"So let me lay out the options," he says.

"I have options?" I say. That had not occurred to me.

"There usually are," he says. "Depending on your level of anxiety about history repeating itself...you could continue with regular mammograms; have one just before you plan your pregnancy so that you won't go more than a year between tests. Continue self-exams. When you're finished having children, consider having the nodes removed," he says.

It all sounds so easy. So relaxing. He makes it sound like a nonemergency...I could have a facial, get my nodes removed, and then have a spa lunch.

I ask him the question to which I want the answer, but never thought I'd ask.

"When will I know that I'm safe?" I ask. "If I don't have it at forty, am I safe, or fifty, or sixty? At what point do I relax?"

"You relax now," he says. "You don't have cancer now. All you have is an increased risk."

The conversations that I'm the most afraid to have are the ones I most need to have. They almost always come as a relief. I've danced around these questions my entire life, avoiding relief.

Nick & Toni's WE'RE AT NICK & TONI'S sitting in the corner. We drove to East Hampton at the last minute to get here in time for dinner. It was as if we both knew we had to choose the perfect backdrop for the most important conversation we might ever have.

Sam orders what he always orders here-the elaborate pasta dish with the egg on top of it. He doesn't even look at the menu anymore. What's the point when reliable perfection has been achieved?

"I got a call from Susanna," Sam says.

"Oh," I say. "How's Chicago?"

I liked Susanna. We spoke a few times after she left Sam. The conversations were short and I had the impression she was gauging my interest in her complaints about Sam. Was she antic.i.p.ating that I'd defend him? The way lawyers do? Or the way couples do? I stopped returning her calls.

"She sounds good. She said she'd heard about me and you," Sam says.

I was never really sure what to say to Sam about Susanna. They seemed really well suited until they split up. Then they seemed so obviously terribly matched I was surprised they ever got married.

"Were you in love with her when she left?" I ask.

"No," Sam says.

"Why did you stay married?" I ask.

He sits for a while.

"Honestly, it seemed easier than getting divorced," Sam says.

"Easier how?" I ask.

"I know it sounds ridiculous," Sam says. "It's not rational. I didn't want to be a divorced guy. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to decide who gets the blender or the china. We were pretty good at living separate lives together."

"I can remember driving home from the Hamptons that day, when your ankle was broken and Susanna had left," I say. "It was such a relief to me that you were in the middle of a divorce because it seemed like I might have time to figure out how to handle a relationship. Buy some how-to books, or something. It was as if I wasn't quite sure I knew how to love someone even though I'd told other men I loved them."

"I don't think I need to hear about you telling other men you love them," Sam says, smiling. "Telling me would be good enough."

"I love you," I say.

It was nearly a year of having relationships carried out in parallel with my father and Sam and my shrink. Eventually the training wheels have to come off and it's always a surprise when you find you don't need them.

Deep-Fried Pizza I'D PLANNED AN elaborate dinner. I was going to replicate something I'd seen in the Times food section. Succulent duck with figs and port wine. The kind of recipe everyone longs to make but never does. I bought the ingredients. Who knew there was more than one kind of fig? But life crept in and I never quite got to it, and then I heard Sam's key in the door.

I had envisioned a scenario where he walks into the apartment, smells this great meal, and starts to believe I'm getting my act together. I'm not sure how I concocted this flawed equation.

"I didn't make dinner.... I told you I'd make a special dinner, and I didn't make anything," I say.

He kisses me. "Let's go out," Sam says.

I want to stay in. I've been working late interviewing receptionist candidates. Replacing one's self is no small feat. I didn't make it to the grocery store this week. I look in the freezer. Sam hangs up his coat.

"Would you eat French bread pizza?" I say. I don't mention how long it's been in the freezer.

He's in the other room still wearing his suit. He claims a suit is what he is most comfortable in, and he does seem to spend a lot of time lingering in it.

"Sure. What is deep-fried pizza?" Sam says.

"Deep-fried pizza?" I repeat. "I said...I said French bread pizza...but you were willing to eat deep-fried pizza? You have the absolute best att.i.tude of anyone I've ever met."

"It's just food," Sam says.

"Deep-fried pizza is attempted murder," I say. "You're right, let's go out."

We walk to Sushi of Gari. Over sake at the crowded counter, Sam starts cleaning out his pockets. He lines his stuff up on the counter. Change. A paper clip. A mint. A ring.

"So, what do you say? Will you marry me?" Sam asks.

Congratulations I WALK INTO Paul's waiting room and someone is in my seat. Slight panic. My seat is taken! There are five seats-only one is taken. The one I usually sit in. Eventually, I do sit. I sit in another seat.

I wait for Paul. He'll either open his office door and nod me in, or he'll enter through the main door, giving me pause to wonder where he's been previously. Men's room? House call? Lunch date? Slept in this morning? Once, I imagined an elaborate scenario that had him swimming laps first thing in the morning. This is the only way I could explain to myself why he would have wet hair at my ten A.M. appointment. Certainly, he didn't sleep until nine and then shower and dash to his office. He was too ideal to be late. Or to be the sort to sleep until nine.

