t is the first Saturday in June, and our final one in New York. A trio of thick-necked movers from Hoboken arrived this morning, and nine mad hours of packing later, our apartment is completely barren save for a few suitcases by the front door, some bits of duct tape stuck to the kitchen counters, and a hundred dust bunnies swirling along the hardwood floors. Andy and I are sweaty and exhausted, standing in what was once our family room while we listen to the hum of the window air-conditioning unit straining in the heat.

"I guess it's time to hit it," Andy says, his voice echoing off the white walls that we never had time to paint a more interesting shade. He wipes his cheek on the sleeve of his old, stained T-shirt, one of about thirty he has designated for "moving and painting," even though I've teasingly pointed out that he can't possibly be in a situation where he's painting or moving for a solid month.

"Yeah. Let's go," I say, my mind already shifting to the next step in our journey—our cab ride to our hotel where we will shower and change for our going-away party this evening. Andy's two closest friends from law school are hosting the event, although friends from all segments of our New York life will be in attendance. Even Margot and Webb are flying up for the festivities, only to return to Atlanta with us in the morning where they will become our official greeters. I clasp my hands together and force a peppy, "Let's get the show on the road."

Andy pauses and then says, "Should we do something... ceremonious first?"

"Like what?" I ask.

"I don't know... Maybe take a picture?"

I shake my head, thinking that Andy should know me better by now; I might be a photographer, but I'm not really one to document symbolic moments like these—endings, beginnings, even holidays and special occasions. I much prefer to capture the random stuff in the middle—a fact that my friends and family seem to find puzzling—and sometimes frustrating.

"Nah," I say. I shift my gaze out the window and follow a pigeon's trek on the cement terrace across the street from us.

After a long moment, Andy takes my hand and says, "How're you doing?"

"Fine," I say, which I'm relieved to realize is the truth. "Just a little sad."

He nods, as if to acknowledge that endings are almost always a little sad, even when there is something to look forward to on the other side. Then, without further fanfare, we turn and walk out of our first married home together.

A few minutes later our cab pulls up in front of the Gramercy Park Hotel, and I realize with a wave of remorse and panic that Andy and I have suddenly, instantly morphed into visitors—tourists—in a city where we once resided.

But as we enter the gorgeous, eclectic lobby filled with Moroccan tiles, handwoven rugs, Venetian-glass chandeliers, and sprawling works by Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Keith Haring, I reassure myself that there is a distinct upside to experiencing the city this way.

"Wow," I say, admiring the huge stone-and-marble fireplace and a sawfish-snout lamp in front of it. "This place is very cool."

Andy smiles and says, "Yup. Haute bohemian cool. Like my girl."

I smile back at him as we stroll over to the front desk where a sultry brunette, whose name tag reads Beata, welcomes us in a thick eastern European accent.

Andy says hello, and the well-groomed, proper boy in him feels the need to explain our grubby appearance, so he mumbles apologetically, "We just moved out of our apartment today."

Beata nods her understanding and politely inquires, "To where are you going next?"

I answer for us, saying Atlanta, Georgia, as grandly as possible, even adding a hand-in-the-air flourish, as if I'm revealing a well-kept North American secret, a jewel of a town she should be sure to visit if she hasn't already. I'm not sure exactly why I feel the need to hype Atlanta to a complete stranger—whether it's to make myself feel better, or to counteract the defensiveness I feel whenever I tell someone in the city where we're moving and inevitably get a pitying stare or a downright critical, "Why Atlanta?"

Andy takes it a bit more personally—as I do when I hear anyone bad-mouth Pittsburgh—but I actually don't think this reaction is an affront to Atlanta as much as it is a function of the New York superiority complex, a smug sense that the rest of the world, or at least the rest of the country, is sterile and homogenous and somehow lacking in comparison. And, while I resent that attitude now, the uncomfortable truth is, I don't altogether disagree with the assessment, and know I've felt similarly when friends have left the city—whether for a job, or a relationship, or to have babies in the suburbs. Better you than me, I've thought, even though I might have been bitterly complaining about the city the moment before. After all, I think it's that intense edge that is the most compelling part about living in New York, and the very thing that I will miss most.

