S we turn onto Newton Avenue, I can't decide whether it seems like only yesterday or a lifetime ago that I was last here, dropping Leo off after our return from California, sure that we had come to the end. I fleetingly revisit the emotions of that morning—how chokingly sad I was—wondering if I truly believed that I'd never see him again. I also wonder what, exactly, brought me back here, to this moment. Was it the move to Atlanta and all that came with it? My discovery about that distant December day when he tried to come back? Or was it simply Leo's inexplicable, inexorable pull on my heart? We stop at the curb in front of his place, and I pay my fare, hoping for some answers today. I need to find some answers.

"Receipt?" my cabbie asks as he pops the trunk and steps out of the cab.

"No, thanks," I say, even though I know I should keep track of my expenses—that doing so would make my trip more of a legitimate business venture.

As I slide out of the taxi, I catch my first glimpse of Leo, leaning on the railing on his porch. He is barefoot, wearing jeans and a charcoal gray fleece, squinting up at the sky as if checking for rain. My heart skips a beat, but I calm myself by looking away, focusing only on the transaction of bags from the trunk to the sidewalk. I can't believe that I'm actually here, not even when I muster the courage to meet Leo's gaze. He raises one arm and smiles, looking perfectly at ease.

"Hi," I say, my voice getting lost in a sudden gust of wind and the loud slam of the trunk. I hold my breath as my taxi vanishes from sight. My visit is now official.

Seconds later, Leo appears beside me.

"You made it," he says, seemingly acknowledging that it took a lot more than merely getting on a plane to arrive here. He is right about this, I think, picturing the note on the counter, and Andy finding it still there this morning—and his wife gone.

"Yeah," I say, feeling a wave of guilt. "I made it."

Leo looks down at my bags and says, "Here. Let me get these for you."

"Thanks," I say and then fill the ensuing awkward silence with, "Don't worry... I'm not staying here. I got a hotel." Which, of course, makes everything all the more awkward.

"I wasn't worried about that," Leo says, as if he was worried—but about something else altogether.

I watch him lift my suitcase with his right hand, despite the rolling option, while swinging my camera bag over his other shoulder. I suppress a feeling of longing as I follow Leo up the stairs to his front porch, then into his apartment where I inhale coffee and his familiar, old-house smell. I glance around his living room, overcome by an avalanche of memories, mostly good. Sensory overload, I think, feeling weak, nostalgic, twenty-three again.

"Well?" Leo says. "What do you think?"

I'm not sure what he's asking so I keep it safe and focus on anything other than the past. "You got new furniture," I say admiringly.

"Yeah," he says, pointing to a black-and-blue abstract painting and a cinnamon-colored, distressed-leather couch below it. "I've made a few changes here and there... That okay with you?" He gives me a lighthearted look.

"Sure," I say, trying to relax, trying not to look in the direction of his bedroom, trying not to remember quite so much. At least not all at once.

"Good," he says, feigning relief. "You get married and move to Georgia... I'm at least allowed to get a new couch."

I smile. "Well, I think you've done a bit more than that," I say, referring to his work mostly, but also to Carol. I glance around again, looking for signs of cohabitation. There are none whatsoever. No feminine touches, no photos of Carol. No photos at all, in fact.

"Looking for something?" he asks teasingly, as if he knows exactly what I'm doing, thinking.

"Yeah," I shoot back. "What'd you do with my photo?"

He shakes his index finger at me, then takes two steps toward an old, banged-up hutch, pulls open a drawer and rifles through it. "You mean... this one?" he says, holding up the front-toothless shot of me.

"Shut up," I say, blushing.

He shrugs, looking both smug and sheepish.

"I can't believe you still have that," I say, feeling way more delighted than I should.

"It's a good shot," he says, as he props the photo up on a shelf, meant for china, but covered with newspapers. As before, everything about Leo's place is pared-down minimalism, except for all the paper. Books and newspapers and magazines and notepads are strewn and stacked literally everywhere—on the floor, coffee table, chairs, shelves.

"So," he says, turning and heading for his kitchen, the only completely unchanged room in view, including a 1970s-green linoleum floor. "Are you hungry? Can I make you something?"

"No, thanks," I say, thinking that even if I were, I could never eat right now.

"Coffee?" he asks, as he refills his own mug. A peach mug. A-ha, I think. Carol.

"Sure," I say. "Just... half a cup."

"Half a cup?" he says, pushing his sleeves up. "Who are you? My grandma?"

"Aw," I say fondly, remembering his feisty grandmother. I only met her once—at a birthday party for his nephew—but she was the kind of vivid, eccentric older woman who says exactly what's on her mind and can get away with it only because of her age.

"How is your grandma?" I ask, realizing we didn't talk much about our families on that red-eye flight.

"Still kicking... Still bowling, in fact," he says, pulling a non-matching, white mug down for me. Something is written on the side of it, but I can't read it from where I'm standing.

"That's awesome," I say. My mother flits into my head, as she always does when I hear about elderly relatives alive and well, but I refuse to let her fully form in my already crowded mind.

"So really?" Leo asks. "Just half a cup, Gram?"

I smile and say, "All right, fine. I'll have a full cup... I just think—"

"What?"

"That we should get going..."

"Are we in a hurry?"

"It might rain."

"So?"

"I have to take photos," I say emphatically.

"I know that," he says just as emphatically.

"Well," I say, as if I've already made my point and what's wrong with him for not grasping it.

"You can't shoot in the rain?"

"Of course I can."

"Well?" he says, imitating my inflection.

We are now in full banter mode—which is a scary place when you are determined not to do something you might regret.

"I'm just saying..." I say, my favorite junior-high retort, good for almost any uncomfortable situation.

