I knew you'd get sucked in all the way," my sister says a few days later after I call her and tell her about our potential—likely—move to Atlanta. Her tone is not quite critical, but one of definite forbearance. "I just knew it."

And I knew this would be your reaction, I think, but instead I say, "I wouldn't call it 'sucked in.' For one, we haven't even made a final decision—"

Suzanne interrupts, "Just promise you won't start talking in a Southern accent."

"Atlantans don't have much of an accent," I say. "It's too transient... Andy barely has an accent."

"And don't start using the word y'all," she says somberly, as if asking for a pledge that I won't join a creepy religious sect and drink their Kool-Aid. "You're a Yankee, and don't you forget it."

"Okay. If we move—and that's still an if—I will safeguard against an accent, and I'll faithfully stand by 'you guys' instead of 'y'all.' I also vow never to drive a pickup truck, fly the Confederate flag, or distill whiskey in the backyard," I say as I take a break from sorting dirty laundry into a pile of darks and lights and sit cross-legged on the bedroom floor.

Despite the consistent sense I get from Suzanne that she doesn't entirely approve of Andy or Margot or their world, I am still smiling. I have great affection for my sister, and it feels good to finally hear her voice after weeks of playing phone tag. Since college, our communication has been sporadic, depending on our schedules, and more important, depending on Suzanne's mood. Sometimes she simply goes underground, and no amount of pestering will make her reemerge before she is good and ready.

As a result, I have learned to keep a list of topics to catch up on, which I pull out of my date planner now. I know I won't forget the big ticket items—like Atlanta or Drake—but I never want the trivial ones to fall through the cracks for fear that our conversations will lose their everyday, comfortable feel. I can't imagine it happening, and yet I know it does happen between sisters all the time, particularly when they don't live near one another or have a lot in common—or for that matter, a mother holding them together. Somehow I feel that if I catch her up on the mundane details in my life—whether it be the new under-eye cream I'm using, or the out-of-the-blue e-mail I received from a junior high acquaintance, or the random, funny memory I had of our parents taking us back-to-school shoe shopping one Labor Day—we will never be relegated to sisters-in-title only. We will always be more than two adult women who call and visit out of nothing but a thread of familial obligation.

So I tick through my list and then listen to her updates—which aren't really updates, just more of the status quo. Namely, Suzanne still hates her job as a US Airways flight attendant, and she still isn't engaged to her boyfriend, Vince. She's held both the job and Vince for nearly six years, each befitting her carefree lifestyle when she adopted them. But now, at thirty-six, she's tired of serving drinks in the air to rude people, and she's even more tired of serving drinks to Vince and his immature friends while they cheer on the Steelers, Pirates, and Penguins. She wants her life to change—or at least she wants Vince to change—but doesn't quite know how to make that happen.

She's also stubborn enough never to ask advice from her little sister. Not that I would know what to tell her anyway. Vince, a general contractor Suzanne met and exchanged numbers with during a highway traffic jam, is unreliable, won't commit, and once lived with a stripper named Honey. But he also happens to be warm, witty, and the absolute life of the party. And, most important, Suzanne truly loves him. So I have learned to just offer an empathetic ear—or laugh when it's appropriate, which I do right now as she details how Vince handed her an unwrapped ring box on Valentine's Day right after they had sex. Knowing Vince, I am pretty sure where the story is headed.

"Oh, no," I groan, resuming my laundry sorting.

"Oh, yes," Suzanne says. "And I'm thinking, 'No freaking way. Tell me I haven't waited six years for a cheesy Valentine's Day proposal. In bed, no less. And, God, what if it's a heart-shaped ring?'... But at the same time, I'm also thinking, 'Take what you can get, sister. Beggars can't be choosers.' "

"So what was it?" I ask, in suspense.

"A garnet ring. My fucking birthstone."

I burst out laughing—it's just so bad. And yet, a little bit sweet. "Ahh," I say. "He tried."

