Love the one youre with

if-it will get easier. And, in those silent moments, I succumb to what I've been contemplating doing since we arrived in Atlanta.

I make my way upstairs to the office, dig to the very bottom of my desk drawer, and excavate the forbidden Platform magazine that I have not cracked since our going-away party in New York. Not even when I spotted the magazine in the checkout line at Kroger or when Andy proudly showed his own purchased copy to his parents.

For several minutes, I stare at the cover photo of Drake. Then, something clicks inside me, and I take a deep breath, sit down, and flip to the story. My heart pounds when I see the bold byline, and the blocks of Leo's text, and my photos-photos that evoke all the emotions of that day-the stomach-churning anticipation, the desire. Foreign emotions these days.

I close my eyes, and when I open them, I start reading, hungrily devouring the story. When I get to the end, I read it twice more, slowly and methodically, as if searching for a secret, double meaning hidden in the paragraphs, sentences, words-which I manage to find, over and over, until my head spins, and all I want to do is talk to Leo.

So I keep on going.

I turn on the computer, and type out his e-mail address and a message to him:

Leo,

I just read your article. It is perfect. So satisfying. Thanks again for everything.

Hope you're well.

Ellen

Then, before I can second-guess myself, I hit send. Just clicking the key wipes away all my frustration and resentment and angst. Somewhere deep down, I know I'm in the wrong. I know I'm rationalizing my actions, and worry I might even be manufacturing problems with Andy to get this result. I also know that I'm only inviting more trouble into my life. But for now, I feel good. Really good. Better than I've felt in a long, long time.

twenty-six

Exactly four minutes later, Leo's name appears in my inbox. I stare at the screen in amazement, as if I'm my grandmother marveling over technology-How in the world did that get here?-and for a second, regret what I've started. I actually consider deleting his e-mail, or at least getting up from the computer for a few hours to diffuse the knot in my chest.

But the temptation is too great. So, instead, I kick into rationalization overdrive and tell myself that I did not come to this point easily. I did not contact Leo on a whim. I did not write to him after a meaningless marital spat. It's taken weeks of loneliness and depression and frustration-bordering on desperation-to get here. It took my husband turning his back on me last night-and then again this morning. Besides, it's just an e-mail. What could it hurt?

So, I take a deep breath, and click open Leo's response, my heart pounding harder than ever as I read his message, all intimately lowercased: thanks. i'm glad you liked it. that was a great day. leo

ps what took you so long?

I feel flushed as I hurriedly type back: To read your story or get in touch?

He answers me almost instantly: both.

I feel my stress melt away as I smile, and then struggle to come up with something clever but truthful. A careful response that will keep the conversation rolling yet won't cross a line into flirtatious territory. I finally type: Better late than never?

I hit send, then lean toward the computer, my fingers poised over the keyboard in the home position I learned in junior-high typing class, my whole body alert as I anticipate his response. A moment later it comes: my point all along.

I tilt my head, mouth agape as I contemplate his precise meaning. I think of all those years that lapsed with no contact at all, and then the days since our flight. I think of how hard I tried, still try, to resist him-and our dangerous chemistry. I wonder what it all means-it has to mean something. And that something terrifies me and fills me with the deepest Catholic-schoolgirl guilt.

But then I picture Andy-tight-lipped at the table last night, then buttoning his starched pajamas before bed, then standing over the couch this morning with judgment all over his face. And, I envision him now, frolicking about town, waving hey to acquaintances and strangers alike, making small talk everywhere he goes. Small talk on the golf course, small talk in church, small talk at the gas station. Insouciant, jaunty, very small talk.

My breathing grows more rapid as I type:

I've missed talking.

I stare at the bold sentence, then delete it, watching the letters erase backward. Yet even when they're gone, I can still see them on my screen. Can still feel them etched across my heart. It is the truth, exactly what I feel, exactly what I want to say. I have missed talking to Leo. I have for years-and especially since our flight. So I retype them, then close my eyes and hit send, instantly feeling both queasy and relieved. When I open them, Leo has already responded:

i've missed you, too, ellen.

I gasp. There's something about him using my name. Something about his too-as if he knows, without my saying it, how much I've missed not only talking to him, but him. And there's something about how the words look on the screen-plain and bald and frank, like it's no big deal to say it, because it's the most obvious, undeniable thing in the world. Paralyzed, I consider my options while another e-mail lands in my inbox.

I click and read:

you still there?

I nod at the screen, picturing his face waiting expectantly for my responses, and thinking that Andy could return home, start a small fire in the kitchen, and then hover over my shoulder, and I'd probably stay fixed to this chair.

Yes.

I hit send, wait. He writes back:

good.

And then, seconds later, in a separate e-mail:

this might be easier on the phone… can I call you?

This, I think. What is this? This conversation? This confessional? This dance toward infidelity? I hesitate, knowing how much safer e-mail is and that agreeing to a phone call is another bridge crossed. But the part of me that wants to talk to him, wants to