is happy to hear from me any time of day,' she says.

Andy ignores her playful dig and says, 'Damn, this is great news. I'm so glad we're coming down there next weekend. I can't wait to give you a big hug.'

I snatch the phone back and ask her if she's calculated the due date; does she think it's a boy or a girl; has she thought of names; should I give her a shower in the city or Atlanta?

She tells me September twenty-first; she thinks it's a girl; no names yet; and a shower would be lovely anywhere.

'What did Webb say?' I ask, remembering that there is another party involved here.

'He's happy. Surprised. A little pale.' Margot laughs. 'Do you want to talk to him? He's right here.'

'Sure,' I say, even though I'm not in the mood to talk to him. In truth, I'm never really in the mood to talk to Webb-even though he has never been anything but friendly to me, which is more than I can say for some of the guys Margot dated before him. She's always been drawn to an arrogant type, and Webb, too, certainly has the makings to be arrogant. For one, he's an ultra-successful sports agent and former, semi- famous tennis pro-at least he's known in tennis circles, once defeating Agassi on the junior circuit. And on top of his success and wealth, he has swoon-worthy, classically handsome looks, with frighteningly good hair and teeth so straight and white that I think of an old 'Brush your breath with Dentyne' commercial every time he throws his head back in laughter. He has a big, loud voice and large presence-and is the kind of guy who knows how to give an eloquent speech that thrills the ladies and deliver a punch line to an off-color joke that makes the guys hoot and holler. So, by any measure, Webb should be intolerably smug. But he's not. Instead, he's humble, even-tempered, and thoughtful.

Yet, for some reason, I just don't feel comfortable around him-perhaps because we have almost nothing in common except Margot. Fortunately I never admitted this to her when they first started to date-probably because I suspected right away that he was 'the One.' It was the first time I had seen Margot totally, unabashedly smitten with anyone, the first time she liked someone as much as-or even more than-they liked her. I didn't broach the subject with Andy either, perhaps because he seemed to be such a huge Webb fan, perhaps because I wasn't exactly sure what I didn't like.

But I did confess my feelings to my sister once, right before Margot's wedding when I was back in Pittsburgh