Suzanne ignores this comment and says, "Who the hell over the age of ten cares about their birthstone?... Do you even know what yours is?"

"A tourmaline," I say.

"Well, I'll be sure to tell Andy to get right on that. Get you that sweet pad in Atlanta, with a tourmaline to go." Suzanne laughs her trademark airy laugh that almost sounds like she can't catch her breath, as I think that her sense of humor is what saves her life from being outright depressing. That and the fact that, despite her big, tough act, she has a very tender heart. She really could be bitter in the way that a lot of single women who are waiting in vain for a ring are bitter, but she's just not. And although I think she's sometimes jealous of my better fortune, easier road, she is also a great sister who genuinely wants the best for me.

So I know she will only be happy to hear about my Drake shoot—which I'm bursting to tell her about. Like Andy, Suzanne loves Drake, but less for his music than his political activism. Although my sister is not an outward hippie—she gave up weed and her Birkenstocks right after her Grateful Dead stage in college—she is very impassioned when it comes to her causes, particularly the environment and third-world poverty. And by impassioned, I don't mean that she simply talks the talk—Suzanne actually gets off her butt and does things that make a difference—which serves as an unusual contrast to the inertia that has always plagued her personal life. When we were in high school, for example, she could barely make it to class or maintain a C average, despite her genius IQ—fourteen points higher than mine—which we knew from snooping through our parents' files. Yet she did find the time and energy to found the school's Amnesty International chapter and circulate petitions urging the administration to put out recycling bins in the cafeteria—unprecedented stuff at the time, at least in our town.

And today, she always seems to be involved in some do-gooding mission or another—whether volunteering to plant trees in public parks and cemeteries, or firing off eloquent letters to her legislators, or even making a trek to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina where she repaired homes with Habitat for Humanity. When Suzanne talks about her various projects, I find myself wishing that I were motivated to do more for the greater good; the extent of my activism is that I vote every November (which, incidentally, is slightly more than I can say for Andy, who only votes in presidential elections).

Sure enough, as I conclude my Drake tale—minus the parts about Leo—Suzanne says, "Wow. You lucky bitch."

"I know," I say, feeling tempted to tell her the whole story, that luck really didn't play a part in this assignment. If I were going to confide in anyone in the world, it would be Suzanne. Not only because of our blood loyalty—and the simple fact that she's not related to Andy—but because she was really the only person in my life who didn't seem to dislike Leo. They only met once, and neither was very chatty, but I could tell that they had an instant rapport and quiet respect for each other. I remember thinking that they actually had quite a few similarities—including their political views; their cynical habit of sneering at much in the mainstream; their acerbic wit; and their seemingly contradictory way of being both passionate and profoundly detached. Even when Leo broke my heart, and I was sure Suzanne would viciously turn on him, she was more philosophical than protective. She said everyone needs to get dumped once—that it's part of life—and that obviously things weren't meant to be. "Better now than down the road with three kids," she said—although I remember thinking I would have preferred the latter. I would have preferred to have something lasting with Leo, no matter what the accompanying pain.

In any event, I resist telling her about him now, thinking that Leo really is a moot point. Besides, I don't want this to unfairly color her views on my relationship with Andy, and I can just see it queuing up her depressing outlook of how nearly every marriage is tainted in some way. Either one or both parties settled, or someone is dissatisfied, or someone is cheating or at least considering it. I've heard it all before, many times, and it never helps to point out that our own parents seemed very happy together because she rebuffs that argument with either, "How would we really know otherwise? We were kids," or an even cheerier, "Yeah, but so what? Mom died. Remember? What a fucking fairy tale."

