Love the one youre with

you fare and just relax, have a good time. There was no pretense, positioning, or posturing, which I had grown accustomed to at the end of my relationship with Leo-and on so many bad first dates beyond. Everything felt easy and straightforward, balanced and healthy. I never had to wonder what Andy was thinking, or how he felt, because he was an open book, and so consistently happy. Moreover, he was concerned with making me happy. He was a polite, respectful Southern gentleman, a romantic and a pleaser at heart.

Somewhere deep down, I think I knew from the start that our relationship lacked a certain intensity, but not in a way where I felt something was missing. To the contrary, it felt like a huge relief never to fret-sort of like your first day of feeling healthy after a vicious case of the flu. The mere absence of feeling miserable was euphoric. This, I thought to myself as Andy and I gradually grew closer, was the way things were supposed to be. This was how love was supposed to feel. More important, I believed that it was the only kind of love that wouldn't burn out. Andy had staying power. Together, we had the potential to last forever.

I feel the plane begin to make its final descent as Andy folds his newspaper, stuffs it into the duffel bag at his feet, and squeezes my hand. 'You doing okay?'

'Yes,' I say, thinking that's the thing about Andy-I'm always at least okay when I'm with him.

Moments later we land safely in Atlanta, pulling into our gate several minutes ahead of schedule. Andy stands to retrieve our coats from the overhead bin while I turn on my phone to see if Margot has called. Our plan as of last night was to meet outside at Delta arrivals at nine-thirty sharp, but Margot often runs late or changes plans midstream. Sure enough, there is a blinking mailbox icon on my phone. One new message. I hit play, quickly realizing with both excitement and dread that the message is not from Margot. The message is from Leo. Leo, who, two weeks after our meeting, is apparently making good on his promise of a renewed friendship.

Flustered, I glance at Andy who is oblivious. I could easily listen to the whole message without his knowledge, and a guilty part of me is dying to hear what Leo has to say. Instead, I let him get no farther than, 'Hey, Ellen. Leo here,' before shutting off my phone and silencing him. I will not allow him to say more than that in Andy's hometown. In Andy's presence, period.

nine

Andy and I make our way to baggage claim, and then outside to arrivals in record time. 'Like poetry in motion,' he says, proud of his ability to travel efficiently, just as we spot Webb and Margot's silver Mercedes SUV.

To our amusement, Margot appears to be in a clash of wills with a husky policewoman perched on a bicycle seat that looks way too small for her mammoth hips. She is undoubtedly telling Webb and Margot that there is no curbside waiting allowed. I can see through the half-open car window that, although Margot is wearing her sugar- wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth expression, she is fully entrenched, determined not to back down and lose her spot. Her charm, however, does not seem to be doing the trick on the officer. Sporting a mullet and lug-soled, black motorcycle boots, she blows her whistle and then bellows, 'Loading and unloading only, lady! Move it now!'

'My good-ness,' Margot says, pressing her hand to her chest, before looking up, seeing us, and announcing, 'Why look here! My family has arrived. We're loading now!'

I smile, thinking that Margot has prevailed again, ever elegantly.

The officer turns and glowers at us, vigorously pedaling on to her next victim. Meanwhile, Margot bounds out of the car. She is wearing a long, belted, camel-colored cashmere sweater, dark jeans tucked into chocolate suede boots, and oversized sunglasses (a look she stuck to even in the late nineties when small frames were the rage). She looks every bit the fashion plate she was in New York, maybe more so.

'We're so glad you're here!' she squeals, gathering Andy and me in a joint, but still dainty hug. Even though I knew she couldn't yet be showing, her petite frame and sprightly movements belie pregnancy. Only her chest gives her secret away; her C cups seem to be tipping over into the D range. I smile, thinking that it's the sort of thing you'd only notice on a best friend. I gesture toward them, and mouth, 'Nice.'

She laughs and says back, 'Yeah, they've already gotten a little bigger… But this is mostly just a quality push-up.'

Andy pretends to be embarrassed by our conversation as he tosses our oversized duffel bag into the back of the car. Seconds later, after a hearty greeting from Webb, we are exiting the airport and whizzing along the highway. Margot and I are in the backseat, all of us talking excitedly about the baby and their back-wing addition where the baby's room will be.

'Our contractors are as slow as molasses,' Margot says. 'I told them they'd better be finished by the time this baby arrives.'

'No way they'll finish by then, hon. Not with their hourly coffee breaks,' Webb says, running his hand back and forth over his chiseled jaw. I notice that he is also wearing a camel-colored sweater, and I wonder if he and Margot purposely matched. It is the sort of thing they've been known to do, the most egregious example being their his-and-hers orange driving moccasins.

Webb glances over his shoulder before switching lanes to pass a slow-moving Volkswagen and says, 'So did Margot tell y'all about our leather floors in the basement?'

'No,' I say, looking at Margot and wondering how that one fell through the cracks in our daily chats.

She nods and gestures toward Webb as if to say, 'His idea, not mine,' but I can tell she's proud of her husband's lofty sense of aesthetics.

'Leather floors?' Andy whistles. 'Holy smokes.'

'Yeah. Those bad boys are decadent,' Webb says. 'Wait 'til you try 'em out.'

'Won't they get all scuffed?' I say, realizing that I often sound overly practical, even pedestrian, around Webb.

'A little scuffing adds character,' Webb says. 'Besides, they'll mostly get barefoot traffic.'

Margot explains, 'We saw them at a spa in Big Sur and couldn't resist them… It's where I'll do my yoga and meditating.'

Naturally, I think fondly, but say, 'You're taking up yoga?'

Margot has never been very into workouts, and when she did go to the gym in New York, she was more a reclined-bike-with-People-magazine-in-hand sort of girl.

'Since the baby,' she says, rubbing her nonexistent tummy. 'I'm trying to become more… centered.'

I nod, thinking that the shift seemed to happen even before the baby news, around the time she moved from New York. It's not surprising-even leaving the city for a weekend has a calming effect on me. And although Atlanta is a major city by any measure, it feels so open, relaxed, and downright lush in contrast to New York. Even the downtown area, which we are passing now, looks like a very manageable Fisher Price-sized town after growing accustomed to New York's skyline.

Minutes later, we arrive in the heart of Buckhead, the affluent section of North Atlanta where Andy and Margot grew up. After first hearing the odd-sounding name Buckhead (apparently derived from a long-expired tavern that displayed a large buck's head), I conjured quaint, rustic images, but the area actually has a very cosmopolitan edge. Its shopping district comprises two high-end malls where Margot gets her Gucci and Jimmy Choo fix, as well as luxury hotels, condos, art galleries, nightclubs, and even five-star restaurants, hence earning the monikers Silk Stocking District and the Beverly Hills of the South.

But the real essence of Buckhead comes in the residential areas, along the winding, tree-lined streets, dotted with graceful Georgian mansions and stately neoclassical homes like the one Margot and Andy grew up in. Others, like Webb and Margot's 1930s painted brick house, are slightly more modest, but still utterly charming.

As we pull into their cobblestone driveway lined with white camellias, I feel the urge to use the words lovely or delightful-which aren't normally in my