Love the one youre with

way I felt when I went back and read my cringe-worthy junior-high haikus about the summer surf at the Jersey Shore. Haikus I once proudly submitted to a literary magazine, feeling genuinely stunned when the rejections came in the mail.

Margot and I stared at each other for what felt like a long time. It was probably the most powerful, honest moment of our friendship, and in that moment, I both loved and despised her. She finally broke our silence.

'I know it hurts, Ellen… But it's time to move on,' she said, briskly straightening the pile of photographs and returning them to the envelope. Apparently Leo was no longer worth the energy it took for her to rip his face in two.

'How am I supposed to do that?' I said softly back. It wasn't a rhetorical question-I really wanted to know the mechanics of exactly what I was to do next.

She thought for a second and then gave me instructions. 'Go ahead and sit around in your sweats with Molly Ringwald tonight. Then tomorrow, get up and take a long shower. Blow out your hair, put on some makeup. Then get your camera out and get back to it… He's not coming back. So do your thing… It's time.'

I looked at her, knowing she was right. Knowing that once again, I was at a crossroads in my life, and once again, I needed to take Margot's advice and turn to photography.

So the very next day I bought a new camera-the best one I could afford on my meager credit-and enrolled in a comprehensive course at the New York Institute of Photography. Over the next year, I learned the ins and outs of the equipment, everything from lenses and filters to flash, tungsten, and strobe lights. I studied in exhaustive detail aperture, shutter speed, and exposure as well as film and ISO parameters, white balance and histograms. I learned theories of composition, color, patterns, and framing, as well as 'the rule of thirds' (something I think I knew instinctively) and how to use lines for more powerful images. I had already learned a ton about printing, but I was able to practice my technique on much more sophisticated machines. I took a course in portraiture, studying lighting and positioning. I studied product photography, food photography, architectural photography, landscape photography, even sports photography. I delved into digital photography, mastering Adobe Photoshop and the language of megapixels and chip size (which was cutting edge stuff at the time). I even took a class in the business and marketing side of photography.

With every fresh week, every new technique I learned, every photo I snapped, I felt a little more healed. Part of it was just the passage of time, an essential ingredient of any emotional recovery. Part of it, though, was that one passion was slowly replacing another. And although one broken heart doesn't make me an expert in the subject, I believe you need both things-time and an emotional replacement-to fully mend one.

Then, about nine months post-Leo, I finally felt ready-technically and emotionally- to show my portfolio and apply for a real assistant's job. Through a friend of a friend, I heard that a commercial photographer named Frank Brightman was looking for a second assistant. Frank did mostly fashion photography and advertising, but also some occasional editorial work. He had a distinct cinematic style that evoked realism-a look that I both admired and could imagine someday emulating, with my own twist, of course.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I called Frank about the opening, and he invited me to interview at his small Chelsea studio. Right away, Frank both impressed me and put me at ease. He had beautiful silver hair, impeccable clothing, and a soft-spoken kindness. There was also something subtly effeminate about his mannerisms that made me think he was gay-which at that point in my life, hailing from a blue-collar town and a conservative Southern school, still felt like a sophisticated novelty to me.

I watched Frank sip his cappuccino as he reviewed my amateur portfolio housed in a faux-leather album. He flipped the pages as he murmured approval. Then he closed the book, looked me in the eye, and said although he could see that I had promise, he wasn't going to sugarcoat it-he already had a first assistant, and mostly just needed a lackey. Someone to pay the bills, go on coffee runs, and stand around a lot. 'Decidedly unglamorous work,' he finished.

'I can do that,' I said earnestly. 'I was a waitress. I'm great at standing. I'm great at taking orders.'

Frank remained stone-faced as he told me that he had just gone through four second assistants. He said they all had better credentials than I, but had been lazy and unreliable, every one of them. Then he paused and said he could tell that I was different.

'You have a sincerity about you,' he said. 'And I like that you're from Pittsburgh. That's a good, honest place, Pittsburgh.'

I thanked him, flashing him an ever-eager-to-please smile.

Frank smiled back and said, 'The job is yours. Just show up every day, on time, and we'll get along fine.'

So I did just that. I showed up every day for the next two years. I willingly and gladly took orders from Frank and his first assistant, a quirky, older woman named Marguerite. Frank and Marguerite were the creative geniuses while I quietly handled all of the background details. I secured certificates of insurance for larger shoots-and sometimes even hired police. I handled the rental equipment and set up lights and strobes under Frank's detailed specs, beginning many days' work at dawn. I loaded film (by the end of my tenure, Frank said he had never seen someone load so quickly, which felt like the highest of praise) and took literally thousands of lighting meter reads. In short, I learned the ins and outs of commercial photography while I became more and more confident that I would someday strike out on my own.

And that's where I was when Andy came to me.

They say timing is everything, and when I look back, I am a big believer in this theory. If Andy had asked me out any sooner, I might have viewed the invite as a pity maneuver, something Margot had put him up to. I would have said no, flat out, and because Andy isn't the most aggressive guy, that likely would have been that. And, more important, I wouldn't have had time to squeeze in my incidental, insignificant, but still very important rebound guys, most of whom lasted only one or two dates.

But if he had made his first move any later, I might have become cynical-a difficult feat for a woman pre- thirty, but one that I felt grimly capable of. Or I might have begun to seriously date someone else-maybe someone like Leo since they say you usually date the same type, again and again. Or I might have become too absorbed in work.

Instead, I was optimistic, content, self-sufficient, and as settled as you can really be when you're young, single, and living in a big city. I still dwelled on Leo (and 'what went wrong') much more than I cared to admit to anyone-even myself, and the thought of him could still stop me in my tracks, send a ripple through my heart, fix a knot in my chest. But I had learned to manage those emotions, compartmentalize them. The worst of the pain had receded with time, as it always does, for everyone. I mostly saw Leo for what he was-a past love who was never coming back, and I saw myself as a wiser, more complete woman for having lost him. In other words, I was ripe for a new relationship, a better man.

I was ready for Andy.

eight

I will never forget the moment when I knew that Andy was interested in me as more than just his sister's best friend, or even, for that matter, his friend. Interestingly, it didn't happen in New York, even though Margot and I saw Andy on a fairly regular basis, usually out at the bars for a few drinks, our group of friends mixing well with his.

Rather, I was in Atlanta, home with Margot and Andy for Thanksgiving, the three of us flying in the night before. It was well after we had finished the feast that Margot's mother, Stella, had prepared single-handedly (the Grahams' longtime housekeeper, Gloria, had been given the week off), and the worst of the dishes had been cleared and loaded into the dishwasher. Andy and I were alone in the kitchen after I had volunteered to wash the crystal and silver (and nobody objected, which made me feel even more welcomed), and Andy had quickly offered to dry- which I thought was particularly nice in a traditional family where the men seemed to have a complete pass on any domestic duties.

Meanwhile, Margot, her parents, and her brother James had all retired to the 'TV den' and were watching