Love the one youre with

I ignore her and say, 'And then Andy and the little girl's mother made twenty minutes of small talk about their two degrees of separation-which, apparently, is a lot in this town-and all their mutual acquaintances from Westminster-'

'The one in London?' she asks.

'No. More important than that little ole abbey in England. This Westminster is the most elite private school in Atlanta… in all of the Southeast, my dear.'

Suzanne snickers, and it occurs to me that although she wants me to be happy, on some level she must be relishing this. After all, she told me so, right from the start. You're an outsider. You're not one of them. You will never really belong.

'And then,' I say, 'when I think it's finally over, and we can go back to our mindless, numbing television watching-which by the way, feels like all we ever do anymore-the mother prompts her daughter to thank 'Mr. and Mrs. Graham' and for one disorienting second, I look over my shoulder for Andy's parents. Until I realize that I'm Missus Graham.'

'You don't want to be Missus Graham?' Suzanne asks pointedly.

I sigh. 'I don't want the highlight of my day to be about Thin Mints.'

'Thin Mints are pretty damn good,' Suzanne says. 'Particularly if you put them in the freezer.'

'C'mon,' I say.

'Sorry,' she says. 'Go on.'

'I don't know. I just feel so… trapped… isolated.'

'What about Margot?' Suzanne asks.

I consider this question, feeling torn between a sense of underlying loyalty to my friend and what feels to be the sad truth of the matter-that, despite the fact that I talk to Margot several times a day, I have a slight feeling of estrangement lately, a feeling that began with her reproachful stare down at our going-away party-and has lingered despite our conversation the next day at the airport.

At the time I was grateful for her exoneration, her keeping me in the fold despite my transgression. But now I have the disturbing, chafing sense that she actually believes I owe her and Andy and the entire family so much. That I'm so lucky to be down here, in the thick of the Graham dynasty, and that I can't possibly miss New York, and that I'm not entitled to have any feelings about anything or anyone if it in any way deviates from their vision, their notion of proper decorum and good values.

What appeals to you the most is the very thing that will drive you crazy, I think-and it's really true. I used to love how picture-perfect the Grahams' world was. I admired their wealth, their success, their closeness-how even rebellious James (who finally moved out of his parents' guest house) manages to show up in church most Sunday mornings, albeit with bloodshot eyes and a distinct aroma of cigarette smoke on his wrinkled khakis. I loved that they all consult with one another before doing things, are fiercely proud of their family name and traditions, and that they all put Stella on a pedestal. I loved that nobody had died or divorced or even disappointed.

But now. Now I feel trapped. By them. By all of it.

For a second, I consider admitting this to Suzanne, but I know that if I do, it will be game over. I'll never be able to take it back or soften it, and someday, when the storm has passed, my sister might even throw it back in my face. She's been known to do that.

So I just say, 'Margot's fine. We still talk all the time… But we're just not on the same page… She's so all- consumed with the pregnancy thing-which is understandable, I guess…'

'You think you'll get on the same page soon?' she asks, obviously inquiring about our plans to start a family.

'Probably. I might as well pop out a few kids. We're already all hunkered down as if we have them. I was just thinking about that last night… How our friends in the city who have kids make parenthood seem so palatable. They seem completely unchanged-the same combination of immature yet cultured. Yuppie hipsters. The urban mainstream. Still going out to see good music and having brunch at cool restaurants.'

I sigh, thinking of Sabina, and how, instead of just taking her triplets to play dates and inane music classes, she also totes them to the MoMA or the CMJ Film Festival. And instead of dressing them in smocked bubbles, she puts them in plain black, organic cotton T-shirts and denim, creating mini-Sabinas, blurring generational lines.

'But here the converse seems true,' I say, getting all worked up. 'Everyone is a full-fledged grown-up even before they have kids. It's like the nineteen- fifties all over again when people turned into their parents at age twenty-one… And I feel us turning into that, Andy and I… There's no mystery left, no challenge, no passion, no edge. This is just… it, you know? This is our life from here on out. Only it's Andy's life. Not mine.'

'So he's glad you moved?' she asks. 'No buyer's remorse at all?'

'None. He's thrilled… He whistles even more than usual… He's a regular Andy Griffith. Whistling in the house. Whistling in the yard and garage. Whistling as he goes off to work with Daddy or off to play golf with all his good ole boy friends.'

'Good ole boys? I thought you said rednecks don't live in Atlanta?'

'I'm not talking about good ole boy rednecks. I'm talking frat boy yucksters.'

Suzanne laughs as I rinse the few remaining Trix floating in a pool of Easter egg-pink milk down the drain, and although at one time I might have found Andy's breakfast of choice endearing, at this moment I only wonder what kind of grown, childless man eats pastel cereal with a cartoon bunny on the box.

'Have you told him how you feel?' my sister asks.

'No,' I say. 'There's no point.'

'No point in honesty?' she gently probes.

It is the sort of thing I have always told her when she and Vince are having problems. Be open. Communicate your feelings. Talk it out. It suddenly strikes me that not only are our roles reversed but that this advice is easier said than done. It only feels easy when your problems are relatively minor. And right now, my problems feel anything but minor.

'I don't want Andy to feel guilty,' I say-which is the complicated truth of the matter.

'Well, maybe he should feel guilty,' Suzanne says. 'He made you move.'

'He didn't make me do anything,' I say, feeling a pang of reassuring defensiveness for Andy. 'He offered me plenty of outs. I just didn't take them… I put up no resistance at all.'

'Well, that was stupid,' she says.

I turn away from the sink and, feeling like I'm about ten years old, say, 'You're stupid.'

twenty-three

A few days later, Oprah is providing background noise while I succumb to my OCD, making slick white labels for our kitchen drawers. As I print out the word spatulas, I hear a knock at the side door and look up to see Margot through the paned glass.

Before I can so much as wave her in, Margot opens the door and says, 'Hey, hon. Only me!'

As I mute the TV and look up from my label maker, I am two parts grateful for the company, and one part annoyed by her come-right-in presumptuousness. And maybe just a bit sheepish for getting busted watching daytime television-something I never did in New York.

'Hey,' she says, giving me a weary smile. Wearing a fitted tank, black leggings, and flip-flops, she looks, for the first time, uncomfortably pregnant, almost unwieldy-at least by Margot's standards. Even her feet and ankles are beginning to swell. 'We still on for dinner tonight at my place?'

'Sure. I just tried to call you to confirm… Where have you been?' I say, recognizing that it's very unusual for me not to know Margot's exact whereabouts.

'Prenatal yoga,' she says, lowering herself to the couch with a groan. 'What have you been up to?'

I print a slotted spoons label and hold it up. 'Getting organized,' I say.

She distractedly nods her approval and then says, 'What about Josephine?'