Love the one youre with

for a random weekend. We were having lunch at the Eat'n Park, our favorite hangout in high school, and still our sentimental pick whenever I go home. Every table has multiple memories, and we chose the one closest to the door that conjured her post-junior prom meal with a guy now doing time for something; my father's impromptu nosebleed one evening (that we all thought was ketchup at first); and the time I ate five chili dogs on a bet. As Suzanne and I decked our Big Boys with an array of condiments, she asked about Margot's wedding with what I detected as a bit of disdain that always seemed to be present when she discussed the Grahams-disdain that was, in my opinion, both unwarranted and a tad mean-spirited. But despite her tone, I could also tell that Suzanne was intrigued by Margot in the same shameless and superficial way we used to be intrigued by Luke and Laura on General Hospital and Bo and Hope on Days of Our Lives.

'This is so stupid,' Suzanne would always say as we watched the couples on our favorite soaps. She'd roll her eyes as she pointed out the improbabilities and inconsistencies of the on-screen romances, but there she'd sit, riveted to the television, hungry for more.

Similarly, as we ate our burgers, Suzanne wanted all the details on Margot's upcoming nuptials, ferreting out any potential drama.

'That was a short engagement, wasn't it?' she asked, brows raised. 'Could she be knocked up?'

I laughed and shook my head.

'So what's the hurry?'

'They're in love,' I said, thinking that their entire courtship was storybook, including its brevity. Their engagement preceded mine, despite the fact that Andy and I were dating first.

'How big's the ring?' she asked, somewhat critically.

'Huge,' I said. 'Colorless, flawless.'

Suzanne digested this and said, 'What kind of a name is Webb?'

'Family name. Short for Webster.'

'Like the television show,' she said, laughing.

'Yeah,' I said.

'Do you like him?' she asked.

Given her mood, I considered lying and giving her an unequivocal yes, but I have never been able to lie to Suzanne. Instead, I told her the truth-that although he seemed to be the perfect guy, I wasn't all that psyched about Margot marrying him. I felt selfish and disloyal admitting it, and even more so when Suzanne probed, 'Why? Does she blow you off for him?'

'No. Never,' I said, which was the truth. 'She's not like that.'

'So what is it then?… Does he intimidate you?'

'No,' I said quickly, feeling myself becoming defensive. I loved my sister, but it was not an uncommon dynamic between us since I had moved to New York and she had stayed put in our hometown. She'd subtly attack, and I'd subtly defend. It was almost as if she resented me for leaving Pittsburgh for good. Or worse, she assumed that I felt superior-which was completely untrue. In all the important ways, I felt like the exact same person I had always been. I was just exposed to more. I had a layer of sophistication and worldliness that comes with living in a big city, and frankly, being around the Grahams. 'Intimidated by what?'

'I don't know. By his looks? His money? His whole slickster, tennis boy, agent bag?'

'He's not really a slickster,' I said, trying to remember what exactly I had told Suzanne about Webb in the past. She had an infallible memory-that she often used against me. 'He's actually pretty down-to-earth.'

'A down-to-earth multimillionaire, huh?' she said.

'Well, yes, actually,' I said, thinking that I had long since learned that you couldn't lump all people with money into one category. The wealthy were as varied as the downtrodden. Some were hardworking, some lazy. Some self-made, some born with a silver spoon. Some modest and understated, some ostentatious braggarts. But Suzanne's views had never evolved beyond our Dallas and Dynasty and Love Boat watching days (my sister and I watched a lot of television growing up, unlike Andy and Margot who were limited to a half-hour per day). To Suzanne, every 'rich' person (a term she used derisively) was the same: soft, selfish, and likely 'a lying snake of a Republican.'

'Okay, then,' she said. 'So maybe you're just intimidated by the fact that he belongs in Margot's world, and you… don't.'

I thought it was a harsh and narrow-minded thing to say and told her as much. I went on to say that I was well beyond such adolescent insecurities, and that the intimidation factor ended in college sometime after sorority rush when Margot was swept up in a sea of blond, BMW-driving debutantes, and I had incorrectly feared that her going Greek would dilute our friendship. Moreover, I told my sister that I clearly did belong in Margot's world. She was my best friend and roommate. And I was likely going to marry her brother, for God's sake.

'Okay. Sorry,' Suzanne said, sounding not at all sorry. She shrugged as she took a bite of her burger. She chewed and swallowed slowly, took a long drink of Coke from her straw and said with annoyed sarcasm, 'It was just a theory. Please forgive me.'

I forgave her, as I could never stay mad at Suzanne-but I didn't soon forget it. In fact, the next time Andy and I went out to dinner with Webb and Margot, I fretted that my sister was right. Maybe I was the odd woman out. Maybe Margot would finally come to her senses about how different we were and Webb would steal her away for good. Maybe Webb really was an elitist snob, and he just hid it well.

But as the evening wore on, and I paid close attention to him and all his mannerisms, I decided that Suzanne truly was off the mark. There was nothing not to like about Webb. He was a genuinely good guy. It was just an inexplicable disconnect with another person. Webb gave me the same feeling I had as a kid when I slept over at a friend's house and discovered an odd smell in their basement or a foreign cereal selection in their cupboard. He didn't intimidate me; he didn't offend me; he didn't worry me with respect to Margot. He just made me feel vaguely… homesick. Homesick for what, I wasn't sure.

But despite this, I was determined to bond with Webb on some nonsuperficial level. Or, at the very least, get to the comfortable stage of things where we could be alone in a room together and I wouldn't be casting about, hoping for a third party's return.

So when Margot passes Webb the phone now, and he booms a confident 'Hey, there!' into the phone, I pump up my own volume to match his exuberance and give him an enthusiastic, 'Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!'

'We're pretty happy, too… for lo, these forty-five seconds! Your girl doesn't waste much time, does she?'

I laugh, wondering if he's annoyed or amused by our constant phone lifeline and our vow to visit one another at least once every other month, and then say, 'Look forward to seeing you guys next weekend. We'll have to celebrate.'

'Yeah, we'll have fun,' he says. 'And you, Andy, and I will just have to suck it up and drink for Margot, too.'

I force another chuckle and say, yes, we'll have to do just that. Then Webb passes the phone back to Margot, and she tells me she loves me. I tell her I love her, too. Andy tells me to tell her that he loves her. And we both say we love the baby on the way. Then I hang up and lie back down next to Andy. We are facing each other, our feet touching. His hand is resting on my hip, just under my oversized T-shirt. We smile at each other, but say nothing, both of us processing the big news. News that feels way bigger than, say, running into an ex-boyfriend on the street.

And so, for the first time since I left that intersection, I feel a sense of perspective wash over me. Perspective that wasn't ushered in by sex. Or a fun dinner out. Or a night sleeping next to my adorable husband and awaking every few hours to hear his reassuring, steady breathing. Leo has no place in this moment, I think. He has no part in Andy's family. Our family.

'You want one, too?' Andy says, his hand moving around me, and then massaging the small of my back.

'One what?' I say, even though I know what he's referring to.

'A baby,' he says. 'I know you and Margot like to do things together.'

I can't tell whether he's joking or propositioning me or speaking theoretically, so I just murmur,