Over the next few minutes, I listen as Leo gives me a rundown of the assignment—a feature on Coney Island—praying that Andy doesn't burst in the room and catch me, breathless, cheeks ablaze. At some point, I will have to tell him that I'm going to New York—but I can't make this assignment about our fight. It's not about the fight.

"I'll just need a few general shots of the beach... the boardwalk... the rides..." he says.

"Oh, sure," I say distractedly. I am not ready to hang up—not by a long shot—but don't want to press my luck.

"Not quite as glamorous as the last shoot, huh?" Leo says, as if I'm doing this shoot for the glam factor.

"That's okay," I say, flustered as I scramble for a few more details. "What publication is it for?"

"Time Out."

I nod and say, "When do you need the shots?"

"In the next couple weeks. That doable?"

"Should be," I say, trying to play it cool, pretend that I'm not reeling from my discovery that he came back. "I want to hear more about it... but—"

"You gotta go?" Leo asks, sounding satisfyingly disappointed.

"Yeah," I say—and then spell it out for him. "Andy's home..."

"Gotcha," Leo says in a way that seems to solidify our status as co-conspirators. Unlike the Drake shoot we are in this one together. From start to finish.

"So I'll get back to you..." My voice trails off.

"When?" he says, and although his tone isn't eager, the question certainly is.

I smile in spite of myself, remembering how I used to try to pin him down in this same vein, always wanting to know when we'd next talk, next see each other. So I shoot back with one of his old-school, tongue-in-cheek answers. "As soon as humanly possible," I say, wondering whether he remembers his line—and if he uses it with what's-her-name.

Leo laughs, sounding so good. He remembers, all right. He remembers everything, just as I do.

"Great," he says. "I'll be waiting."

"Okay," I say, a shiver running down my spine as I think of how long I waited for him, how long it took for me to finally give up.

"So... 'Bye, Ellen," Leo says, the smile back in his voice. " 'Bye for now."

" 'Bye, Leo," I say, snapping my phone shut and taking a few deep breaths to compose myself. Then I erase the call log and head into the bathroom. This is about work, I think, as I look in the mirror. This is about finding my own happiness.

I brush my teeth, throw cold water on my face, and change into a fresh T-shirt and a pair of white shorts. Then I head downstairs, bracing myself to see Andy and realizing that although I'm still holding on to residual anger from this morning, my conversation with Leo has dampened my rage, replacing it with measured excitement and guilt-induced tolerance. Andy could be in the backyard playing croquet with Ginny, and I honestly think I'd be unfazed. I might even serve them up mint juleps.

But instead of Ginny, I discover Stella with Andy; instead of croquet, I spot a row of glossy Neiman Marcus shopping bags perched on the kitchen counter. As Andy unravels white tissue paper from a large sterling-silver frame, he shoots me a look that is either apologetic or simply imploring me to keep our marital tension under wraps—perhaps both. I give him an appeasing, borderline patronizing, smile, and then launch into good-daughter-in-law auto-pilot.

"Hi, Stella," I say brightly, standing a bit straighter to emulate her perfect posture—just as I often find myself enunciating and speaking more slowly around her, too.

"Hi, sweetheart!" she says, hugging me hello.

I inhale her signature summer fragrance—a mix of orange blossom and sandalwood—as she continues, "I hope you don't mind... I did a little frame shopping for you."

I glance down at the counter and see at least a dozen more sterling-silver frames of varying sizes, all embellished, all formal, and undoubtedly, all very expensive.

"They're beautiful... But you shouldn't have," I say, wishing she hadn't. Because although these are beautiful, they are also so not my style. Our plain black, wooden frames are my style.

"Oh, it was nothing," Stella says as she slides open a heavily beaded frame and inserts a family portrait from her childhood, everyone dressed in fine white linen, grinning broadly from aboard a dinghy in Charleston. The ultimate casually elegant, WASPy, summer snapshot. She blows a speck of dust from the glass and removes a smudge from one corner with her thumb. "Just a little housewarming gift."

