It is five-thirty in the evening L.A. time, and I've only been in town for an hour, just long enough to check in at the Beverly Wilshire, dump my suitcase and camera bags in my room, and call Suzanne, whose flight got in earlier this afternoon. She informs me that she's window shopping on Rodeo Drive—"totally in my element," she adds sarcastically—but will be back soon. She says that she's already scoped out the hotel bar options, suggesting that we meet at the Blvd Lounge for a drink.

I say great idea, my flight-nerve pills weren't strong enough for the heartland storms we flew through, and I could really use a glass of wine. Suzanne laughs and calls me a big sissy before I hang up and change into what feels like an L.A. outfit—dark jeans, silver platforms that put me near the six-foot mark, and a simple but chic (for me) lime green silk tank. Unfortunately, I forgot to pack the strapless bra that I bought to go with it, but I figure I'm flat-chested enough to pull it off without looking cheap. Besides, I'm in California now, where anything goes. I freshen my makeup, smoking my eyes more than usual, and finish with a spritz of perfume on the back of my hands, a trick that Margot taught me in college, saying that anyone who talks with her hands as much as I do should reap the benefits of simultaneously releasing her scent.

Then I'm down the elevator and through the posh lobby, strolling so confidently that I'm very nearly strutting into the Blvd, an intimate, modern, and very elegant lounge decorated in rich shades of amber, chocolate, and gold. As I admire the illuminated onyx bar with a large backlit wine display of at least a thousand bottles, I also find myself admiring the strong profile of a man seated alongside it, alone, drink in hand. A man who looks an awful lot like Leo. I do a squinting double take, and discover, with both amazement and something akin to horror, that he doesn't simply look like Leo—he is Leo.

Leo once again. Leo three thousand miles from home.

I freeze, and for one second, I'm actually naïve or dimwitted enough to think that this is yet another coincidence. Another chance run-in. And, in that beat, my heart stops with the foolishly shameful notion, My God, what if this is fate chasing me down all the way across the country?

But as Leo glances over, spots me, and raises his drink in the air, cheekbone level, I realize what he's orchestrated. I realize that I've been set up.

I shift my weight from one heel to the other as he slowly lowers his drink—what appears to be a whiskey on the rocks, his signature drink—and gives me a small, knowing smile.

I do not smile back, but take the half-dozen steps toward him. I am no longer strutting, and a sudden chill down my spine has me wishing for a bra. Or better yet, a full-length coat.

"Hello, Leo," I say.

"Ellen," he says, nodding. "Glad you could make it."

It sounds like a line right out of an old Hollywood movie, but I am far from charmed, not even when he stands and motions toward the stool beside him.

You are no Cary Grant, I think, as I shake my head, refusing the seat. I am too stunned to be angry, but am feeling something stronger than mere indignation.

"You come all this way and won't have a seat?" he says.

Another line.

Leo was never one for lines in the past, and I'm almost disappointed that he's throwing them out now. I have no vested interest in the man he has become over the last decade, but in some odd way, I don't want my image of him tarnished by lines.

"No, thank you," I say coolly. "I'm meeting my sister here any minute."

"Suzanne?" he says with a note of smugness.

I look at him, wondering whether he actually thinks that remembering her name is impressive. I am tempted to rattle off Clara, Thomas, Joseph, Paul—the names of his four siblings, in birth order, but would never give him the satisfaction of my recalling details about his family.

Instead I say, "Yes. Suzanne. I only have one sister."

"Right," he says. "Well, I'm glad she's coming. That's a nice bonus."

"A nice bonus?" I say with what I hope is a nonplussed furrow of my brow. "As in... two sisters for the price of one?"

He laughs. "No. As in, I always liked Suzanne... the few times we hung out."

"You met her once."

"Right. And I liked her on that one occasion. Very much."

"I'm sure she'll be so pleased to hear that," I say flippantly. "Now if you'll excuse me..."

