argot calls the next morning long before the sun is up—or, as Andy would say, before anyone in their right mind is up. Andy seldom gets agitated, but three things consistently set him off: people who cut in lines; bickering about politics in social settings; and his sister calling too early in the morning.

"What the hell?" he says after the second ring. His voice is scratchy, as it always is the morning after a few beers, which we ended up downing the night before at a Third Avenue bistro, along with burgers and the best shoestring fries in the neighborhood. We had a good time, laughing even more than usual, but our dinner didn't jettison Leo any more than sex had. He was stubbornly there with me all night, remarking on the crabby man at the table beside us and the Joni Mitchell background music. As I finished my third beer and listened to Andy talk about his work, I found myself drifting back to the morning Leo told me that my face was his favorite in the world. He said it just like that, utterly matter-of-factly and unsentimentally over coffee. I was wearing no makeup, my hair pulled back in a ponytail, sun from his living room window streaming in my eyes. But I believed him. I could tell he meant it.

"Thank you," I said, blushing, thinking that his face was by far my favorite, too. I wondered if this, more than anything else, is a sign of true love.

Then he said, "I will never get tired of looking at you... Never."

And it is this memory, perhaps my top-ranking memory of Leo, that once again fills my head as the loud ringing continues in our bedroom. Andy groans as the caller finally gives up, waits a few seconds, and tries again.

"Let it go to voicemail," I say, but Andy reaches across me and grabs the phone from my nightstand. To be sure of the culprit, he checks caller ID—which is completely unnecessary. Short of an outright emergency, it can only be Margot. Sure enough, her husband's name, Webb Buffington, lights up the screen, along with Atlanta, Georgia, where, much to my disappointment, they returned last year. I always knew the move was inevitable, particularly after she met Webb, who was also from Atlanta. As much as Margot loved New York and her career, she's a Southern girl at heart and desperately wanted all the traditional trimmings that come with a genteel life. Moreover, Webb was, in his words, "So over the city." He wanted to golf, wanted to drive, wanted space for all his fancy electronic toys.

As evidenced by this morning's call, Margot and I still talk daily, but I miss the face-to-face time with her. I miss having brunch on the weekends and drinks after work. I miss sharing the city—and some of the same friends. Andy misses her, too, except in intrusive moments like these, when his sleep is impacted.

He jams the talk button with his thumb and barks into the phone, "Jesus, Margot. Do you know what time it is?"

I can hear her high voice say, "I know. I know. I'm really sorry, Andy. But it's legitimate this time. I promise. Put Ellen on. Please?"

"It's not even seven o'clock," he says. "How many times do I have to ask you not to wake us up? That the only decent part of my job is the late start time? Would you do this if Ellen were married to someone else? And, if not, how about asking yourself if you shouldn't respect your own brother just a little bit more than some random guy?"

I smile at some random guy, thinking that the guy wouldn't be random if I were married to him. Then I think of Leo again and cringe, knowing that he will never only be some random guy to me. I get Andy's point, though, and I'm sure Margot does, too, but he doesn't give her a chance to respond. Instead, he thrusts the phone at me and dramatically buries his head under his pillow.

"Hey, Margot," I say as quietly as possible.

She issues a perfunctory apology and then trills, "I have news!"

They are the exact words, the same singsongy, confiding tone she used when she called me the night she and Webb got engaged. Or, as Webb is fond of saying in the retelling of their betrothal, before she could even muster a yes to him. He is exaggerating, of course, although she did call me first, even before her mother, which gratified me in a way I couldn't quite pinpoint. I think it had something to do with not having my own mother and the reassurance that friends might supplant family, even in the absence of death.

"Omigod, Margot," I say now, fully alert and no longer concerned about disturbing Andy.

Andy uncovers his head and says with a contrite, almost worried, expression, "Is she all right?"

I nod happily, reassuringly, but he continues to look fearful as he whispers, "What is it?"

