Love the one youre with

'Uh-oh,' she says. 'What's up?'

I cast about for a few seconds-and then confess that ever since L.A. I continue to miss Leo in a way that hasn't really subsided at all. That something about my mood reminds me of 'that one winter'-which is the veiled way we often refer to Mom's death when we're not in the mood to fully revisit our grief.

'Whoa, Ell,' she says. 'Are you comparing not talking to Leo to Mom dying?'

I quickly and vehemently say no and then add, 'Maybe I'm just melancholy about leaving the city… all the changes.'

'So… what? You're comparing leaving New York to death?'

'No. Not that exactly either,' I say, realizing that I shouldn't have bothered to try to convey such a subtle feeling, even to my sister.

But in Suzanne fashion, she presses me to explain. I think for a second and then tell her that it's more the sense of impending finality, and that as much as I prepare myself for what is coming next, I really don't know what to expect. 'And there is this fear packed in the waiting period,' I say tentatively. 'Like with Mom… We knew for weeks that the end was really near. Nothing about her death was a surprise. And yet… it still felt like a surprise, didn't it?'

Suzanne whispers yes, and for a moment I know we are both silently remembering that day when the school guidance counselor appeared in our respective classrooms and then waited with us, outside by the flagpole and an exhaust-covered drift of snow, until our father arrived to pick us up, and take us home to her for the last time.

'And then after that,' I say, commanding myself not to cry or conjure any other visual specifics of that horrible day or the ones that followed. 'I just felt desperate to finish the school year, get in a new routine… a new place where I wasn't always reminded of Mom…'

'Yeah,' Suzanne says. 'Going away to camp that summer did sort of help.'

'Right,' I say, thinking that was part of my motivation to look at colleges far from Pittsburgh, in places Mom never visited or talked about, with people who didn't know that I was motherless. I clear my throat and continue, 'But at the same time, as much as I wanted to get away from the house and all of Mom's things and Dad's tears- and even you-I also felt scared that once I got away, or turned the calendar, or did anything at all differently than the way we did things with her, that we would be losing her all the faster. That we would almost be… erasing her.'

'I know exactly what you mean,' Suzanne says. 'Exactly… But… Ellie…'

'What?' I ask softly, knowing that a difficult question is likely coming my way.

Sure enough, Suzanne says, 'Why don't you want to erase Leo?'

I think for a long minute, silence filling the airwaves. But as hard as I try, I can't come up with a good answer-or for that matter, any answer at all.

twenty

It is the first Saturday in June, and our final one in New York. A trio of thick-necked movers from Hoboken arrived this morning, and nine mad hours of packing later, our apartment is completely barren save for a few suitcases by the front door, some bits of duct tape stuck to the kitchen counters, and a hundred dust bunnies swirling along the hardwood floors. Andy and I are sweaty and exhausted, standing in what was once our family room while we listen to the hum of the window air-conditioning unit straining in the heat.

'I guess it's time to hit it,' Andy says, his voice echoing off the white walls that we never had time to paint a more interesting shade. He wipes his cheek on the sleeve of his old, stained T-shirt, one of about thirty he has designated for 'moving and painting,' even though I've teasingly pointed out that he can't possibly be in a situation where he's painting or moving for a solid month.

'Yeah. Let's go,' I say, my mind already shifting to the next step in our journey-our cab ride to our hotel where we will shower and change for our going-away party this evening. Andy's two closest friends from law school are hosting the event, although friends from all segments of our New York life will be in attendance. Even Margot and Webb are flying up for the festivities, only to return to Atlanta with us in the morning where they will become our official greeters. I clasp my hands together and force a peppy, 'Let's get the show on the road.'

Andy pauses and then says, 'Should we do something… ceremonious first?'

'Like what?' I ask.

'I don't know… Maybe take a picture?'

I shake my head, thinking that Andy should know me better by now; I might be a photographer, but I'm not really one to document symbolic moments like these-endings, beginnings, even holidays and special occasions. I much prefer to capture the random stuff in the middle-a fact that my friends and family seem to find puzzling-and sometimes frustrating.

'Nah,' I say. I shift my gaze out the window and follow a pigeon's trek on the cement terrace across the street from us.

After a long moment, Andy takes my hand and says, 'How're you doing?'

'Fine,' I say, which I'm relieved to realize is the truth. 'Just a little sad.'

He nods, as if to acknowledge that endings are almost always a little sad, even when there is something to look forward to on the other side. Then, without further fanfare, we turn and walk out of our first married home together.

A few minutes later our cab pulls up in front of the Gramercy Park Hotel, and I realize with a wave of remorse and panic that Andy and I have suddenly, instantly morphed into visitors- tourists-in a city where we once resided.

But as we enter the gorgeous, eclectic lobby filled with Moroccan tiles, handwoven rugs, Venetian-glass chandeliers, and sprawling works by Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Keith Haring, I reassure myself that there is a distinct upside to experiencing the city this way.

'Wow,' I say, admiring the huge stone-and-marble fireplace and a sawfish-snout lamp in front of it. 'This place is very cool.'

Andy smiles and says, 'Yup. Haute bohemian cool. Like my girl.'

I smile back at him as we stroll over to the front desk where a sultry brunette, whose name tag reads Beata, welcomes us in a thick eastern European accent.

Andy says hello, and the well-groomed, proper boy in him feels the need to explain our grubby appearance, so he mumbles apologetically, 'We just moved out of our apartment today.'

Beata nods her understanding and politely inquires, 'To where are you going next?'

I answer for us, saying Atlanta, Georgia, as grandly as possible, even adding a hand-in-the-air flourish, as if I'm revealing a well-kept North American secret, a jewel of a town she should be sure to visit if she hasn't already. I'm not sure exactly why I feel the need to hype Atlanta to a complete stranger- whether it's to make myself feel better, or to counteract the defensiveness I feel whenever I tell someone in the city where we're moving and inevitably get a pitying stare or a downright critical, 'Why Atlanta?'

Andy takes it a bit more personally-as I do when I hear anyone bad-mouth Pittsburgh-but I actually don't think this reaction is an affront to Atlanta as much as it is a function of the New York superiority complex, a smug sense that the rest of the world, or at least the rest of the country, is sterile and homogenous and somehow lacking in comparison. And, while I resent that attitude now, the uncomfortable truth is, I don't altogether disagree with the assessment, and know I've felt similarly when friends have left the city-whether for a job, or a relationship, or to have babies in the suburbs. Better you than me, I've thought, even though I might have been bitterly complaining about the city the moment before. After all, I think it's that intense edge that is the most compelling part about living in New York, and the very thing that I will miss most.

In any event, my preemptive, proud tone with Beata seems to do the trick, because she smiles, nods, and says, 'Oh, very beautiful,' as if I've just said Paris, France. She then checks us in and tells us a bit about the hotel, before handing Andy our room key and wishing us a wonderful stay.

We thank her, and as inconspicuously as possible, wander back through the lobby over to the adjoining Rose Bar, which is just as richly decorated as the lobby, complete with a red-velvet pool table and another looming