Before he can protest, I walk to the end of the bar and make eye contact with the bartender, a gray-haired, ruddy-cheeked man who looks like he would be cast in the role of a bartender.

"What can I get for you?" he asks me, his scratchy baritone just as role worthy.

I forgo my wine in lieu of a vodka martini, straight up with extra olives, and then point to an uninhabited chartreuse couch in the far corner of the lounge. "And... I'll be over there, please."

"Very well," the bartender says sympathetically, as if aware of the fact that I'd rather be anywhere in the world than in the company of the only man at his bar.

I turn and walk briskly to the couch, feeling Leo's eyes on me. I sit, cross my legs, and fix my gaze out the window onto Wilshire Boulevard, my mind racing. What is Leo doing here? Is he trying to tempt me? Taunt me? Torture me? What will Suzanne think when she bursts into the lounge at any moment? What would Andy say if he could see me now, braless in a swanky lounge, martini on the way, with my ex-lover just across the room?

My drink arrives one beat before Leo.

"Are you... upset?" he asks, standing over me.

"No. I'm not upset," I say, barely looking up at him before taking something between a sip and a gulp of my martini. The vodka is strong but smooth, going down easily.

"Yes, you are," Leo says, looking more amused than concerned. When I see the corners of his mouth turn up in a satisfied little smile, I lose it and snap, "What is this exactly?"

"What is what?" Leo asks, remaining infuriatingly calm as he settles, uninvited and unwelcome, next to me on the couch.

"This," I say, angrily gesturing in the space between us, unwittingly releasing my scent. "What are you doing here, Leo?"

"I'm writing the story," he says innocently. "On Drake."

I stare at him, speechless and stupefied. Remarkably, Leo's writing the feature had never once occurred to me. Had I conveniently blocked the possibility out? And, if so, why? Because I had a subconscious hope that Leo would be here? Or because I wanted to absolve myself of any guilt in taking a dream assignment? I have the sinking feeling that a good psychiatrist would be exploring both possibilities.

"Oh," I say, dumbly, numbly.

"I thought you knew that," he says—and I can tell he believes it.

I shake my head, feeling myself soften as I register that at least he has a legitimate reason to be here; it's not just a straight ambush. "How would I know that?" I ask defensively, but also slightly embarrassed by my outburst—and the brazen assumption that he was here to see me.

"How else would I have an in on the photography assignment?" he asks, driving home the point even more.

"I don't know... Some contact?"

"Like Drake?" he says, looking mildly amused.

"You... know Drake?"

"Yup," he says, crossing his fingers. "We're like this."

"Oh," I say, impressed in spite of myself.

"I'm kidding," he says and goes on to explain how he was working as the UNICEF correspondent during last year's AIDS Walk in New York and met some of Drake's people there. "So long story short, we ended up chatting over a few pints... and I basically talked myself into this feature which I, in turn, pitched to Platform. And voilà... the rest is history."

I nod, feeling almost completely disarmed by his talk of charity and journalism—topics that hardly conjure sleazy attempts to canoodle with married ex-girlfriends in swanky L.A. bars.

"So anyway," he continues, "the day I got the green light from Platform was the very day I ran into you... so it seemed... I don't know... serendipitous... fitting that I try to hook you up on the photography side."

"But we didn't talk about my work," I say, essentially asking him if he went home and Googled me—or whether he has otherwise followed my career over the years.

He smiles sheepishly and confirms. "I know what you've been up to."

"Meaning?" I say. My tone is merely inquisitive—but the pressing nature of the follow-up goes beyond information gathering.

"Meaning you don't have to talk to someone to think about them... and check up on them now and again..."

I shiver, feeling goose bumps rising on my arms and my nipples pressing against my tank. "Is it cold in here?" I say, nervously crossing my arms.

"I'm rather warm, actually," Leo says, leaning toward me, close enough for me to smell his skin and the whiskey on his breath. "Would you like my jacket?"