I hold up a finger. I want confirmation even though there is absolutely no doubt in my mind what her news is. That voice of hers is reserved for exactly two things—weddings and babies. She had at least three significant promotions at J.Crew and had been blasé about every one. It wasn't so much modesty as it was that she never cared all that much about her career, despite how good she was. Maybe because she knew it had a self-imposed expiration date. That at some point around thirty, she would voluntarily retire and begin the next phase of things, i.e., marry, move back to Atlanta, and start a family.

"Are you?" I ask, fast-forwarding to envision Margot, swollen-bellied, in a couture maternity gown.

"Is she what?" Andy mouths.

I look at him, wondering what else he thinks we could possibly be talking about. I feel a surge of affection for his boyish cluelessness. Yes, Andy, she is making snickerdoodles this morning. Yes, Andy, she is in the market for a baby grand piano.

"Uh-huh!" Margot squeals. "I'm pregnant! I just took a test!"

"Wow," I say, feeling overwhelmed even though I knew that they were trying, and that Margot nearly always gets what she wants—in part due to her dogged, Type-A personality. But more because she's just one of those charmed people for whom things just work out. Small things, big things, in-between things. I've known her for fifteen years and literally the only setback I've ever witnessed, the only time she genuinely struggled, was when her grandfather died during our senior year. And you really can't count a grandparent's death as a serious hardship. At least not once you've experienced the premature death of a parent.

I say all of this about Margot without resentment. Yes, my mother died at age forty-one, and yes, I grew up wearing hand-me-downs on class-picture day, but I still wouldn't say that I come from the school of hard knocks. And I've certainly had it pretty good in my adulthood, at least so far. I'm not unemployed or directionless or prone to depression. I'm not sick or alone. Besides, even if those things were all true, I'm simply not in a competition with my best friend. I've never understood those women, those troubled, complicated relationships, of which there seem to be plenty. Am I occasionally envious of Margot—particularly when I see her with her mother? Do I wish I had her fashion sense and confidence and passport stamps? Yes, of course. But that is not to say that I would ever take those things from her—or begrudge her happiness in any way. Besides, I'm in her family now. What's hers really is mine now.

So, despite the fact that this good news is far from unexpected, here I sit, stunned and giddy and overcome with joy. After all, there is a huge disparity between planning to have a baby, and actually getting that positive pregnancy test. Of knowing that in a matter of months you'll become somebody's mother—or in my case, somebody's aunt.

"Congratulations," I say, feeling teary.

"She's pregnant?" Andy finally guesses, wide-eyed.

I nod and smile. "Yeah... Are you still pissed off, Uncle Andy?"

He grins and says, "Gimme the phone."

I hand it over.

He says, "Maggie Beth! You should have just said so!"

I can hear her say, "You know I had to tell Ellen first."

"Over your own flesh and blood?"

"Only one of you is happy to hear from me any time of day," she says.

Andy ignores her playful dig and says, "Damn, this is great news. I'm so glad we're coming down there next weekend. I can't wait to give you a big hug."

I snatch the phone back and ask her if she's calculated the due date; does she think it's a boy or a girl; has she thought of names; should I give her a shower in the city or Atlanta?

She tells me September twenty-first; she thinks it's a girl; no names yet; and a shower would be lovely anywhere.

"What did Webb say?" I ask, remembering that there is another party involved here.

"He's happy. Surprised. A little pale." Margot laughs. "Do you want to talk to him? He's right here."

"Sure," I say, even though I'm not in the mood to talk to him. In truth, I'm never really in the mood to talk to Webb—even though he has never been anything but friendly to me, which is more than I can say for some of the guys Margot dated before him. She's always been drawn to an arrogant type, and Webb, too, certainly has the makings to be arrogant. For one, he's an ultra-successful sports agent and former, semi-famous tennis pro—at least he's known in tennis circles, once defeating Agassi on the junior circuit. And on top of his success and wealth, he has swoon-worthy, classically handsome looks, with frighteningly good hair and teeth so straight and white that I think of an old "Brush your breath with Dentyne" commercial every time he throws his head back in laughter. He has a big, loud voice and large presence—and is the kind of guy who knows how to give an eloquent speech that thrills the ladies and deliver a punch line to an off-color joke that makes the guys hoot and holler. So, by any measure, Webb should be intolerably smug. But he's not. Instead, he's humble, even-tempered, and thoughtful.

