o? How do you feel?" Leo asks me, holding my gaze like a magnetic field.

His open-ended question makes me feel lightheaded, and I can't help wondering if he's being intentionally vague.

"About the shoot?" I say.

"Sure," he says attentively. "About the shoot. About anything."

I look up at him, feeling tempted to confess that I'm positively exhilarated. That I've never had such a thrilling hour of work—and rarely felt the sort of pure chemical attraction that I am experiencing now. That I know I told him that I didn't want to be friends, but can't stand the thought of shutting down that possibility completely. That although I'm happily married, I feel a strange bond to him and don't want this to be it between us, forever.

But of course I say none of this, for more reasons than one. Instead, I give him a blasé smile and say that I'm pretty sure I got some decent shots. "So don't worry... my photos won't water down your interview too much."

He laughs and says, "Good. 'Cause I've been really concerned about that. Ever since I called your agent I've been thinking, 'Shit. She's gonna ruin my piece.' "

I smile, a little too flirtatiously, and he smiles back in the same vein. After a highly charged ten seconds pass, I ask if he got some good stuff.

Leo nods, patting the tape recorder in his back pocket. "Yeah. I wasn't sure what to expect... I'd heard that he was a pretty nice guy—friendly, open, personable... but you just don't know what mood you'll walk into... I guess you know how that is, right?"

I nod. "Resistant subjects are never a good time... although surly and moody can sometimes photograph better than you'd think."

Leo takes one step toward me. "I guess it's all about chemistry," he says suggestively.

"Yeah," I say feeling a ridiculous smile spread across my face. "Chemistry is important."

Another bloated moment passes before Leo asks, so casually and breezily that it becomes pointed, what I'm doing later. It is a question I've considered a dozen times today, wishing that we had one more night at the Beverly Wilshire, while simultaneously feeling relieved that I have an e-ticket to save me from myself.

"I'm headed back to New York," I say.

"Oh," he says as something around his eyes falls just a bit. "What time's your flight?"

"I'm on the nine-thirty red-eye," I say.

"Oh. That's too bad," he says, glancing at his watch.

I make a noncommittal sound, calculating the time I have left in L.A. Searching for a plausible way to spend some of it with Leo, rather than my sister, who is still making herself scarce at the counter.

"So I can't convince you to stick around for another night?" Leo says.

I hesitate, casting about for a solution. A way to stay in town while keeping things above board. But then I conjure Andy's smile, his dimples, his clear blue eyes, and have no choice but to say, "No... I really need to get back."

There simply is no way to tread these dangerous waters.

"I understand," Leo says quickly, seeming to read between the lines. He glances down to adjust the strap on his kelly green messenger bag—a brighter color than I'd expect of Leo—as I find myself wondering whether it was a gift; how beautiful the woman who gave it to him is; whether they're still together.

He looks up and winks playfully. "That's cool," he says. "We'll just hang out the next time we're in L.A. doing a feature on Drake."

"Right," I say, struggling to outdo his sarcasm with a bold line of my own. "We'll hang out the next time you dump me, then run into me years later, then reel me back in with an assignment of a lifetime..."

Leo looks startled. "What are you talking about?"

"Which part is unclear?" I say, smiling to soften my somewhat confrontational question.

"I didn't dump you," he says.

I roll my eyes, then laugh. "Right."

He looks hurt—or at least taken aback. "It wasn't like that."

I study his face, surmising that he must be trying to spare my pride by pretending that ours was a mutual split. But there is no trace of strategy, no trace of anything other than genuine surprise at my "version" of our history.

"What was it like then?" I ask him.

"We just... I don't know... I know I was an ass—and took myself too seriously... I remember New Year's Eve... but I can't really remember why we broke up... It almost seems that we broke up over nothing really."

"Over nothing?" I say, feeling something close to desperation as Suzanne suddenly rounds the corner.

She must catch my expression, because she says, "Oh, sorry," and halts abruptly.

I force a smile and say, "No. You're fine. We were just chatting... about... Drake."

Suzanne gives me a look like she doesn't believe me, but plays along. "What did you guys think of him? Was he as down-to-earth as he seems?"