I glance at his espresso suede jacket—the kind that a reporter or cowboy would wear—and shake my head in a gentle refusal. "No, thanks," I say, my voice coming out in a near whisper—a whisper that serves as a stark contrast to Suzanne's sudden, rowdy hello above us.

I jump, feeling startled and very busted. Flustered, I stand to hug my sister while sputtering an explanation, "I... uh... look who I ran into?... You remember Leo?"

"Sure," Suzanne says cheerfully, unfazed. She slips one hand into the back pocket of her jeans and extends the other to Leo. "Hi, there."

He shakes her hand and says, "Hi, Suzanne. Good to see you again."

"You, too," she says sincerely. "It's been a long time."

An awkward pause follows, in which we all stand inches apart in triangle formation until Leo moves aside and says, "Well. I'll let you two catch up..."

Suzanne smiles and plops down onto the couch as if to give us a few feet—and seconds—of privacy. I seize the chance, feeling utterly conflicted. I want Leo to go; I want him to stay.

I finally say, "Thanks, Leo."

I'm not sure exactly what I'm thanking him for. The assignment? His confession that he never stopped thinking of me altogether? His willingness to leave now?

"Sure," he says as if acknowledging all of the above. He turns to go, but then stops and spins back around, staring intently into my eyes. "Look, uhh... I'm gonna grab a bite to eat at this great Mexican dive tonight. Best guacamole I've ever had—and the margaritas aren't bad either... No pressure, but give me a call if you guys want to join me..."

"Okay," I say.

"You can call my cell or my room." He glances at his plastic card key and says, "Room six-twelve."

"Room six-twelve," I echo, noting that it's exactly one floor above our Room 512. "Got it."

"And if I don't hear from you, I'll just see you tomorrow afternoon."

"Okay," I say.

"I understand that I'll be conducting my interview at a diner of your choosing?"

I nod, grateful that I know now, ahead of time, that Leo will be there. Leo and Drake in the same room.

"You always did like a good diner," Leo says, winking and then turning to leave for good.

Suzanne's poker face dissolves into a full-on grin as Leo disappears around the corner. "Jesus, Ellen."

"What?" I say, preparing myself for the inevitable onslaught.

She shakes her head and says, "You could cut the sexual tension with a butter knife."

"That's ridiculous," I say.

"Room six-twelve. Got it," she mimics in a high falsetto.

"I didn't say it like that. It's not like that, Suzanne. Honestly."

"Okay. Then what is it like?"

"It's a long story," I whimper.

"We have time."

"Get a drink first," I say, stalling.

"Already did. Stood at the bar watching you two fools as I ordered the Pretty Woman special... Did you know the movie was filmed here?"

"Really?" I say, hoping to divert the conversation to vintage Julia Roberts. "I love that movie. Didn't we see it together?"

She shrugs. "All I remember is that it glorified prostitution," Suzanne says. "So... back to your dreamy ex..."

"He's not dreamy."

"He's hot and you know it," she says. "His eyes are ridiculous."

I try to stifle a smile, but can't. They are ridiculous.

"Now, c'mon. Tell me what's going on, would ya?"

I sigh loudly, drop my head in my hands and say, "Okay. But please don't judge."

"When have I ever judged you?" she says.

"Are you serious?" I ask, looking at her through my fingers and laughing. "When haven't you judged me?"

"True," she says. "But I promise not to judge this time."

I sigh again and then launch into the whole story, beginning with that heart-thudding moment in the intersection. Suzanne doesn't interrupt once—except to order me another drink when a waitress stops by with a silver bowl of salty snacks. When I've finished, I ask if she thinks I'm a horrible person.

Suzanne pats my leg, the way she used to when we were little whenever I'd get carsick in the back of our mother's Buick station wagon. "Not yet," she says.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning the night is but one-martini young... and we have a little situation developing."

"Suzanne," I say, horrified by her implication. "I would never cheat on Andy. Never."