Yet, for some reason, I just don't feel comfortable around him—perhaps because we have almost nothing in common except Margot. Fortunately I never admitted this to her when they first started to date—probably because I suspected right away that he was "the One." It was the first time I had seen Margot totally, unabashedly smitten with anyone, the first time she liked someone as much as—or even more than—they liked her. I didn't broach the subject with Andy either, perhaps because he seemed to be such a huge Webb fan, perhaps because I wasn't exactly sure what I didn't like.

But I did confess my feelings to my sister once, right before Margot's wedding when I was back in Pittsburgh for a random weekend. We were having lunch at the Eat'n Park, our favorite hangout in high school, and still our sentimental pick whenever I go home. Every table has multiple memories, and we chose the one closest to the door that conjured her post–junior prom meal with a guy now doing time for something; my father's impromptu nosebleed one evening (that we all thought was ketchup at first); and the time I ate five chili dogs on a bet. As Suzanne and I decked our Big Boys with an array of condiments, she asked about Margot's wedding with what I detected as a bit of disdain that always seemed to be present when she discussed the Grahams—disdain that was, in my opinion, both unwarranted and a tad mean-spirited. But despite her tone, I could also tell that Suzanne was intrigued by Margot in the same shameless and superficial way we used to be intrigued by Luke and Laura on General Hospital and Bo and Hope on Days of Our Lives.

"This is so stupid," Suzanne would always say as we watched the couples on our favorite soaps. She'd roll her eyes as she pointed out the improbabilities and inconsistencies of the on-screen romances, but there she'd sit, riveted to the television, hungry for more.

Similarly, as we ate our burgers, Suzanne wanted all the details on Margot's upcoming nuptials, ferreting out any potential drama.

"That was a short engagement, wasn't it?" she asked, brows raised. "Could she be knocked up?"

I laughed and shook my head.

"So what's the hurry?"

"They're in love," I said, thinking that their entire courtship was storybook, including its brevity. Their engagement preceded mine, despite the fact that Andy and I were dating first.

"How big's the ring?" she asked, somewhat critically.

"Huge," I said. "Colorless, flawless."

Suzanne digested this and said, "What kind of a name is Webb?"

"Family name. Short for Webster."

"Like the television show," she said, laughing.

"Yeah," I said.

"Do you like him?" she asked.

Given her mood, I considered lying and giving her an unequivocal yes, but I have never been able to lie to Suzanne. Instead, I told her the truth—that although he seemed to be the perfect guy, I wasn't all that psyched about Margot marrying him. I felt selfish and disloyal admitting it, and even more so when Suzanne probed, "Why? Does she blow you off for him?"

"No. Never," I said, which was the truth. "She's not like that."

"So what is it then?... Does he intimidate you?"

"No," I said quickly, feeling myself becoming defensive. I loved my sister, but it was not an uncommon dynamic between us since I had moved to New York and she had stayed put in our hometown. She'd subtly attack, and I'd subtly defend. It was almost as if she resented me for leaving Pittsburgh for good. Or worse, she assumed that I felt superior—which was completely untrue. In all the important ways, I felt like the exact same person I had always been. I was just exposed to more. I had a layer of sophistication and worldliness that comes with living in a big city, and frankly, being around the Grahams. "Intimidated by what?"

"I don't know. By his looks? His money? His whole slickster, tennis boy, agent bag?"

"He's not really a slickster," I said, trying to remember what exactly I had told Suzanne about Webb in the past. She had an infallible memory—that she often used against me. "He's actually pretty down-to-earth."

"A down-to-earth multimillionaire, huh?" she said.