"You've given us so much already," I say, thinking of the grandfather clock, the linen hand towels for our powder room, the hand-me-down yet still pristine Italian porch furniture, the oil painting of Andy as a child—all purported housewarming gifts, all things I couldn't refuse, and all in keeping with Stella's benevolent passive aggression. She is so kind, so thoughtful, so generous, that you feel you must do things her way. So you do.

She waves me off and says, "It's really nothing."

"Well then, thank you," I say tersely, thinking that it was Margot who taught me, by example, the rule of protesting once or twice, but ultimately never refusing gifts or compliments.

"You're very welcome, darling," Stella says, obliviously patting my hand. Her fingernails are red-lacquered perfection, matching her pleated skirt and Ferragamo clutch, and giving the hulking sapphire bauble on her right ring finger a patriotic flair.

"So. Ell," Andy says, looking anxious. "What do you say we use these frames for our wedding and honeymoon photos? The ones in the foyer?"

Stella beams, looking at me for my lady-of-the-house stamp of approval.

"Sure," I say, smiling and thinking that would be a very fitting choice—given that the wedding was done Stella's way, too.

Andy gathers up several frames and motions toward the front of the house. "C'mon... Let's check 'em out."

Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.

While Stella hums and begins to neatly fold the shopping bags, I roll my eyes and follow Andy to the foyer on our purported frame-reconnaissance mission.

"I'm so sorry," he starts in a whisper, leaning on the high-gloss mahogany table (yet another "gift" from his parents), where our wedding photos are displayed. His expression and body language are sincere, even earnest, but I can't help wondering how much of his readiness to repent is tied into his mother's presence in our home. How the Grahams seem to do everything with one another in mind. "I'm really sorry," he says.

"Me, too," I say, feeling at war with myself as I avoid his gaze. Part of me desperately wants to make up with Andy and feel close to him again, but another part almost wants to keep things broken so I can justify what I'm doing. Whatever it is that I'm doing.

I cross my arms tightly across my chest as he continues, "I should have said something last night... about the wine comment..."

I finally look into his eyes, feeling slightly defeated that he actually seems to believe that our fight was about a lackluster vineyard near Pittsburgh. Surely he can tell there is more happening here—issues much larger than last night. Like whether I'm happy in Atlanta, if we're as compatible as we once thought, and why our fledgling marriage feels so strained.

"It's okay," I say, wondering if I'd be so conciliatory if I hadn't just spoken to Leo. "I probably overreacted."

Andy nods, as if in agreement, which bolsters my dwindling indignation enough for me to add a petty footnote. "But I really, really can't stand Ginny and Craig."

Andy sighs. "I know... But they're going to be pretty hard to avoid..."

"Can we at least try?" I say, nearly smiling for real this time, as I drop my arms to my sides.

Andy laughs quietly. "Sure," he says. "We'll try."

I smile back at him as he says, "And the next fight—let's make up before we go to sleep. My folks have never gone to bed mad at each other—probably why they've lasted so long..."

Another smug notch for the perfect Grahams, I think, as I say, "Well, technically, I went to the couch mad."

He smiles. "Right. Let's not do that either."

"Okay," I say with a shrug.

"So we're good?" Andy says, the worry lines gone from his forehead.

I feel a stab of resentment at how easily he thinks we can move on, gloss over our troubles, my feelings. "Yeah," I say reluctantly. "We're fine."

"Just fine?" Andy presses.

I look into his eyes, and briefly consider spelling everything out for him. Telling him that we're in the midst of a small crisis. Telling him everything. In my heart, I know that is the only way to fix everything, make us whole again. But because I'm not quite ready to be whole again, I halfheartedly smile and say, "Somewhere between fine and good."

"Well, I guess that's a start," Andy says, leaning down to give me a hug. "I love you so much," he breathes into my neck.

I close my eyes, relax, and hug him back, trying to forget about our fight, and all my complaints about our life, and most of all, how Margot might have doctored my past, with good intentions or otherwise.

"I love you, too," I tell my husband, feeling a wave of both affection and attraction—and then relief that I still feel this way about him.

But in the instant before we separate, right there by our wedding photos and with my eyes still closed, all I see is Leo, standing in my lobby all those years ago. And now, sitting in his apartment in Queens, listening to Bob Dylan, and waiting for me to call him back.