"Well, I'm just saying that rainy Coney Island shots wouldn't be so bad... would they?"

"Guess not," I say, thinking that they might actually be better in the rain. That spending time with Leo might be really nice in the rain, too.

"So sit down," Leo says, interrupting my meandering thoughts. He points to his couch, looks into my eyes, and says, "Stay a while."

I hold his gaze, both fearing and hoping what a while might bring. Then I turn to sit on the far end of the couch, propping my elbow on the armrest, waiting for my coffee, for him. I watch him fill my mug, saving only enough room for a dash of milk and two teaspoons of sugar. "Light and sweet, right?" he asks.

"What makes you think I still like my coffee that way?" I say, giving him a coy smile.

"Oh, I know," Leo says in a deadpan that still manages to come across as flirtatious.

"How do you know?" I ask, flirting right back.

"You had it that way at the diner," he says, handing me my cup and sitting on just the right spot on the couch—close, but not too close. "Back in January."

"You noticed my coffee?" I say.

"I noticed everything," he says.

"Like?" I press, that familiar Leo-induced, dizziness sweeping over me.

"Like... the blue sweater you were wearing... Like the way you cocked your head to the side when I walked in... Like your expression when you told me you were married—"

"And what was that?" I interrupt, wishing he'd stop using the word married.

"You know the expression."

"Tell me."

"The I-hate-you expression."

"I never hated you."

"Liar."

"Okay," I say. "I kinda hated you."

"I know you did."

"And now?" I say, daring myself to look into his brown eyes. "Do I have the same look now?"

Leo squints, as if searching for an answer on my face. Then he says, "Nope. It's gone. That look has been gone since... since our flight from L.A. when I saved you from that dirty old man."

I laugh and pretend to shudder. "He was gross."

"Yes. He was. Thank goodness... Otherwise you might not have been so happy to see me."

I shake my head, not in a contradictory way, but in a way that says, No comment—at least none that I can share.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," I say. Ten minutes into my "work" trip—and I am already drifting into decidedly dangerous territory.

"Tell me," he says.

"You tell me," I say, taking my first sip of coffee. It is a little too hot—but otherwise perfect.

"Well... Let's see... What can I tell you?..." Leo looks up at the ceiling as I take in his clean shave, crisp sideburns, olive skin. "I can tell you that I'm happy you came... I'm happy to see you... I'm very happy to see you."

"I'm very happy to see you, too," I say, overcome with sudden shyness.

"Well, good," Leo says, nodding, sipping his coffee, then kicking his legs up onto the coffee table. "We got that goin' for us, huh?"

"Yes," I say as we both stare down at the floor. "We do."

Seconds later, our eyes lock again, our smiles fade, and although I don't know how, I am quite sure his heart is pounding as hard as mine. I think of Andy, realizing that my guilt is starting to recede, which in turn fills me with fresh guilt, especially when Leo clears his throat and says my husband's name aloud.

"Does Andy know you're here?" he asks.

It is a simple question, but undercut with bold recognition that I might be here for a little more than a photo shoot.

"Yes," I say, realizing that my answer clarifies nothing. My yes could mean that I view the trip as purely professional, therefore telling my husband only about the work. Or it could mean that I confessed everything. Or it could mean that I told him only enough to result in a big fight and a Post-it note ultimatum.

"And?... Was he okay with it?" Leo asks, looking concerned.

I look down at my coffee and shake my head, hoping that that says enough.

It must, because Leo simply says, "I'm sorry."

I nod my thanks, realizing that so much of our interaction is—and has always been—about subtext, what's happening beneath our surface.

"So... what about your girlfriend?" I ask, turning the tables.

He shakes his head, slices his hand through the air, and makes a clicking noise. "That's done," he says.

"You broke up?"

"Yup." He nods.

"When?" I ask—but what I really want to know is, Why? Who did it?

"A few weeks ago," he says vaguely.

"Do you... want to talk about it?"

"Do you want to talk about it?" he says.

"If you do," I say tentatively.

Leo shrugs, and then starts speaking in choppy, matter-of-fact sentences. "I told her I was talking to you again. She overreacted. I told her it wasn't like that. That you're married. She said what is it like, then? I said it wasn't anything, but she accused me of still having feelings for you." He looks over at me, as I drop my gaze from his eyes to chin, then up to his lips.

"And?" I say.

"And." Leo shrugs again. "I couldn't tell her what she wanted to hear. So she took off."

I imagine that stark, sickening conversation, my heart filling with empathy for a woman I've never met. "You just... let her leave?" I say, in awe of his honesty—which can also come across as cruelty. One of the best—and worst—things about him.

Leo slowly nods. Then he puts his coffee down, shifts his body to face me, and says, "Yeah. Well. The problem is... she was right. I do have feelings for you, Ellie."

I swallow hard, my heart now in my throat, my ears, on the coffee table, as I replay his words and against my better judgment ask, "What kind of feelings?"

"Feelings I should have sorted out a long time ago," he says, meeting my eyes for a second and then staring across the room. "Feelings that resurfaced when I saw you again... Feelings I shouldn't have for... a married woman."

There it is again. Married.

I open my mouth, but can't find any words of my own. At least not words that I can say aloud.

"So," Leo says, letting me off the hook. He rubs his hands together, then folds them, blowing across his knuckles before throwing out one of those profound, yet meaningless sentences he's so fond of. "It is what it is."

I nod my safe agreement.

"I mean... what're ya gonna do, right?" Leo asks.

It is a rhetorical question, but I answer it anyway, treading carefully. "I don't know," I say, shaking my head.

Leo gives me a raised-brow look, as if he understands exactly how I feel, exactly what I'm trying to say—and that, if nothing else, at least we're in this thing together.