Love the one youre with

quo. Namely, Suzanne still hates her job as a US Airways flight attendant, and she still isn't engaged to her boyfriend, Vince. She's held both the job and Vince for nearly six years, each befitting her carefree lifestyle when she adopted them. But now, at thirty-six, she's tired of serving drinks in the air to rude people, and she's even more tired of serving drinks to Vince and his immature friends while they cheer on the Steelers, Pirates, and Penguins. She wants her life to change-or at least she wants Vince to change-but doesn't quite know how to make that happen.

She's also stubborn enough never to ask advice from her little sister. Not that I would know what to tell her anyway. Vince, a general contractor Suzanne met and exchanged numbers with during a highway traffic jam, is unreliable, won't commit, and once lived with a stripper named Honey. But he also happens to be warm, witty, and the absolute life of the party. And, most important, Suzanne truly loves him. So I have learned to just offer an empathetic ear-or laugh when it's appropriate, which I do right now as she details how Vince handed her an unwrapped ring box on Valentine's Day right after they had sex. Knowing Vince, I am pretty sure where the story is headed.

'Oh, no,' I groan, resuming my laundry sorting.

'Oh, yes,' Suzanne says. 'And I'm thinking, 'No freaking way. Tell me I haven't waited six years for a cheesy Valentine's Day proposal. In bed, no less. And, God, what if it's a heart-shaped ring?'… But at the same time, I'm also thinking, 'Take what you can get, sister. Beggars can't be choosers.' '

'So what was it?' I ask, in suspense.

'A garnet ring. My fucking birthstone.'

I burst out laughing-it's just so bad. And yet, a little bit sweet. 'Ahh,' I say. 'He tried.'

Suzanne ignores this comment and says, 'Who the hell over the age of ten cares about their birthstone?… Do you even know what yours is?'

'A tourmaline,' I say.

'Well, I'll be sure to tell Andy to get right on that. Get you that sweet pad in Atlanta, with a tourmaline to go.' Suzanne laughs her trademark airy laugh that almost sounds like she can't catch her breath, as I think that her sense of humor is what saves her life from being outright depressing. That and the fact that, despite her big, tough act, she has a very tender heart. She really could be bitter in the way that a lot of single women who are waiting in vain for a ring are bitter, but she's just not. And although I think she's sometimes jealous of my better fortune, easier road, she is also a great sister who genuinely wants the best for me.

So I know she will only be happy to hear about my Drake shoot-which I'm bursting to tell her about. Like Andy, Suzanne loves Drake, but less for his music than his political activism. Although my sister is not an outward hippie-she gave up weed and her Birkenstocks right after her Grateful Dead stage in college-she is very impassioned when it comes to her causes, particularly the environment and third-world poverty. And by impassioned, I don't mean that she simply talks the talk-Suzanne actually gets off her butt and does things that make a difference-which serves as an unusual contrast to the inertia that has always plagued her personal life. When we were in high school, for example, she could barely make it to class or maintain a C average, despite her genius IQ-fourteen points higher than mine-which we knew from snooping through our parents' files. Yet she did find the time and energy to found the school's Amnesty International chapter and circulate petitions urging the administration to put out recycling bins in the cafeteria-unprecedented stuff at the time, at least in our town.

And today, she always seems to be involved in some do-gooding mission or another-whether volunteering to plant trees in public parks and cemeteries, or firing off eloquent letters to her legislators, or even making a trek to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina where she repaired homes with Habitat for Humanity. When Suzanne talks about her various projects, I find myself wishing that I were motivated to do more for the greater good; the extent of my activism is that I vote every November (which, incidentally, is slightly more than I can say for Andy, who only votes in presidential elections).

Sure enough, as I conclude my Drake tale-minus the parts about Leo-Suzanne says, 'Wow. You lucky bitch.'

'I know,' I say, feeling tempted to tell her the whole story, that luck really didn't play a part in this assignment. If I were going to confide in anyone in the world, it would be Suzanne. Not only because of our blood loyalty-and the simple fact that she's not related to Andy-but because she was really the only person in my life who didn't seem to dislike Leo. They only met once, and neither was very chatty, but I could tell that they had an instant rapport and quiet respect for each other. I remember thinking that they actually had quite a few similarities-including their political views; their cynical habit of sneering at much in the mainstream; their acerbic wit; and their seemingly contradictory way of being both passionate and profoundly detached. Even when Leo broke my heart, and I was sure Suzanne would viciously turn on him, she was more philosophical than protective. She said everyone needs to get dumped once-that it's part of life-and that obviously things weren't meant to be. 'Better now than down the road with three kids,' she said-although I remember thinking I would have preferred the latter. I would have preferred to have something lasting with Leo, no matter what the accompanying pain.

In any event, I resist telling her about him now, thinking that Leo really is a moot point. Besides, I don't want this to unfairly color her views on my relationship with Andy, and I can just see it queuing up her depressing outlook of how nearly every marriage is tainted in some way. Either one or both parties settled, or someone is dissatisfied, or someone is cheating or at least considering it. I've heard it all before, many times, and it never helps to point out that our own parents seemed very happy together because she rebuffs that argument with either, 'How would we really know otherwise? We were kids,' or an even cheerier, 'Yeah, but so what? Mom died. Remember? What a fucking fairy tale.'

Margot, who is downright aghast by my sister's cynical tirades, maintains that it must be Suzanne's way of rationalizing her in-limbo, unmarried state. I can see some truth in this, but I also think there's a bit of the chicken-or-the-egg going on. In other words, if Suzanne were a bit more traditional and romantic or actually threw down an ultimatum like most girls in our hometown over the age of twenty-five, I truly think that Vince would change his tune pretty easily. He loves her too much to let her go. But with all of Suzanne's marriage bashing, Vince has a built-in excuse for putting off a wedding while remaining guilt-free. In fact, I think he gets way more pressure from their mutual friends and his family than he does from Suzanne-and it is usually she who will chime in with, 'No disrespect intended, Aunt Betty, but please mind your own business… And trust me, Vince isn't getting any milk for free.'

But, as it turns out, there is no opening to discuss the Leo angle because Suzanne blurts out, 'I'm coming with you,' in her authoritative, big-sister way.

'Are you serious?' I say.

'Yeah.'

'But you're not star-crazed,' I say, thinking that at least she pretends not to be, although I've busted her with her share of tabloids over the years, including an occasional National Enquirer.

'I know. But Drake Watters isn't your typical star. He's… Drake. I'm coming.'

'Really?'

'Yeah. Why not?' she says. 'I've been meaning to come see you for months now-and it's no big deal for me to hop on a plane to L.A.'

'That's true,' I say, thinking that it is the best part about her job-and likely the reason she sticks with it. Suzanne can go just about anywhere, anytime she wants.

'I'll be your assistant… Hell, I'll work for free.'

'Platform's providing a freelance assistant,' I say, reluctant to agree, although I'm not sure why.

'So I'll be the assistant to the assistant. I'll hold that big silver disk thingy for you like I did when you shot the Monongahela River that one ass-cold winter day. Remember that? Remember how I dropped my glove in the river and almost got frostbite?'

'I remember,' I say, thinking that Suzanne won't let you forget certain things. 'And do you also remember how I bought you a new pair of gloves the next day?'