Love the one youre with

Sure enough, Andy says, 'Well, gee, Ellen. That's really something. Thank you. We'll be sure to include that on your ballot for Wife of the Year.'

'Andy,' I plead.

'No. Seriously. Thank you. Thank you for promising not to cheat on me with your important ex-boyfriend for whom you care so deeply,' Andy says, as I realize I've never seen him so angry.

I take a deep breath, desperately shifting into last resort, offensive mode. 'Okay. I won't go. I'll cancel the trip and stay here and take some more snapshots of Margot's belly and… and lemonade stands while you… play golf all day.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' Andy says, squinting with confusion.

'It means your life is grand. And mine sucks.' I hate the bitter sound in my voice-and yet it captures exactly how I feel. I am bitter.

'Okay. So let me get this straight,' Andy shouts. 'You're flying up to New York to hang out with your ex- boyfriend because I like to golf? Are you trying to get back at me for golfing?'

'Stop oversimplifying everything,' I say, while I'm actually thinking, Stop being so simple.

'Well, you suddenly seem to be telling me that this is my fault.'

'It's not your fault, Andy… It's nobody's fault.'

'It's somebody's fault,' he says.

'I… I'm not happy here,' I say, my eyes filling. I hold them open, willing myself not to cry.

'Here? Here where?' Andy demands. 'In this marriage? In Atlanta?'

'In Atlanta. In your hometown… I'm so tired of pretending…'

'Pretending what, exactly?' Andy says. 'Pretending that you want to be with me?'

'Pretending to be someone I'm not.'

'Who's asking you to do that?' he says, unfazed by my emotion-which has the odd effect of making my tears spill over. 'When have I ever asked you to be someone you're not?'

'I don't fit in here,' I say, wiping my face with the edge of our sheet. 'Can't you see that?'

'You act like I made you move here,' Andy says, his face twisted in frustration, 'when you told me it was what you wanted.'

'I wanted to make you happy.'

Andy laughs a sad, defeated laugh and shakes his head. 'Clearly. That's your mission in life, Ellen. To make me happy.'

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'But I have to do this.'

He watches my face, as if waiting for something more-a better explanation, a more thorough apology, reassurance that he is the only one for me. But when I can't find the right words-or any words-he looks down at the rug and says, 'Why do you have to do this?'

When he finally looks up at me, I say, 'I don't know.'

'You don't know?'

'I feel like I don't know anything anymore…'

'Well, Ellen,' he says, as he hurriedly puts on his jeans and shoes and scoops his keys and wallet off the nightstand. 'I guess that makes two of us.'

'Where are you going?' I ask through more tears.

'Out,' he says, running his hand through his hair as if to comb it. 'I'm certainly not gonna sleep here tonight and kiss you good-bye in the morning like some kind of stupid chump.'

I look at him, overcome with heartbreak and desperation as I babble, 'Andy… please try to understand. It's not you… It's me… I just… need to do this. Please.'

He ignores me and walks toward the door.

I get out of bed and follow him, my throat constricting as I say, 'Can't we talk about it more?… I thought we said we wouldn't go to bed mad?'

Andy turns and looks at me, then right through me. 'Yeah,' he says sadly. 'Well, we said a lot of things, Ellen… didn't we?'

thirty-one

In a moment more surreal than sad, I stand at our bedroom window, watching Andy back slowly and deliberately down the driveway, then use his turn signal as he makes his way onto the main drag of our neighborhood. I can almost hear the sound of it-blinka, blinka, blinka-in the quiet of his still new-smelling car, and persuade myself that a man who bothers with his turn signal isn't that angry. I'm not sure whether this is a comfort or convoluted evidence that we aren't meant to be together. That Suzanne's implication is right-we are short on passion, and merely have a caring, pleasant union that isn't even all that pleasant anymore.

I turn away from the window, telling myself that I'm not looking for proof of any kind, one way or the other. Maybe I'm in denial, but I just want to get on a plane in the morning, and go to New York, and do my job, and see Leo, and try to feel better about everything-the past, my marriage, my friendship with Margot, my work, myself. I'm not sure exactly how that's going to happen, but I know it won't happen if I stay here, in this house.

I switch Andy's lamp off again, and get back in bed, feeling as if I should cry, but realizing with a mix of fear and relief that all my emotions are dulled and watered-down versions of what I felt just minutes before when Andy was in the room with me. In fact, I'm so composed and detached that it's almost as if I'm watching the aftermath of another couple's big fight, merely waiting to find out what will happen next: Will she stay or will she go?

I close my eyes, exhausted and quite certain that I could fall asleep with just a little effort. But I don't let myself try; I have at least some right on my side, and sleeping might eviscerate it, turn me into the callous wife who gets a good night's rest while her devastated husband is driving in circles through the empty streets.

So instead of sleeping, I try Andy's cell, fully expecting to get his cheerful voicemail with that familiar, errant taxi honking in the background. Don't ever change that outgoing message, I recently told him, unsure whether I wished to preserve his happy voice or the New York background noise. In either case, he doesn't answer now-or any of the three times I hit redial. Clearly, Andy does not want to talk to me, and because I have no idea what to say to him, I don't leave a message. I decide against calling Margot's house, where I am pretty sure he'll end up eventually. Let them gang up on me. Let them invite Stella over, open a good bottle of wine, and simmer in their superiority. Let them do their thing while I do mine. I stare into the dark, feeling lonesome and yet so glad to be alone.

Some time later, I restlessly head downstairs where everything is dark and tidy, just the way Andy and I left it when we went to bed. I make a beeline for the liquor cabinet, where I pour vodka, straight up, into a small juice glass. Drinking alone feels like a depressing cliche, and I desperately don't want to be a cliche. And yet, vodka is exactly what I want in this moment, and what Ellen wants feels like the emerging theme of the evening. Or so I'm sure my husband would say.

I stand in the middle of the kitchen, suddenly craving fresh air, too, so I head for the back door, noticing that Andy reset the security alarm as he departed; he might hate me, but he still wants me to be safe. At least that's something, I think, as I sit on the top step, which has become my favorite spot in Atlanta, sipping vodka and listening to crickets and thick, muggy silence.

Long after I've downed my drink, called Andy's cell one final time, gone back inside, relocked the back door, and placed my glass in the sink, I find his note. I don't know how I missed it before, as it is in the middle of the counter, written on a yellow Post-it note-the kind we usually reserve for notes of a very different kind. For 'I love you' and 'Have a nice day,' or 'Need razor refills.' My stomach drops as I hold the square pad up, under the stove light, reading Andy's block letters:

IF YOU GO, DON'T COME BACK.

I peel the note from the pad and consider not what I should do in the morning, but