In any event, my preemptive, proud tone with Beata seems to do the trick, because she smiles, nods, and says, "Oh, very beautiful," as if I've just said Paris, France. She then checks us in and tells us a bit about the hotel, before handing Andy our room key and wishing us a wonderful stay.

We thank her, and as inconspicuously as possible, wander back through the lobby over to the adjoining Rose Bar, which is just as richly decorated as the lobby, complete with a red-velvet pool table and another looming Warhol. I feel my mind start to drift to Leo, and the last time I was in a trendy hotel bar, but push these thoughts away as Andy says with feigned formality, "Care for an aperitif?"

I skim the cocktail menu and tell him the pineapple-and-cinnamon mojito looks interesting. He agrees and orders us two, to go, and a few minutes later, we are alone in our plush, jewel-toned room overlooking Gramercy Park, one of my favorite spots in the city, even though I've never been inside the locked gates—perhaps because I've never been inside.

"Gorgeous," I say, sipping my mojito and taking in the view of the romantic, impeccably kept private park.

"I knew you always wanted to see inside," he says, draping his arm around me. "I thought it would be a nice way to say good-bye."

"You always think of everything," I say, feeling a wave of deep appreciation for my husband.

Andy gives me an "aw, shucks" grin and takes a hearty gulp of his drink, before undressing down to his boxers and bursting into a stirring rendition of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia."

I laugh and shake my head. "Get in the shower," I say, vowing to be happy tonight. Even though I'm exhausted. Even though I hate being the center of attention. Even though I don't like good-byes. And even though a certain someone on Newton Avenue won't be in attendance and doesn't even have an inkling that I'm leaving.

One hour later our party at Blind Tiger, a microbrewery on Bleecker, is in full groove. The lights are dim, the music is just loud enough, and I'm well into my fourth beer of the night. My current selection, the Lagunitas Hairy Eyeball, is my favorite so far, although that might be purely a function of my ever-growing buzz. One thing is for sure—I've put all my worries aside and am having an even better time than I vowed, in large part because everyone else seems to be having so much fun, which is never a given when diverse groups come together at one event. My photographer friends really have little in common with Andy's lawyer crowd or the Upper East Side fashion torchbearers whom Margot and I used to hang with when she lived in the city. To this point, Margot actually deserves much of the credit for bringing everyone together and making things feel cohesive, as she is the single greatest asset you can have at any party. She is outgoing, gracious, and inclusive, finding a way to bring even the most awkward, peripheral guest into the fold. I watch her now, working the room, virgin daiquiri in hand, looking stunning in a pink, empire-waist sundress and strappy, silver stilettos. At nearly six months pregnant, she has a small, round bump right in front, but hasn't gained an ounce anywhere else, and her hair, nails, and skin are even more amazing than usual. She says it's due to the prenatal vitamins, although I don't think the battery of expensive spa treatments she had today have hurt her cause. In short, she's the cutest pregnant woman I've ever seen, a sentiment I've heard at least five people echo tonight, including one woman from Andy's firm who is exactly as far along as Margot but looks like she's been blown up with helium everywhere—nose, ankles, even her earlobes.

"Get away from me," the girl jokingly said to Margot. "You make me look bad."

"She makes everyone look bad—pregnant or not," I said.

Margot modestly waved us off and told us not to be ridiculous, but deep down she must know it's true. Fortunately, though, she's also more charming than the rest of us, so nobody ever really holds her looks against her, including her ghastliest of pregnant peers.

We make eye contact now as she joins me, Julian, and Julian's wife, Hillary, at a cracked-wood table in the back of the bar, just in time to hear Hillary gush about how much she admires Andy's decision to drop the big-firm culture. It is a common theme of the night among the disgruntled-lawyer crowd, and for Andy's sake, it makes me feel better about our move.