"Ellen," Suzanne says, raising her brows. "Who said anything about cheating?"

Two hours, three drinks, and many conversations later, Suzanne and I are back in our room, drunk and happy. As we raid the mini-bar, laughing that when you're this hungry, six bucks for a bag of candy doesn't seem so outrageous, my mind drifts to Leo's guacamole.

"Should we call the front desk for a restaurant suggestion?" I say. "I could really go for Mexican..."

"What a coincidence," Suzanne says, smirking as she lifts up the receiver. "Or we could just call Room six-twelve... Or better yet head straight for his room."

I shake my head and tell her meeting Leo for dinner is not an option.

"Are you suuuure?"

"Positive."

" 'Cause I think it'd be fun."

"Fun to watch me squirm?"

"No. Fun because I happen to enjoy Leo's company."

I can't tell whether she's kidding, testing me, or simply holding to her promise not to judge, but I snatch the phone—and the bag of peanut M&M's from her.

"C'mon," she presses. "Don't you want to know what Leo's been up to all these years?"

"I know what he's been up to. He's still reporting and writing," I say, kicking off my shoes and sliding my feet into a pair of white terry-cloth slippers with the hotel's insignia. I pop a handful of candy into my mouth and add, "That's how I got here, remember?"

"Yes, but beyond his work... You know nothing about his personal life, do you? You don't even know if he's married?"

"He's not married."

"Are you sure?"

"He's not wearing a ring."

"Means nothing. Plenty of married men don't wear rings."

"Appalling," I mutter.

"It doesn't necessarily mean they are players," Suzanne says, taking the polar opposite stance of her usual rants on ringless, philandering pilots and leering businessmen populating her first-class cabins. "Not wearing a ring can just be... sort of old school. Dad never wore his wedding ring—and I think it's safe to say that he wasn't on the prowl."

"Can you really be old school if you're under forty?"

"Sure you can. It's the whole old-soul thing... and I think Leo is an old soul," she says, almost admiringly, as it occurs to me that calling someone an "old soul" is almost always a compliment.

I look at her. "And you're basing that on what exactly?"

"I don't know. It just seems like... he's not caught up in materialism and all the other superficial trappings of our generation."

"Suzanne! Where are you getting this crap? You've spent about four hours with him, total!"

"He does noble work," she says, likely referring to his coverage of the AIDS Walk.

"Just because he cares about AIDS victims doesn't make him an old-soul saint," I scoff—and yet I have to secretly admit that she is tapping into one of the things I once loved about Leo. Unlike so many guys, particularly guys I've met in New York, Leo was never a social climber or follower. He didn't consult New York magazine or Zagat's to select our restaurants and bars. He didn't sport the omnipresent black Gucci loafers. He never dropped references to great literary works he'd just read or artsy films he'd just seen or small indie bands that he had "discovered." He never aspired to settle down in a big house in the suburbs with a pretty wife and a couple of kids. And he always preferred travel and experience to fancy possessions. Bottom line, Leo wasn't about checking off boxes or trying to impress or ever striving to be someone or something he wasn't.

I say some of this to Suzanne now, mostly just musing aloud, but then silently comparing Leo to Andy. Andy who owns several pairs of Gucci loafers; Andy who frequently peruses the popular press for our restaurant selections; Andy who is anxious to exit the best city in the world so that we can live in a big house in Atlanta. And while my unaffected husband could never be accused of playing that pretentious urban game of name checking the hippest indie bands or art-house films or literary novel du jour, I had to concede that he at least appeared to have a more status-bound lifestyle than my ex.

A wave of guilt overcomes me as I shift in the other direction, feeling fiercely defensive of my husband. So what if he has an appreciation for the finer things in life, including the occasional brand-name good? So what if he wants a comfortable home and easy life for his family? It's not as though he makes choices to keep up with the Joneses or mindlessly follow the pack. He just happens to be a mainstream guy, adhering unapologetically to his own preferences—which makes him his own man every bit as much as Leo is his own man.

