Love the one youre with

'Some people just love to hear themselves talk,' I said. And then added, 'You don't seem to be one of them, Mr. Aloof.'

'I'm not aloof,' Leo said unconvincingly.

'Are too,' I said. 'Mr. Wear-Your-Headphones so you don't have to talk to anyone.'

'I'm talking now,' Leo said.

'It's about time,' I said, thinking that it was easy to be brave in the dark, on the phone.

A long stretch of silence followed which felt warm and forbidden. Then I stated the obvious-that we'd be in big trouble if Chester, our bailiff babysitter, busted us talking on the phone. And about the case, no less.

'Yes, we would,' Leo said. Then he added very slowly and deliberately, 'And I guess we'd be in even more hot water if I paid you a visit right now, huh?'

'What's that?' I said, even though I had heard him, loud and clear.

'Can I come see you?' he said again, his voice slightly suggestive.

I sat up abruptly, smoothing the sheets around me. 'What about Chester?' I said, feeling the good kind of weak.

'He went to bed. The halls are clear. I already checked.'

'Really?' I said. I could think of nothing else to say.

'Yes. Really… So?'

'So?' I echoed.

'So can I come see you? I just… want to talk. Face to face. Alone.'

I didn't really believe that was all he wanted-and a large measure of me hoped that it wasn't. I thought of how much trouble we'd be in if we got caught together in a jury-duty booty call, and that we owed it to the defendant to follow the rules-that our reckless behavior could result in a mistrial. I thought of how unsexy my Steelers T-shirt and cotton panties were and that I had nothing nicer in my hastily packed suitcase. I thought about the conventional girly wisdom that if I said yes-and then something did happen-that Leo might lose respect for me and we'd be over before we could begin.

So I opened my mouth, poised to protest, or at the very least, deflect. But instead, I breathed a helpless yes into the phone. It would be the first of many times I couldn't say no to Leo.

five

It is completely dark by the time I turn onto our quiet, tree-lined block in Murray Hill. Andy won't be home until much later, but for once, I don't mind the hours he's forced to bill at his white-shoe law firm. I will have time to shower, light a few candles, open a bottle of wine, and find the exact right soundtrack to purge the last traces of the past from my mind-something cheerful, with absolutely no Leo associations. 'Dancing Queen' would fit the bill, I think, smiling to myself. There is absolutely nothing about ABBA that conjures Leo. In any event, I want the evening to be all about Andy and me. About us.

As I step out of the cold rain into the brownstone, I breathe a sigh of relief. There is nothing lavish about our building, but I love it that way. I love the shabby lobby with its creaky herringbone floors and brass chandelier in dire need of a good polish. I love the jewel-toned Oriental rug that gives off a subtle scent of mothballs. I even love the lumbering, claustrophobically small elevator that always seems on the brink of a breakdown. Most of all, I love that it is our first home together.

Tonight, I opt for the stairs, taking them two at a time while I imagine a day far into the future when Andy and I return to this spot with our yet-to-be-born children. Give them a grand tour of where 'Mommy and Daddy first lived.' Tell them, 'Yes, with Daddy's family money we could have afforded a plush Upper East Side doorman building, but he picked this one, in this quiet neighborhood, because it had more character… Just as he chose me over all those blue-eyed Southern belles.'

I reach the fourth floor, find my key, and upon turning it, discover that Andy has beaten me home. A virtual first. I feel something between sheepish and shamefaced as I push open the door, glance through our galley kitchen into the living room, and find my husband sprawled on the couch, his head resting on an orange chenille pillow. He has already banished his jacket and tie to the floor and his blue dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. At first I think he is asleep, but then I see one of his bare feet moving in time to Ani DiFranco's As Is. It is my CD-and so far afield from Andy's usual happy Top Forty tunes (or his sappy country music) that I assume our stereo is on random-play. Andy makes no apologies for his taste in music, and while I'm listening to my favorites, stuff like Elliott Smith or Marianne Faithfull, he will roll his eyes at the more turbulent lyrics and make cracks like, 'Excuse me while I go chug some poison under the sink.' But despite our different tastes, he never makes me turn my music off or down. Andy is the opposite of a control freak. A Manhattan litigator with a surfer boy, live-and-let-live, no worries mentality.

For a long moment, I watch Andy lying there in the soft amber glow of lamplight and am filled with what can only be described as relief. Relief that I got to this place, that this is my life. As I take another few steps toward the couch, Andy's eyes snap open. He stretches, smiles and says, 'Hey, honey.'

'Hi,' I say, beaming back at him as I drop my bag on our round retro dinette table that we found at a flea market in Chelsea. Margot and her mother hate it almost as much as they hate the kitschy knickknacks that congregate on every free surface in our apartment. A coconut monkey wearing wire-rim glasses perches on our windowsill. Beads from a recent Mardi Gras hang from our computer monitor. A collection of salt-and-pepper figurines parade across our countertop. I am much more neat and organized than Andy, but we are both pack rats at heart-which Margot jokes is the only dangerous part of our being together.

Andy sighs as he sits, swinging his long legs onto the floor. Then he glances at his watch and says, 'You don't call. You don't write. Where've you been all day? I tried your cell a few times…'

His tone is easy-not at all accusatory-but I still feel a shiver of guilt as I say, 'Here and there. Running around in the rain. My phone was off.'

All true statements, I think. But I still know that I'm keeping something from my husband, and I fleetingly consider revising my vow of secrecy and telling him the rest. What really happened today. He would most certainly be annoyed-and probably a little hurt that I let Leo come back to the diner to see me. The same way I would feel if Andy let an ex-girlfriend come share a coffee with him when he could have, nearly as easily, told her to kiss off. The truth might even start a small argument-our first married argument.

On the other hand, it's not like Andy feels threatened by Leo or feels hostile toward him. He simply disdains him in the typical, offhanded way that nearly everyone disdains their significant other's most-significant ex. With a mild mix of jealousy and competitiveness that recedes over time. In fact, Andy is so laidback that he probably wouldn't feel either of those things at all if I hadn't made the mistake of disclosing a little too much during one of our early-relationship, late-night conversations. Specifically, I had used the word intense to describe what Leo and I had shared. It didn't seem like that much of a revelation as I had assumed that Margot had told him a thing or two about Leo and me, but I immediately knew it was news to him when Andy rolled over in bed to face me, his blue eyes flashing in a way I'd never seen before.

'Intense?' he said with a wounded expression. 'What exactly do you mean by intense?'

'Oh, I don't know…' I said.

'Sexually intense?'

'No,' I said quickly. 'Not like that.'

'Like you spent all your time together? Every night and every waking moment?'

'No,' I said again. My face grew hot with fresh shame as I recalled the night that Margot accused me of blowing her off for Leo. Of being one of those girls who puts a man ahead of a friendship. And an unreliable man with no marriage potential to boot, she added, disgusted. Even then, somewhere deep down, I knew she was probably right, but despite my guilt and better judgment, I just couldn't stop myself. If Leo wanted to see me, I dropped everything-and everyone-else.