"Well, yes, actually," I said, thinking that I had long since learned that you couldn't lump all people with money into one category. The wealthy were as varied as the downtrodden. Some were hardworking, some lazy. Some self-made, some born with a silver spoon. Some modest and understated, some ostentatious braggarts. But Suzanne's views had never evolved beyond our Dallas and Dynasty and Love Boat watching days (my sister and I watched a lot of television growing up, unlike Andy and Margot who were limited to a half-hour per day). To Suzanne, every "rich" person (a term she used derisively) was the same: soft, selfish, and likely "a lying snake of a Republican."

"Okay, then," she said. "So maybe you're just intimidated by the fact that he belongs in Margot's world, and you... don't."

I thought it was a harsh and narrow-minded thing to say and told her as much. I went on to say that I was well beyond such adolescent insecurities, and that the intimidation factor ended in college sometime after sorority rush when Margot was swept up in a sea of blond, BMW-driving debutantes, and I had incorrectly feared that her going Greek would dilute our friendship. Moreover, I told my sister that I clearly did belong in Margot's world. She was my best friend and roommate. And I was likely going to marry her brother, for God's sake.

"Okay. Sorry," Suzanne said, sounding not at all sorry. She shrugged as she took a bite of her burger. She chewed and swallowed slowly, took a long drink of Coke from her straw and said with annoyed sarcasm, "It was just a theory. Please forgive me."

I forgave her, as I could never stay mad at Suzanne—but I didn't soon forget it. In fact, the next time Andy and I went out to dinner with Webb and Margot, I fretted that my sister was right. Maybe I was the odd woman out. Maybe Margot would finally come to her senses about how different we were and Webb would steal her away for good. Maybe Webb really was an elitist snob, and he just hid it well.

But as the evening wore on, and I paid close attention to him and all his mannerisms, I decided that Suzanne truly was off the mark. There was nothing not to like about Webb. He was a genuinely good guy. It was just an inexplicable disconnect with another person. Webb gave me the same feeling I had as a kid when I slept over at a friend's house and discovered an odd smell in their basement or a foreign cereal selection in their cupboard. He didn't intimidate me; he didn't offend me; he didn't worry me with respect to Margot. He just made me feel vaguely... homesick. Homesick for what, I wasn't sure.

But despite this, I was determined to bond with Webb on some nonsuperficial level. Or, at the very least, get to the comfortable stage of things where we could be alone in a room together and I wouldn't be casting about, hoping for a third party's return.

So when Margot passes Webb the phone now, and he booms a confident "Hey, there!" into the phone, I pump up my own volume to match his exuberance and give him an enthusiastic, "Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!"

"We're pretty happy, too... for lo, these forty-five seconds! Your girl doesn't waste much time, does she?"

I laugh, wondering if he's annoyed or amused by our constant phone lifeline and our vow to visit one another at least once every other month, and then say, "Look forward to seeing you guys next weekend. We'll have to celebrate."

"Yeah, we'll have fun," he says. "And you, Andy, and I will just have to suck it up and drink for Margot, too."

I force another chuckle and say, yes, we'll have to do just that. Then Webb passes the phone back to Margot, and she tells me she loves me. I tell her I love her, too. Andy tells me to tell her that he loves her. And we both say we love the baby on the way. Then I hang up and lie back down next to Andy. We are facing each other, our feet touching. His hand is resting on my hip, just under my oversized T-shirt. We smile at each other, but say nothing, both of us processing the big news. News that feels way bigger than, say, running into an ex-boyfriend on the street.

And so, for the first time since I left that intersection, I feel a sense of perspective wash over me. Perspective that wasn't ushered in by sex. Or a fun dinner out. Or a night sleeping next to my adorable husband and awaking every few hours to hear his reassuring, steady breathing. Leo has no place in this moment, I think. He has no part in Andy's family. Our family.

"You want one, too?" Andy says, his hand moving around me, and then massaging the small of my back.

"One what?" I say, even though I know what he's referring to.

"A baby," he says. "I know you and Margot like to do things together."

I can't tell whether he's joking or propositioning me or speaking theoretically, so I just murmur, "Someday."

Andy's hand moves more slowly and gradually stills. Then he closes his eyes for a few more minutes of sleep while I watch his eyelids flutter and imagine someday, every day, with Andy.