Love the one youre with

I hold you close in the back of my mind,
Feels so good but, damn, it makes me hurt.

I jack up the volume as I hear my mother saying, 'You'll go deaf, Ellie.' Then I close my eyes, thinking of Leo, then Andy, then Leo again.

After all, I think, isn't it always about a boy?

thirty-two

AS we turn onto Newton Avenue, I can't decide whether it seems like only yesterday or a lifetime ago that I was last here, dropping Leo off after our return from California, sure that we had come to the end. I fleetingly revisit the emotions of that morning-how chokingly sad I was-wondering if I truly believed that I'd never see him again. I also wonder what, exactly, brought me back here, to this moment. Was it the move to Atlanta and all that came with it? My discovery about that distant December day when he tried to come back? Or was it simply Leo's inexplicable, inexorable pull on my heart? We stop at the curb in front of his place, and I pay my fare, hoping for some answers today. I need to find some answers.

'Receipt?' my cabbie asks as he pops the trunk and steps out of the cab.

'No, thanks,' I say, even though I know I should keep track of my expenses-that doing so would make my trip more of a legitimate business venture.

As I slide out of the taxi, I catch my first glimpse of Leo, leaning on the railing on his porch. He is barefoot, wearing jeans and a charcoal gray fleece, squinting up at the sky as if checking for rain. My heart skips a beat, but I calm myself by looking away, focusing only on the transaction of bags from the trunk to the sidewalk. I can't believe that I'm actually here, not even when I muster the courage to meet Leo's gaze. He raises one arm and smiles, looking perfectly at ease.

'Hi,' I say, my voice getting lost in a sudden gust of wind and the loud slam of the trunk. I hold my breath as my taxi vanishes from sight. My visit is now official.

Seconds later, Leo appears beside me.

'You made it,' he says, seemingly acknowledging that it took a lot more than merely getting on a plane to arrive here. He is right about this, I think, picturing the note on the counter, and Andy finding it still there this morning-and his wife gone.

'Yeah,' I say, feeling a wave of guilt. 'I made it.'

Leo looks down at my bags and says, 'Here. Let me get these for you.'

'Thanks,' I say and then fill the ensuing awkward silence with, 'Don't worry… I'm not staying here. I got a hotel.' Which, of course, makes everything all the more awkward.

'I wasn't worried about that,' Leo says, as if he was worried-but about something else altogether.

I watch him lift my suitcase with his right hand, despite the rolling option, while swinging my camera bag over his other shoulder. I suppress a feeling of longing as I follow Leo up the stairs to his front porch, then into his apartment where I inhale coffee and his familiar, old-house smell. I glance around his living room, overcome by an avalanche of memories, mostly good. Sensory overload, I think, feeling weak, nostalgic, twenty-three again.

'Well?' Leo says. 'What do you think?'

I'm not sure what he's asking so I keep it safe and focus on anything other than the past. 'You got new furniture,' I say admiringly.

'Yeah,' he says, pointing to a black-and-blue abstract painting and a cinnamon-colored, distressed-leather couch below it. 'I've made a few changes here and there… That okay with you?' He gives me a lighthearted look.

'Sure,' I say, trying to relax, trying not to look in the direction of his bedroom, trying not to remember quite so much. At least not all at once.

'Good,' he says, feigning relief. 'You get married and move to Georgia… I'm at least allowed to get a new couch.'

I smile. 'Well, I think you've done a bit more than that,' I say, referring to his work mostly, but also to Carol. I glance around again, looking for signs of cohabitation. There are none whatsoever. No feminine touches, no photos of Carol. No photos at all, in fact.

'Looking for something?' he asks teasingly, as if he knows exactly what I'm doing, thinking.

'Yeah,' I shoot back. 'What'd you do with my photo?'

He shakes his index finger at me, then takes two steps toward an old, banged-up hutch, pulls open a drawer and rifles through it. 'You mean… this one?' he says, holding up the front-toothless shot of me.

'Shut up,' I say, blushing.

He shrugs, looking both smug and sheepish.

'I can't believe you still have that,' I say, feeling way more delighted than I should.

'It's a good shot,' he says, as he props the photo up on a shelf, meant for china, but covered with newspapers. As before, everything about Leo's place is pared-down minimalism, except for all the paper. Books and newspapers and magazines and notepads are strewn and stacked literally everywhere-on the floor, coffee table, chairs, shelves.

'So,' he says, turning and heading for his kitchen, the only completely unchanged room in view, including a 1970s-green linoleum floor. 'Are you hungry? Can I make you something?'

'No, thanks,' I say, thinking that even if I were, I could never eat right now.

'Coffee?' he asks, as he refills his own mug. A peach mug. A- ha, I think. Carol.

'Sure,' I say. 'Just… half a cup.'

'Half a cup?' he says, pushing his sleeves up. 'Who are you? My grandma?'

'Aw,' I say fondly, remembering his feisty grandmother. I only met her once-at a birthday party for his nephew-but she was the kind of vivid, eccentric older woman who says exactly what's on her mind and can get away with it only because of her age.

'How is your grandma?' I ask, realizing we didn't talk much about our families on that red-eye flight.

'Still kicking… Still bowling, in fact,' he says, pulling a non-matching, white mug down for me. Something is written on the side of it, but I can't read it from where I'm standing.

'That's awesome,' I say. My mother flits into my head, as she always does when I hear about elderly relatives alive and well, but I refuse to let her fully form in my already crowded mind.

'So really?' Leo asks. 'Just half a cup, Gram?'

I smile and say, 'All right, fine. I'll have a full cup… I just think-'

'What?'

'That we should get going…'

'Are we in a hurry?'

'It might rain.'

'So?'

'I have to take photos,' I say emphatically.

'I know that,' he says just as emphatically.

'Well,' I say, as if I've already made my point and what's wrong with him for not grasping it.

'You can't shoot in the rain?'

'Of course I can.'

'Well?' he says, imitating my inflection.

We are now in full banter mode-which is a scary place when you are determined not to do something you might regret.