Moreover, why do I feel the need to make comparisons between Andy and Leo at all when there really is no connection between the two? I hesitate and then pose this question to Suzanne, fully expecting her to take the diplomatic high ground, say that I shouldn't compare them. That Leo has absolutely nothing to do with Andy and vice versa.

Instead she says, "First of all, it's impossible not to compare. When you go down a fork in a road, it's impossible not to think about that other path. Wonder what your life could have been like..."

"I guess so," I say, thinking that the Leo path was never really an option. I tried to take it, and it turned out to be a cold, dark dead end.

Suzanne runs her hands through her long, curly hair and continues, "Second of all, Leo and Andy are connected, by simple virtue of the fact that you love—or once loved—them both."

I give her a disconcerted look. "How do you figure?"

"Because," she says, "no matter how much or how little two people you love have in common... or whether they overlap or have a decade between them... or whether they hate each other's guts or know absolutely nothing about one another... they're still linked in some strange way. They're still stuck in the same fraternity, just as you're in a sorority with everyone Andy has ever loved. There's just an unspoken kinship there, like it or not."

As I contemplate this theory, she goes on to tell me how she ran into Vince's stripper ex-girlfriend at a bowling alley recently and, although they only vaguely know each other and share just a few, attenuated acquaintances (which is almost impossible to avoid altogether when you're both from Pittsburgh), they still ended up having a long conversation while watching Vince score his first and only three-hundred-point perfect game.

"And it was really weird," Suzanne says, "because we didn't really talk about Vince—aside from his ungainly form and crazy Brooklyn-side approach—but it's as if she totally knows what I'm enduring... What it feels like to love Vince, in spite of all his bullshit... And even though you're my sister and I've told you so much more about my relationship than I'd ever confess to her, in some ways, she still knows more than you could ever know."

"Even if she no longer cares about him?" I clarify.

"Well, based on the adoring look on her face when Vince was carrying on all over the place, high-fiving everyone he could find, that is certainly dubious," Suzanne says. "But yes. Even if."

I put my head down on a pillow, feeling my buzz recede, replaced by fatigue and even greater hunger. I ask Suzanne if she wouldn't rather stay in and order room service, but then remember that her life is largely about flying to cities and never leaving the airport hotels, so I tell her that I could be motivated to go out, too.

"Nah. Fuck it," Suzanne says. "I didn't come here for the nightlife."

"Aww," I say, laughing and planting a big kiss on her cheek. "You came here for your sister, didn't you!"

"Get off me!" she says.

"C'mon," I say, kissing her cheek again, and then her forehead, basking in joking moments like these as the only chance I have to kiss Suzanne. Like our father, she is uncomfortable with most physical affection whereas I inherited my mother's cuddly gene. "You adore your little sister. That's why you're here! Admit it!"

"Nope," she says. "I came here for two reasons..."

"Oh yeah?" I say. "For Drake and what else?"

"To baby-sit your cheatin' ass," she says, chucking a pillow at my head. "That's what else."

She is clearly joking, but it is still the last bit of incentive I need to change into my nightgown, select a club sandwich from the room-service menu, and call my husband.

"Hey, honey," Andy says. "You guys having a good time?"

"Very," I say, thinking how nice—and somehow cozy—his voice is.

He asks me what I'm doing and I tell him that we're just staying in and talking.

"So you're not picking up any guys?" he says.

"C'mon," I say, feeling a pang of guilt as I recall the smell of liquor on Leo's breath and the lingering look he gave me before he left the bar. I picture him now, sipping a margarita somewhere nearby.

"That's my girl," Andy says, yawning. "Love you."

I smile and tell Andy I love him, too.

"Enough to get me that autograph?"

"Not that much," I say. And then think—!!!But definitely enough to forgo that guacamole and the man who will later fall asleep in Room 612.