Free Love the One You're With by Emily Giffin Page B

take the bad with the good. I told myself that love is sometimes a war of attrition, and that through sheer force of will, I could fix our problems, love him enough for both of us.
    But days later, we got into our final fight, which was dramatic only as far as the calendar; it was the New Year’s Eve of the new millennium.
    “New Year’s is amateur night,” Leo had been insisting for weeks, every time I begged him to come to the party I had promised Margot I’d attend. “You know I hate those scenes. And this Y2K hype is unbearable. It’s just another year.”
    “Please come,” I said. “It’s important to Margot.”
    “Then let Margot party it up.”
    “It’s important to me .”
    “Well, it’s important to me to stay home,” he said.
    I negotiated, pleaded. “Just come for a little while. An hour or two. Then we’ll go home.”
    “We’ll see,” he finally conceded—an answer that almost always means no.
    But that night, I clung to the faith that he’d surprise me and show up. I imagined the gauzy, backlit scene. Our eyes locking and the crowd parting as he found my lips, right at midnight. Just like in When Harry Met Sally . I spent the whole night watching the clock and the door, and feeling generally heartsick, but ever hopeful. Until eleven fifty-nine came, and I stood in a corner alone, listening to Prince’s pulsing remix of “1999” and then the final, stomach-turning, ten-second countdown. A drunk, giddy Margot found me minutes later, hugging me hard, gushing about how much she loved me and how much we had to look forward to. But then she returned to her own date, and I went home alone, sleeping with the phone next to my pillow, waiting, even praying.
    But Leo never called that night. Nor did he call the next morning. Around noon, when I couldn’t stand it another second, I took the subway to his apartment. He was home, reading the paper and watching MTV.
    “You never came,” I said, pathetically stating the obvious.
    “Sorry,” he said, sounding not at all sorry. “I meant to. I fell asleep around ten-thirty.”
    “I was all alone at midnight,” I said, pitifully, self-righteously.
    “So was I,” he laughed.
    “It’s not funny,” I said, now more angry than hurt.
    “Look. I never promised you I’d come,” he said, agitated.
    I quickly backed down, resting my head on his shoulder as we watched a bowl game on television, then made Greek omelets—Leo’s specialty—followed by sex on the couch. But some time afterward, when he stood abruptly and told me he had to go work on a story, I got upset all over again.
    “It’s New Year’s Day,” I whined, detesting the sound of my own voice.
    “I still have deadlines,” he said flatly.
    I looked at him, my head spinning with bitter resentment and desperate grief, and then opened my mouth and uttered those infamous words.
    “This isn’t working,” I said, believing in my heart that I was only testing the waters, pushing the limits, trying another tactic to reel him back in. “I think we should break up.”
    I expected resistance, a fight, at least a robust discussion. But instead, Leo quickly agreed that I was right. He said so tenderly, almost lovingly, which made me feel worse than an angry response would have. He put his arms around me, his relief almost palpable.
    I had no choice but to play along. After all, it had been my suggestion in the first place.
    ” ‘Bye, Leo,” I said, sounding way braver than I felt.
    “Good-bye, Ellen,” he said, at least feigning sadness.
    I hesitated, but knew there was no turning back. So I left his place, in shock and denial, springing for a cab home instead of taking the subway.
    When I got back to my apartment, Margot was in the family room, reading a magazine. “Are you okay?” she said.
    I told her I didn’t know.
    “What happened?”
    “We broke up.”
    I considered saying more, confiding all the gory details, but could feel myself shutting down, becoming defensive and