"I've been meaning to quit for over seven years now," Hillary says, laughing as she tugs on her long, blond ponytail. "Never quite happens, though."

Julian shakes his head and says, "If I had a dollar for every time she said she was going to do it, we could both retire... But what does she do instead?"

"What?" Margot and I ask in unison.

Julian flicks his wife's shoulder and proudly says, "She goes and makes partner."

"No way! Why didn't you tell me that?" I say to Julian, hitting his arm.

"She just found out yesterday," he says, as I think about all the many tidbits of his life I'm going to miss now that we're no longer sharing a workspace. We have vowed to keep in touch—and I think we will e-mail and phone occasionally—but it won't be the same, and eventually, I fear that he, Sabina, and Oscar will all become holiday-card friends only. But I mentally put that on the list of things not to worry about tonight, and instead turn to Hillary and congratulate her. "Andy says it's virtually impossible to make partner at a big firm."

"Especially for a woman," Margot says, nodding.

Hillary laughs and says, "Well. I'm sure it'll be short-lived. At least I hope it will be... I'll hang in there only until he knocks me up... Then I'm going to take my maternity leave and run for the hills."

I laugh and say, "Sounds like a plan."

"You think you'll have one soon?" Julian asks me.

It is a question Andy and I have gotten a lot since announcing our move, so I have my answer both prepared and well rehearsed. "Not right away," I say, smiling vaguely. "Sometime soon, though..."

Hillary and Julian grin back at me, as everyone seems to like the "soon" part of my response the best. Topping that list is Margot, who now nestles closer to me and links her arm through mine. I inhale her perfume as she explains that we want our kids to be close in age.

Hillary says, "Oh, definitely. That's going to be so nice for you guys... I wish I had someone to go through the baby thing with, but I'm so far behind my other friends. They're already applying to preschools, in a whole different stage of life... You're so lucky to have each other and live so close to one another."

Margot and I both murmur that we know, we are lucky, and for one satisfying moment, I feel the full weight and truth of it. Sure, the timing might not be ideal. I might not be quite ready to leave the city, and my children might be a few years behind Margot's, but those are minor details. The big picture is pretty darn wonderful. My relationship with Margot, my marriage to Andy, our house in Atlanta—all of it is wonderful.

And that is my final thought before my agent, Cynthia, bursts into the bar, scans the room, and makes a breathless beeline toward me. As a former plus-sized model and stage actress, Cynthia has a lush, larger-than-life quality and a slightly outlandish sense of style that causes people to stare and wonder if she's famous. In fact, she told me once that she frequently is mistaken for Geena Davis, and even occasionally signs fake autographs and fields questions about the filming of Thelma and Louise or Beetlejuice. I watch her pause to manhandle Andy with a double-cheek kiss and a tousle of his hair, before continuing her purposeful march toward me, my husband in tow.

"Just wait! Just wait until you see what I have," I can hear her tell him from halfway across the room. One beat later, they are both beside me, and as I thank her for coming, I realize in an off-kilter, slow-motion panic, what she is about to unveil at our going-away party.

Sure enough, her full, magenta lips pucker dramatically as she pulls the oversized magazine from her fringed, white Balenciaga bag and then trills to her ever-growing audience, "Platform magazine! Hot off the presses!"

"I thought it wasn't coming out until later this month," I say, feeling numb and exposed as I envision not my photos of Drake that I toiled over and perfected for so many hours, but the byline of the piece.

"Well, you're right, it doesn't hit the newsstands for another couple weeks," Cynthia says. "But I worked my magic and got an early copy for you... Thought it would be the perfect going-away present for you, pookie." She bends down and taps my nose twice with her index finger.

"Oh, man. Awesome," Andy says. He rubs his hands together eagerly and calls a few more of his friends, including Webb, over to the table.