"Definitely," Leo says. "Very real."

"Very," I echo brightly as my insides churn.

"What was the best part of the interview?" Suzanne asks Leo. "Or do I have to wait to buy the magazine?"

Leo pretends to consider this, but then says he trusts her and will give her the inside scoop, launching into some specifics about Drake's work on third-world debt relief and all his criticisms of our current administration, none of which I can focus on. Instead, I fight the wistful welling in my chest, and decide to rip off the Band-Aid during the next lull in conversation.

When it finally comes, I say as decisively as possible, "Well. We better get going."

Leo nods, his expression becoming familiarly impassive. "Right," he says.

"So thanks again for everything," I say.

"Thank you," he says, withdrawing further. "I can't wait to see your photos."

"And I can't wait to read your piece. I know it's going to be great," I say, feeling all the exhilaration from a few minutes before drain from my body. Highs and lows, I think. It always was about highs and lows with Leo.

Suzanne pretends to study a framed playbill hanging on the wall beyond us, as if to give us one last sliver of privacy while Leo nods another thank-you. For a moment, it seems as if he might give me a final hug, albeit a formal one. But he doesn't. He just tells us to have a good trip.

But all I hear is, Have a good life.

Once back in a cab, en route to the hotel, Suzanne's eyebrows knit into an empathetic frown. "You look sad," she says softly. "Are you sad?"

I can't muster the energy to lie so I nod and tell her yes—although in truth, downright disconsolate is closer to the mark.

"I don't know why," I say. "It's all just... so weird... Seeing him again..."

Suzanne takes my hand and says, "That's normal."

"Is it, though?" I say. "Because it doesn't feel very normal. And I certainly don't think Andy would call this normal."

Suzanne looks out her window as she poses the ultimate question. "Do you still have feelings for him, or do you think it's just nostalgia?"

"I think it's a bit more than nostalgia," I admit.

Suzanne says, "I figured as much," and then, almost as an afterthought, adds, "But if it helps, I totally get what you see in him. Dark, sexy, smart..."

A wry laugh escapes my lips. "That actually doesn't help. At all," I say. "Thanks anyway."

"Sorry," she says.

"And you know what else doesn't help?" I say as our cab pulls into the hotel driveway and several bellmen swarm around the car.

Suzanne looks at me, waiting for me to continue.

"Leo telling me he can't, for the life of him, recall why we broke up."

"Fuck," she says, her eyes widening. "He said that?"

"Pretty much," I say.

"That's something."

I nod as I pay our driver. "Yeah... You think he's messing with my head?"

Suzanne pauses and then says, "Why would he do that?"

"I don't know," I say as we make our way through the revolving doors and into the lobby to collect our stored luggage. "Maybe to make me feel better about the past? Or maybe he's just... on some kind of a power trip?"

"I don't know him well enough," she says. "What do you think?"

I shrug and then say I really don't think so—on either front. It's not Leo's style to gratuitously make someone feel better. Yet I don't think he's a manipulative game player either.

As we settle into two hard, high-back chairs in the lobby, Suzanne looks contemplative. "Well," she finally says, "In all likelihood, he meant just what he said: that he really can't remember why—how—it ended. And maybe he also meant that he wishes things had gone down differently."

I run my hands through my hair and exhale wearily. "You think that's a possibility?"

Suzanne nods. "Sure. And isn't that satisfying?" she asks. "Sort of what every girl dreams of when she's dumped. That the guy will someday feel regret and come back and tell her all about it... And the beauty of it is... you have no regrets whatsoever."

I look at her.

"Right?" she says, the question drenched in meaning. A one-word test of my choices. Of Andy. Of everything in my life.

"Right," I say emphatically. "Absolutely no regrets."

"Well then," Suzanne says with her usual conviction. "There you have it."