Margot, who is downright aghast by my sister's cynical tirades, maintains that it must be Suzanne's way of rationalizing her in-limbo, unmarried state. I can see some truth in this, but I also think there's a bit of the chicken-or-the-egg going on. In other words, if Suzanne were a bit more traditional and romantic or actually threw down an ultimatum like most girls in our hometown over the age of twenty-five, I truly think that Vince would change his tune pretty easily. He loves her too much to let her go. But with all of Suzanne's marriage bashing, Vince has a built-in excuse for putting off a wedding while remaining guilt-free. In fact, I think he gets way more pressure from their mutual friends and his family than he does from Suzanne—and it is usually she who will chime in with, "No disrespect intended, Aunt Betty, but please mind your own business... And trust me, Vince isn't getting any milk for free."

But, as it turns out, there is no opening to discuss the Leo angle because Suzanne blurts out, "I'm coming with you," in her authoritative, big-sister way.

"Are you serious?" I say.

"Yeah."

"But you're not star-crazed," I say, thinking that at least she pretends not to be, although I've busted her with her share of tabloids over the years, including an occasional National Enquirer.

"I know. But Drake Watters isn't your typical star. He's... Drake. I'm coming."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Why not?" she says. "I've been meaning to come see you for months now—and it's no big deal for me to hop on a plane to L.A."

"That's true," I say, thinking that it is the best part about her job—and likely the reason she sticks with it. Suzanne can go just about anywhere, anytime she wants.

"I'll be your assistant... Hell, I'll work for free."

"Platform's providing a freelance assistant," I say, reluctant to agree, although I'm not sure why.

"So I'll be the assistant to the assistant. I'll hold that big silver disk thingy for you like I did when you shot the Monongahela River that one ass-cold winter day. Remember that? Remember how I dropped my glove in the river and almost got frostbite?"

"I remember," I say, thinking that Suzanne won't let you forget certain things. "And do you also remember how I bought you a new pair of gloves the next day?"

"Yeah, yeah. I remember those cheapies," she says.

I laugh and say, "They were not cheapies."

"Were too," she says. "So make it up to me and let me come to L.A."

"Fine," I say. "But no autographs."

"C'mon," she says. "I'm not that lame."

"And no more griping about the gloves."

"Deal," she says solemnly. "Never again."

Over the next few days, while Andy is away on a document review in Toronto, I focus on my shoot, working out logistics and consulting several times with Platform's photo editor and art director who inform me that the focus of the feature is on Drake's humanitarian work. As such, they want two to three "somber, visually rich, environmental color portraits."

"Do you know what situation you're after?" I ask the photo editor, feeling my first wave of nervousness.

"That's what we have you for," she says. "We saw your work on your Web site. Loved it. Such stark beauty. Just do your thing."

I feel a boost of confidence and a little rush that I always feel when someone appreciates my work. I ask if there's any way I can set up at a restaurant I found on the Internet that is only a couple of miles away from the hotel. "It's one of those classic, retro diners with black-and-white, hexagon-tiled floors and red booths," I say, thinking that it's not unlike the booth I last saw Leo in. "You know, the red will be sort of symbolic of his AIDS work... I think it could look really cool."

"Brilliant," she says. "I'll just call Drake's publicist and get the OK."

"Great," I say, as if I've heard such words a thousand times before.

A few minutes later, she phones back and says, "Send the exact address of the diner, and Drake and his people will be there at three o'clock, sharp. Only caveat is that he's on a really tight schedule. You'll have to work fast. You'll only have about twenty to thirty minutes. That work?"

"No problem. I'll get the shots," I say, sounding like the consummate professional—way more confident than I actually am.

I hang up and call Suzanne, asking her if twenty minutes is still worth a transcontinental flight. She is undeterred.

"Twenty minutes with greatness is still twenty minutes with greatness. And certainly more greatness than I've seen in a long time," she says.

"Good enough," I say. "Just don't let ole Vince hear you saying that."

Suzanne laughs and says, "Oh, Vince knows he's mediocre at best."

"At least he knows his place," I say.

"Yeah," she says. " 'Cause there are very few things worse than a man who doesn't know his place."

I laugh, memorizing this gem from Suzanne, but not appreciating the full truth of it until I arrive in L.A. three days later.