"You've already seen the shots," I tell Andy in a small, worried voice, as if there is anything I can do to stop Cynthia's attention-grabbing tide.

"Yes, but not on a big, glossy cover," Andy says, standing behind me and massaging my shoulders.

Another full, torturous minute passes as Cynthia continues her suspense-building mission by pressing the cover against her substantial cleavage and delivering a Shakespearean monologue about how gifted I am, and how proud she is to represent me, and how I'm headed for true greatness, no matter where I live.

Meanwhile, I fix my eyes on the back of the magazine, a black-and-white ad featuring Kate Moss, by far my favorite model, and someone I'd love to shoot. In the photo, her lips are slightly parted, her windswept hair partially covers her right eye, and her expression is serene but suggestive. As I stare into her smoky eyes, I have the sudden, ridiculously narcissistic sense that she is there on that page not to advertise David Yurman watches, but specifically to taunt me. You should have told them sooner, I hear her say in her English accent. You've had weeks and weeks to tell them, but instead you wait for a packed house on your final night in New York. Nice job.

"C'mon, Cynthia!" Andy shouts, interrupting my paranoid thoughts. "Show us the darn magazine!"

Cynthia laughs and says, "Okay! Okay!" Then she flips Kate around, thrusts the magazine high over her head, and slowly spins to reveal Drake, in all his glory. For a few seconds, as her small but rapt audience claps and whistles and cheers, I have a surreal sense of satisfaction that that is actually my cover. My shot of Drake Watters.

But my fear returns in full force when Cynthia hands the magazine off to Andy and says, "Page seventy-eight, lambkin."

I hold my breath and feel all my muscles tense as Andy takes a seat next to Julian and flips eagerly to the Drake story. Meanwhile, everyone gathers behind him, oohing and aahing over the photographs that I labored over and virtually memorized but can't bring myself to look at now. Instead, I focus on Andy's face, feeling a sense of profound relief when I determine that he is slightly more intoxicated than I am, and in no shape to be reading the article let alone focusing on any words on the page. Instead, he is all smiles, basking in the running commentary among my photographer friends who kindly praise the more artistic elements of my shots, while the rest of the crowd asks eager questions about what Drake was like in person, and Margot, in her typical nurturing fashion, instructs everyone to be careful not to wrinkle or spill anything on the pages. This chatter goes on for some time, as the magazine works its way around the table and ends up in front of Margot and me, on the last page of the article.

"This is amazing," she whispers. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks," I say, watching her slowly flip backward through the five-page spread until she returns to the beginning again.

"I think this one's my favorite," Margot says, pointing to the very first shot of Drake, framed by Leo's text, with his name floating there at the top, centered on the page. Although my eyes are drawn right to it, the point size is actually not as big as I had feared, nor is it very dark or bold. So as Margot chatters about how hot Drake is, and how I so perfectly captured his essence, I conclude that I might just escape tonight unscathed. In fact, I might even get away with this forever. I feel a jolt of adrenaline—my sense of relief and triumph outweighing any shame that I know I should feel. It is the way I imagine a shoplifter must feel as she nods her placid good-bye to a store security guard, while feeling her stolen goods pressed into the lining of her pockets.

But one beat later, my fortune fades as I feel Margot freeze beside me and then recoil. I look at her, and she looks right back at me, and I can tell in an instant that she has seen Leo's name, registered the import of it, and knows. Obviously she can't know exactly what I've done or haven't done, but she is certain that I've been dishonest with her and more important, her brother. If it were anyone else, I'd brace myself for a wave of wrath, or at the very least, a string of questions or accusations. But I know Margot better than that. I know how restrained she is, how careful with her words, how non-confrontational. And beyond that, I know that she would never in a million years say anything to ruin this party, any party. Instead, she doles out a far-worse punishment. She becomes silent, her expression stony and stoic, as she closes the magazine and turns away from me for the rest of the night.