Emily Giffin - Love the one youre with

Then one morning, right before closing arguments, as we were settling in our jury-box seats, he turned and said to me, "This is it." Then he smiled a genuine, slow smile-almost as if we were in on a secret together. My heart fluttered. And then, as if foreshadowed by that moment, we actually were in on a secret together.

It started during deliberations when it became clear that Leo and I shared the same view of the testimony. In short, we were both in favor of an outright acquittal. The actual killing wasn't in issue-the defendant had confessed and the confession was unchallenged-so the sole debate was whether he had acted in self-defense. Leo and I thought he had. Or, to put it more accurately, we thought there was plenty of reasonable doubt that the defendant hadn't acted in self-defense-a subtle distinction that, scarily enough, at least a half-dozen of our fellow jurors didn't seem to grasp. We kept pointing to the fact that the defendant had no prior criminal record (a near miracle in his rough neighborhood), and that he was deathly afraid of the victim (who had been the toughest gang leader in Harlem and had been threatening the defendant for months-so much so that he had gone to the police for protection). And finally, that the defendant was carrying the box cutter in the normal course of his job with a moving company. All of which added up to our belief that the defendant had panicked when cornered by the victim and three of his gang-banger friends, and had lashed out in a state of panicked self-defense. It seemed like a plausible scenario-and definitely plausible enough to reach the benchmark of reasonable doubt.

After three long days of going around in aggravating circles, we were still in a gridlock with the rest of the panel, all of us miserably sequestered by night at a dreary Ramada Inn near JFK Airport. We were allowed to watch television-apparently the trial wasn't newsworthy-but we weren't allowed to make any outgoing phone calls, nor could we discuss the case with one another unless in the jury room during official deliberations.

So when my hotel room phone rang one night, I was startled, wondering who it could possibly be, and secretly hoping that it was Leo. Perhaps he had taken note of my room number on our way back from our bailiff-supervised group dinner earlier that evening. I fumbled for the phone and whispered hello into the receiver.

Leo returned his own hushed hello. Then he said, as if there had been any confusion, "It's Juror Number Nine. Leo."

"I know," I said, feeling blood rush from my head to my limbs.

"Look," he said (after three days of deliberations, I knew that he started his sentences with "look," a quirk I loved). "I know I'm not supposed to be calling you… but I'm going crazy over here…"

I wasn't sure what he meant by this-going crazy from being sequestered or going crazy because he was so into me. I figured it had to be the former. The latter was too impossibly good to be true.

"Yeah. I know what you mean," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "I just can't stop thinking about the testimony. It's all so frustrating."

Leo exhaled into the phone and after a long silence said, "I mean, how bad would it suck to have a dozen morons deciding your fate?"

"A dozen morons?" I said, trying to be funny, cool. "Speak for yourself, pal."

Leo laughed as I lay in bed, buzzing with excitement.

Then he said, "Okay. Ten morons. Or at least a good, solid eight."

"Yeah," I said. "I know."

"I mean, seriously, " he continued. "Can you believe these people? Half of them don't have an open mind at all-the other half are wishy-washy half-wits that blow with whatever their lunch buddies think."

"I know," I said again, feeling lightheaded. I couldn't believe we were finally having a real conversation. And, while I lay in the dark, under the covers, no less. I closed my eyes, picturing him in his bed. I couldn't believe how much I wanted a virtual stranger.

"I never thought this before," Leo said, "but if I were on trial, I'd rather face a judge than a jury."

I said I might have to agree with that.

"Hell. I'd rather have a corrupt judge taking bribes from my enemies than this loser crew."

I laughed as he proceeded to joke about the more outrageously off-point anecdotes that a few of our jurors had shared. He was right. It was one tangent after another in that claustrophobic room-a free-for-all of life experience with no relevance to the deliberations whatsoever.

"Some people just love to hear themselves talk," I said. And then added, "You don't seem to be one of them, Mr. Aloof."

"I'm not aloof," Leo said unconvincingly.

"Are too," I said. "Mr. Wear-Your-Headphones so you don't have to talk to anyone."

"I'm talking now," Leo said.

"It's about time," I said, thinking that it was easy to be brave in the dark, on the phone.

A long stretch of silence followed which felt warm and forbidden. Then I stated the obvious-that we'd be in big trouble if Chester, our bailiff babysitter, busted us talking on the phone. And about the case, no less.

"Yes, we would," Leo said. Then he added very slowly and deliberately, "And I guess we'd be in even more hot water if I paid you a visit right now, huh?"

"What's that?" I said, even though I had heard him, loud and clear.

"Can I come see you?" he said again, his voice slightly suggestive.

I sat up abruptly, smoothing the sheets around me. "What about Chester?" I said, feeling the good kind of weak.

"He went to bed. The halls are clear. I already checked."

"Really?" I said. I could think of nothing else to say.

"Yes. Really … So?"

"So?" I echoed.

"So can I come see you? I just… want to talk. Face to face. Alone."

I didn't really believe that was all he wanted-and a large measure of me hoped that it wasn't. I thought of how much trouble we'd be in if we got caught together in a jury-duty booty call, and that we owed it to the defendant to follow the rules-that our reckless behavior could result in a mistrial. I thought of how unsexy my Steelers T-shirt and cotton panties were and that I had nothing nicer in my hastily packed suitcase. I thought about the conventional girly wisdom that if I said yes-and then something did happen-that Leo might lose respect for me and we'd be over before we could begin.

So I opened my mouth, poised to protest, or at the very least, deflect. But instead, I breathed a helpless yes into the phone. It would be the first of many times I couldn't say no to Leo.

It is completely dark by the time I turn onto our quiet, tree-lined block in Murray Hill. Andy won't be home until much later, but for once, I don't mind the hours he's forced to bill at his white-shoe law firm. I will have time to shower, light a few candles, open a bottle of wine, and find the exact right soundtrack to purge the last traces of the past from my mind-something cheerful, with absolutely no Leo associations. "Dancing Queen" would fit the bill, I think, smiling to myself. There is absolutely nothing about ABBA that conjures Leo. In any event, I want the evening to be all about Andy and me. About us .

As I step out of the cold rain into the brownstone, I breathe a sigh of relief. There is nothing lavish about our building, but I love it that way. I love the shabby lobby with its creaky herringbone floors and brass chandelier in dire need of a good polish. I love the jewel-toned Oriental rug that gives off a subtle scent of mothballs. I even love the lumbering, claustrophobically small elevator that always seems on the brink of a breakdown. Most of all, I love that it is our first home together.

Tonight, I opt for the stairs, taking them two at a time while I imagine a day far into the future when Andy and I return to this spot with our yet-to-be-born children. Give them a grand tour of where "Mommy and Daddy first lived." Tell them, "Yes, with Daddy's family money we could have afforded a plush Upper East Side doorman building, but he picked this one, in this quiet neighborhood, because it had more character… Just as he chose me over all those blue-eyed Southern belles."