Love the one youre with

'Sorry,' she says.

'And you know what else doesn't help?' I say as our cab pulls into the hotel driveway and several bellmen swarm around the car.

Suzanne looks at me, waiting for me to continue.

'Leo telling me he can't, for the life of him, recall why we broke up.'

'Fuck,' she says, her eyes widening. 'He said that?'

'Pretty much,' I say.

'That's something.'

I nod as I pay our driver. 'Yeah… You think he's messing with my head?'

Suzanne pauses and then says, 'Why would he do that?'

'I don't know,' I say as we make our way through the revolving doors and into the lobby to collect our stored luggage. 'Maybe to make me feel better about the past? Or maybe he's just… on some kind of a power trip?'

'I don't know him well enough,' she says. 'What do you think?'

I shrug and then say I really don't think so-on either front. It's not Leo's style to gratuitously make someone feel better. Yet I don't think he's a manipulative game player either.

As we settle into two hard, high-back chairs in the lobby, Suzanne looks contemplative. 'Well,' she finally says, 'In all likelihood, he meant just what he said: that he really can't remember why- how-it ended. And maybe he also meant that he wishes things had gone down differently.'

I run my hands through my hair and exhale wearily. 'You think that's a possibility?'

Suzanne nods. 'Sure. And isn't that satisfying?' she asks. 'Sort of what every girl dreams of when she's dumped. That the guy will someday feel regret and come back and tell her all about it… And the beauty of it is… you have no regrets whatsoever.'

I look at her.

'Right?' she says, the question drenched in meaning. A one-word test of my choices. Of Andy. Of everything in my life.

'Right,' I say emphatically. 'Absolutely no regrets.'

'Well then,' Suzanne says with her usual conviction. 'There you have it.'

Three hours later, after Suzanne and I have shared a quick fast-food dinner at the airport and said our good- byes at the American security line, I am boarding my flight with a distinct ache in my chest and a nagging sense of unfinished business. As I settle into my window seat in the next-to-last row of coach, vaguely listening to the flight attendant drone about limited overhead-bin space, I revisit the events of the day, specifically the very abrupt ending to my final encounter with Leo. In hindsight, I wish that I had just told Suzanne that I needed a little more time with him. It would have been undeniably awkward to make the request, but one hour-even thirty minutes-is really all it would have taken to ease the anticlimactic conclusion to such an emotional shoot, and wrap up the unsettling conversation about our breakup.

Despite the fact that I have no regrets about how things turned out in my life, I still can't help wanting to understand my intense relationship with Leo, as well as that turbulent time between adolescence and adulthood when everything feels raw and invigorating and scary-and why those feelings are all coming back to me now.

I quickly try to call Andy to let him know that we are taking off on time, but there is no answer. I leave a message, telling him that the shoot went well, and that I love him and will see him first thing in the morning. Then I turn my attention to the stream of passengers filing down the aisle, and say a prayer that the middle seat beside me will stay vacant, or, at the very least, that it will be filled by a tidy, quiet seatmate. But one beat later, a large, sloppy man with the distinct aroma of booze and cigarettes is bearing down on me with a bulging canvas tote, a Burger King to-go bag, and a Mountain Dew bottle filled with a questionable amber liquid.

'Helloo there!' he bellows. 'Looks like I'm next to ya!'

In addition to his boozy aroma and carry-on beverage, his bloodshot eyes and excessive volume make it pretty clear that he's already drunk-or very close to the mark. I envision a long night of cocktails, with some occasional spillage, accompanied by profuse apologies, inappropriate attempts to clean me up, and clumsy conversation starters. My only shot at peace is to shut him down quickly and nip all interaction in the bud. So I say nothing in response, just force the tiniest of polite smiles while he collapses into his seat and immediately stoops down to remove his filthy tennis shoes and stained tube socks, his beefy arms and chapped elbows invading every inch of my personal space.

'Eh, boy! These dogs are barkin',' he announces, once his sweaty feet are freed. He then offers me a fry. 'Want one?'

I suppress a gag, tell him no thanks, and promptly slip my inflight headphones on, turning my body toward the window. Then I jack up the volume on the classical music channel, close my eyes, and try to think about anything other than Leo. About fifteen minutes of jostling later, I feel the plane begin to move down the runway, picking up speed before tilting sickeningly backward. As we become airborne, I give my armrest a death grip, irrationally bracing myself while fighting images of flames and mangled steel. We are not going to crash, I think. Fate is not so cruel as to have me spend my last moments with the man next to me. But when I finally open my eyes, my seatmate-and his Burger King feast-are nowhere to be found.

And, in his grubby place, as if by magic, is none other than Leo.

He gives me a sideways smile and says, 'I got on your flight.'

'I see that,' I say, trying to suppress my own smile, but quickly losing the battle.

'And then I-uh-switched seats,' he says.

'I see that, too,' I say, now full-on grinning. 'Pretty tricky, aren't you?'

'Tricky?' Leo says. 'I rescued you from that clown… who is now wasted-and barefoot-in business class. I'd tag it chivalrous-not tricky.'

'You gave up a business-class seat?' I say, feeling flattered and strangely empowered as I process all the logistical effort that went into this moment.

'Yeah. How about that? For a middle seat in the very back of the plane.'

'Well. You are chivalrous,' I say.

'Well? How about a thank-you?'

'Thank you,' I say, as it begins to sink in that I will be spending the next five hours trapped in close, dark quarters with Leo. My heart skips a beat.

'You're very welcome,' he says, reclining his seat ever so slightly and then flipping his tray table up and down with what I detect is some nervousness of his own.

We make fleeting eye contact, a tough thing to do when you're side by side in coach, before I smile, shake my head, and shift my gaze back toward the window.

The flight attendant makes an announcement that the seatbelt sign is still illuminated, and the captain will inform us when it is safe to move about the cabin. Perfect, I think. Absolutely trapped by no doing of my own.

A few minutes of charged silence pass as I close my eyes, thinking that miraculously, I'm no longer worried about flying.

'So,' Leo finally says as I open my eyes and the plane begins to steady in the California night sky. 'Where were we, anyway?'

seventeen

I can't remember how I answer that first question of Leo's; only that we successfully dance around any discussion of our relationship, or how exactly it ended, or really anything of a personal nature, for a very long stretch of the flight. Instead we stick to safe harbors like movies and music, travel and work. It is the sort of conversation you have when you first meet someone you would like to know better-or an acquaintance you haven't seen in a long time. We stay on the surface of things, yet there is an underlying ease, too, a natural flow of questions and answers, marked by stretches of comfortable silence. They are so comfortable, in fact, that we are eventually lulled back into intimate terrain.