Three hours later, after Suzanne and I have shared a quick fast-food dinner at the airport and said our good-byes at the American security line, I am boarding my flight with a distinct ache in my chest and a nagging sense of unfinished business. As I settle into my window seat in the next-to-last row of coach, vaguely listening to the flight attendant drone about limited overhead-bin space, I revisit the events of the day, specifically the very abrupt ending to my final encounter with Leo. In hindsight, I wish that I had just told Suzanne that I needed a little more time with him. It would have been undeniably awkward to make the request, but one hour—even thirty minutes—is really all it would have taken to ease the anticlimactic conclusion to such an emotional shoot, and wrap up the unsettling conversation about our breakup.

Despite the fact that I have no regrets about how things turned out in my life, I still can't help wanting to understand my intense relationship with Leo, as well as that turbulent time between adolescence and adulthood when everything feels raw and invigorating and scary—and why those feelings are all coming back to me now.

I quickly try to call Andy to let him know that we are taking off on time, but there is no answer. I leave a message, telling him that the shoot went well, and that I love him and will see him first thing in the morning. Then I turn my attention to the stream of passengers filing down the aisle, and say a prayer that the middle seat beside me will stay vacant, or, at the very least, that it will be filled by a tidy, quiet seatmate. But one beat later, a large, sloppy man with the distinct aroma of booze and cigarettes is bearing down on me with a bulging canvas tote, a Burger King to-go bag, and a Mountain Dew bottle filled with a questionable amber liquid.

"Helloo there!" he bellows. "Looks like I'm next to ya!"

In addition to his boozy aroma and carry-on beverage, his bloodshot eyes and excessive volume make it pretty clear that he's already drunk—or very close to the mark. I envision a long night of cocktails, with some occasional spillage, accompanied by profuse apologies, inappropriate attempts to clean me up, and clumsy conversation starters. My only shot at peace is to shut him down quickly and nip all interaction in the bud. So I say nothing in response, just force the tiniest of polite smiles while he collapses into his seat and immediately stoops down to remove his filthy tennis shoes and stained tube socks, his beefy arms and chapped elbows invading every inch of my personal space.

"Eh, boy! These dogs are barkin'," he announces, once his sweaty feet are freed. He then offers me a fry. "Want one?"

I suppress a gag, tell him no thanks, and promptly slip my inflight headphones on, turning my body toward the window. Then I jack up the volume on the classical music channel, close my eyes, and try to think about anything other than Leo. About fifteen minutes of jostling later, I feel the plane begin to move down the runway, picking up speed before tilting sickeningly backward. As we become airborne, I give my armrest a death grip, irrationally bracing myself while fighting images of flames and mangled steel. We are not going to crash, I think. Fate is not so cruel as to have me spend my last moments with the man next to me. But when I finally open my eyes, my seatmate—and his Burger King feast—are nowhere to be found.

And, in his grubby place, as if by magic, is none other than Leo.

He gives me a sideways smile and says, "I got on your flight."

"I see that," I say, trying to suppress my own smile, but quickly losing the battle.

"And then I—uh—switched seats," he says.

"I see that, too," I say, now full-on grinning. "Pretty tricky, aren't you?"

"Tricky?" Leo says. "I rescued you from that clown... who is now wasted—and barefoot—in business class. I'd tag it chivalrous—not tricky."

"You gave up a business-class seat?" I say, feeling flattered and strangely empowered as I process all the logistical effort that went into this moment.

"Yeah. How about that? For a middle seat in the very back of the plane."

"Well. You are chivalrous," I say.

"Well? How about a thank-you?"

"Thank you," I say, as it begins to sink in that I will be spending the next five hours trapped in close, dark quarters with Leo. My heart skips a beat.

"You're very welcome," he says, reclining his seat ever so slightly and then flipping his tray table up and down with what I detect is some nervousness of his own.

We make fleeting eye contact, a tough thing to do when you're side by side in coach, before I smile, shake my head, and shift my gaze back toward the window.

The flight attendant makes an announcement that the seatbelt sign is still illuminated, and the captain will inform us when it is safe to move about the cabin. Perfect, I think. Absolutely trapped by no doing of my own.

A few minutes of charged silence pass as I close my eyes, thinking that miraculously, I'm no longer worried about flying.

"So," Leo finally says as I open my eyes and the plane begins to steady in the California night sky. "Where were we, anyway?"