Paul opens the door. He smiles. I stand up and walk into his office.

I go back to my favorite diversions. Arranging books on his shelf, staring at the trees outside. But the diversions don't work as well as they used to.

"I'm getting married," I say.

"Congratulations," Paul says.

"Do you think you'll ever get remarried?" I ask.

"No," Paul says.

"I knew it!" I say. "I knew you were divorced when you stopped wearing your ring and that you just didn't want to tell me."

"Once you get the bit in your mouth," Paul says.

"Okay, I'm deciding whether I should ignore the fact that you just called me a horse," I say. "Or focus on how I think you've been lying about being married."

All sorts of things are occurring to me. For the most part I'm thinking that when I get married it may be time to leave my shrink. My father's diligent understudy. Breaking up is never easy. And because it's never easy he's already slinging mud and comparing me to a horse!

"I think you might miss me if I weren't coming here anymore," I say.

"What made you think of that?" Paul asks.

"I was thinking about what being married might mean," I say. "It would probably mean leaving therapy at some point, don't you think?"

"Would it?" Paul says.

"Yes," I say. In Central Park there is a kite stuck high up in a tree. The kite looks brand new.

"I'd miss you," I say.

"What would you miss?" Paul asks.

"I don't know. The time," I say.

We sit in silence for a while.

"Yeah, it's time," Paul says.

I stand up. I'm walking toward the door.

"Again, congratulations, Emily," Paul says.

"Thanks," I say.

We sit in silence for the next thirty minutes.

Bride of Phil WE ARE HAVING BRUNCH. Me, Mom, and Phil. They are a pair now. I'm the reason we have to wait for a table for four because we no longer fit at a deuce. There's no seeing Mom without seeing Phil. My popularity is on the decline. No more last-minute urgent phone calls about a spa day I have to attend, or a breakfast I need to be ready for in thirty minutes.

"We have some news," Mom says.

I get a pit in my stomach. One of them must have cancer again. Which one? Let it be Phil. Let it be Phil. I know, I know, that's just terrible. Please, for the love of G.o.d, let it be Phil.

"We're getting married," Phil says. "It's going to be an extravaganza."

"In three to six months," my mom says.

Phil was originally given three to six months to live. It's their magically morbid joke.

"Why wait the traditional one year?" Phil asks.

"I can't think of a single reason," I say "It will be a momentous occasion," Phil says.

"And I know exactly what I want my dress to look like," Mom says. "I want it to be just like Tara's, but instead of white, I'd like it to be lilac. And I'll use better-quality fabrics, of course."

"Who's Tara?" I ask.

"Who's Tara?" Mom says, her eyes rolling. "Tara from The Pa.s.sionate & the Youthful. You remember her wedding! We watched it over and over again."

"Oh, right," I say. It was a three-ring circus of a wedding. We recorded it, and even when we viewed it a second and third time, we cried at their I dos. We were so grateful for any outlet for our emotions at that time. "But you're skipping the headgear, right?"

"Undecided," Mom says.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs: What the h.e.l.l do you see in each other?

I imagine Joanie shouting back: Life!

The thought of this, not her wedding, makes me eerily happy. My mom is getting married. She's leaping forward into the great unknown with a smile on her face.

"I'm thrilled for you both," I say.

"What other mother gets the double joy of planning her daughter's wedding and her own wedding?" Mom asks.

Smell of New Leather I SMELL NEW LEATHER even before I'm inside his office, and it can mean only one thing: he got a real couch! It's brown leather. Clubby-looking. It has some strategically placed throws on it that I can't imagine him shopping for. Gifts?

"You said-"

But before he could finish, I said: "I know what I said." I lay on the couch. A deal's a deal.

There is a new painting, too. It stretched the distance of the couch, a field of poppies. Not masculine. Not feminine exactly.

"What's the story on the painting?" I ask.

"It's by a French painter. Reminded me of van Gogh without all of the craziness," Paul says.

"I think that's what people like about van Gogh," I say.

"Maybe," he says.

"The painting is nice. The new couch is nice. But that daybed you had? That was absurd! It wasn't good enough for you. Neither was the rug that I'm sure everyone was probably tripping over for fifteen years. So good work on getting out of your funk. I think you're starting to care about yourself again."

I hear laughter.

"What?" I say.

"I think you're going to like the couch," Paul says.

Back in the World WENDY'S NAILS ARE painted red. First time I've seen her with a manicure-ever. Looks a little severe, but it seems so sweet that she's trying to get back into the world.

"What should I wear?" Wendy says. "I'll be going from work to a date."

"You can never go wrong with stretchy stirrup pants and an oversized T. And don't forget the scrunchie," I say. "How about a suit?"

"A suit?" Wendy asks. "My ex said that women in suits scare men. That's when I started wearing separates. I think it was too late by then."

"More casual," I agreed. "You know, Wendy, you're so organized, and on top of things, maybe relaxing your wardrobe will relax you on the date. It might be a nice complement to your strengths."