Love the one youre with

relationship than I'd ever confess to her, in some ways, she still knows more than you could ever know.'

'Even if she no longer cares about him?' I clarify.

'Well, based on the adoring look on her face when Vince was carrying on all over the place, high-fiving everyone he could find, that is certainly dubious,' Suzanne says. 'But yes. Even if.'

I put my head down on a pillow, feeling my buzz recede, replaced by fatigue and even greater hunger. I ask Suzanne if she wouldn't rather stay in and order room service, but then remember that her life is largely about flying to cities and never leaving the airport hotels, so I tell her that I could be motivated to go out, too.

'Nah. Fuck it,' Suzanne says. 'I didn't come here for the nightlife.'

'Aww,' I say, laughing and planting a big kiss on her cheek. 'You came here for your sister, didn't you!'

'Get off me!' she says.

'C'mon,' I say, kissing her cheek again, and then her forehead, basking in joking moments like these as the only chance I have to kiss Suzanne. Like our father, she is uncomfortable with most physical affection whereas I inherited my mother's cuddly gene. 'You adore your little sister. That's why you're here! Admit it!'

'Nope,' she says. 'I came here for two reasons…'

'Oh yeah?' I say. 'For Drake and what else?'

'To baby-sit your cheatin' ass,' she says, chucking a pillow at my head. 'That's what else.'

She is clearly joking, but it is still the last bit of incentive I need to change into my nightgown, select a club sandwich from the room-service menu, and call my husband.

'Hey, honey,' Andy says. 'You guys having a good time?'

'Very,' I say, thinking how nice-and somehow cozy-his voice is.

He asks me what I'm doing and I tell him that we're just staying in and talking.

'So you're not picking up any guys?' he says.

'C'mon,' I say, feeling a pang of guilt as I recall the smell of liquor on Leo's breath and the lingering look he gave me before he left the bar. I picture him now, sipping a margarita somewhere nearby.

'That's my girl,' Andy says, yawning. 'Love you.'

I smile and tell Andy I love him, too.

'Enough to get me that autograph?'

'Not that much,' I say. And then think-But definitely enough to forgo that guacamole and the man who will later fall asleep in Room 612.

fifteen

Sometime in the middle of the night I am awakened by the sound of my own voice and a dream of Leo so graphic that I feel flustered-nearly embarrassed-a tough feat when you're lying alone in the dark. As I listen to Suzanne softly snoring in her bed, I catch my breath and slowly play back all the vivid details-the silhouette of his broad shoulders flexing over me; his hands between my legs; his mouth on my neck; and that first slow stroke inside me.

I bite down hard on my lip, alert and tingling with the knowledge that he is just one floor above me in a bed just like this one, perhaps dreaming of the very same thing, maybe even wide awake and wishing it were happening. Just as I am.

It would be so easy, I think. All I would have to do is reach over for the phone, call Room 612 and whisper: Can I come see you?

And he would say, Yes, baby. Come now.

I know he would tell me to come. I know because of this assignment tomorrow-the very fact that we are both here in L.A. staying at the same hotel. I know because of that unmistakable look he gave me in the bar, a look that even Suzanne couldn't miss. But most of all, I know because of how good we once felt together. Despite how much I try to deny it and ignore it or focus only on the way things ended, I know what was there. He must remember it, too.

I close my eyes, my heart racing with something close to fear, as I picture getting out of bed, silently stealing through the halls, finding Leo's door and knocking once, just as he knocked on my hotel door during our jury duty so long ago. I can clearly see Leo waiting for me on the other side, unshaven and sleepy-eyed, leading me to his bed, slowly undressing me.

Once under the covers, there would be no discussion of why we broke up or the past eight years or anything or anyone else. There would be no words at all. Just the sounds of us breathing, kissing, fucking.

I tell myself that it wouldn't really count. Not when I'm this far from home. Not in the very middle of the night. I tell myself that it would only be the blurry continuation of a dream too satisfying and too real to resist.

When I wake up again several hours later, sun is streaming through the window, and Suzanne is already shuffling around the room, tidying her belongings and mine as she watches the muted television.

'Holy eastern exposure,' I groan.

'I know,' she says, looking up from her bag of toiletries. 'We forgot to shut the blinds.'

'We forgot to take Advil, too,' I say, squinting from the throbbing sensation in my left temple and a dose of guilt and regret that is evocative of the walk of shame in college-the morning after alcohol and loud music and the veil of nighttime induced you to kiss someone you might not have otherwise even talked to. I reassure myself that this is not the same thing at all. Nothing happened last night. I had a dream. That is all. Dreams sometimes-often-mean absolutely nothing. Once, when I was in the adolescent throes of braces-tightening torture, I had an appallingly provocative dream about my orthodontist, a balding, nondescript soccer dad of a guy, who was the father of a classmate to boot. And I can guarantee that I didn't want Dr. Popovich on any, even subconscious, level.

Yet, deep down, I know that this dream didn't come from nowhere. And more significantly, I know that the problem isn't the dream per se. It was the way I felt afterward, once awake. It is the way I still feel now.

I sit up and stretch, feeling better just getting out of a horizontal position. Then, once out of bed altogether, I shift into professional, efficient mode, even adopting a crisp, businesslike tone with Suzanne. I cannot afford to indulge in ridiculous, misguided fantasies when I have a huge, career-defining shoot in front of me. In my great mentor Frank's words, It's show time.

But hours later, after I've completed a thorough battery check and equipment inventory, reviewed my notes, phoned my freelance assistant to confirm our schedule, and triple-checked with the manager of the diner that she is indeed closing for two hours as per Drake's camp's request, I am in the shower, under very hot water, still brooding over Leo. Wishing I had packed cuter clothes for the shoot. Contemplating just how awful I would feel if I had called him last night. Wondering whether it just might have been worth it-and then berating myself for even thinking such a terrible thing.

At some point, Suzanne interrupts my thoughts, shouting through a thick cloud of steam, 'Are you alive in there?'

'Yeah,' I say tersely, remembering how, as a teenager, she'd often pick the lock with a bobby pin and barge right into the bathroom during my only alone time in our cramped ranch.

'Are you nervous or just really dirty?' she asks me now, as she wipes down the mirror with a towel and sets about brushing her teeth.

I turn the water off and wring out my hair, as I admit that, yes, I am nervous. But I do not confess that the real reason for my nerves has very little to do with photographing Drake.

It is surreal, the sight of them together, talking earnestly over a burger (Leo's) and a Greek salad (Drake's). For a moment, I lose myself, taking in all the details. I observe that their hair is the same dark brown hue, but while Drake is sporting a five o'clock shadow and longish, slightly greasy hair, Leo is clean-shaven, nearly conservative in comparison. Both are wearing plain black T-shirts, but Leo's appears to be a Gap staple, and Drake's is more trendy and form fitting (and likely five times more expensive). He has also heavily accessorized the look with a silver hoop earring, several rings, and his trademark amber-colored glasses.