Losing the Light I CAN''T BELIEVE you''re leaving Manhattan. How am I supposed to handle our friendship becoming a long-distance relationship?" I collapse back onto my couch with a long sigh and stare out the window. The air has that thinness today as if it might snow. "You''re being dramatic. And if you think you''re the first person to make a joke about upstate being ''long distance,'' you''re sadly mistaken. The house is only thirty minutes on Metro-North--it takes longer to get to the Upper West Side." I decide I want it to snow. Chalk it up to the overabundance of cozy feelings of home and hearth that I''m currently experiencing.

I''m dreaming of the working fireplace in our new two-bedroom Victorian house in Riverdale and of living there with a man whose father taught him how to build a fire. It''s not a large house, but it dwarfs this apartment, and the idea of living in a space where I might occasionally be alone with my thoughts is incredibly novel; it''s been years since I''ve been able to hear myself think. Kate lets out an exasperated click. "First of all, since when do I go to the Upper West Side? Secondly, I don''t do Penn Station. You can''t make me!" "Ha! Grand Central. You can''t even complain about that. There''s a Cipriani near there!" "How can you do this to me? First the engagement and then the suburbs? And don''t think I don''t know what''s coming next." "Don''t you dare.

Are you trying to make me break out in hives?" "I''m just saying"--Kate gives a triumphant little laugh--"I know what happens to people when they leave Manhattan." "Babies don''t just happen to people. At least not people who paid attention in health class." "I''m from Alabama. Abstinence-only education, remember?" "We''ve strayed so far from the point I don''t even know what it was." "The point is you are coming to my party tomorrow. No excuses. You owe me that.

" "I just have so much packing to do," I say weakly, knowing I''m not unwilling to be cajoled into going. James and I have a lovely life together, but I can''t say I don''t miss my single days now and then, the best of which I spent with Kate, who is easily my most glamorous friend. Kate and I have known each other for seven years, since she was an assistant at Vogue the year I was a junior copy editor there. She always looks professionally styled in that way that''s engineered to look incidental, with scarves and expensive T-shirts and perfectly done smoky eye makeup. She''s forever going to restaurants where she is on a first-name basis with the owners and runs into at least ten people she knows; new places with no sign by the door and no reviews online. Ever since I''ve known her, she''s been the kind of girl who is always on the list. "I''ll help you pack!" she says. "No, you won''t," I say, smiling.

"But I''ll come to the party anyway. Just for you." "Hurray!" "Did you send me the invite?" "Only like three weeks ago! Whatever, you''re so busy and important. New Museum at seven o''clock tomorrow. Gotta run to meet Alejandro. Love you!" Mission accomplished, Kate gets off the line. I put down my phone and look around, knowing I should do some more packing before bed but feeling too exhausted. Already half of my life is in boxes.

I''ll miss our little apartment downtown. I''ve been trying to convince myself that being outside the city won''t matter, giving myself the same argument I just gave Kate: the thirty-minutes-on-the-train case. But it won''t be the same. And I''ve decided that this is okay with me. I''ve already given in and let my head and heart be commandeered by dreams of a different life, one with real furniture and counter space, a little yard, and maybe a dog. I look at the clock and wonder where James is; it''s past ten already. His boss is fond of dragging him to dinner with clients since no one else in the boutique advertising firm where James works has quite such an affable demeanor and honest face. He puts people at ease.

He won''t want to come to this party with me tomorrow, but I''ll ask him anyway if for no other reason than to watch him do his spot-on impression of Kate''s too-young, dimwit boyfriend, Alejandro, a model/DJ from Brazil ("But, uh, we make the party, yes?"). James does like Kate, but not enough to want to come and hang around her fashiony crowd. It''s not his scene and I love him for it. It''s not mine either, but I''m more willing to take an anthropological stance on the beautiful people. I pour myself a glass of red wine. It has a slight hint of vinegar, but I ignore it and drink it anyway. I haven''t packed my party dresses yet, so I wander over to my closet to thumb through them. How did I ever end up with so many? I cringe when I realize that I''ve worn several of them only once, one of them not at all.

I wonder for a moment about the imaginary life I bought these for. Not the life of a freelance copy editor who works from home and spends many of her nights happily eating takeout with her new fiancé. I must have thought I''d end up with Kate''s life. I go back to the couch where my laptop is open and search my e-mail for the invitation from Bliss & Bliss, the PR firm where Kate''s a senior account manager, run by two terrifying blond sisters in their fifties who''ve been pulled back nearly into their thirties by top-of-the-line plastic surgery. I''ve met them a dozen times but they never remember me. Ah, here it is. I''d completely skimmed over it. The subject line is cut off by my in-box: Bliss & Bliss invites you to spend an evening at the New Museum with .

I maximize the e-mail to see who it is that Bliss & Bliss is inviting me to spend an evening with . photographer Alex de Persaud to celebrate the release of his book GFY: Paris and New York by the Night. I push back from my desk as though adding the extra bit of distance might change the words on the screen, then laugh out loud; a shrill, manic laugh. Taking a deep breath, I scroll down the screen a bit. I''m greeted with an image of the cover of Alex''s new coffee-table book of party photographs. This I''ve seen before. A couple of weeks ago I had a small fit of post-engagement nostalgia and found myself mentally cataloging all of the various romances that had led me to the man I would marry. So with the usual trepidation in my heart I googled Alex''s name and news of this book came up.

In the beginning, when I first moved to the city, I searched for him regularly, with the vague notion that New York was the sort of place he might have ended up. I looked for information about him if for no other reason than to confirm he still existed somewhere other than in my memory and imagination, in which he loomed so large. That was before everyone was online, before everyone''s entire social and professional life was cataloged there. Now, given how easy it was to look up and contact completely unexceptional people you''d once known, you would think that someone prominent--even a little famous within certain circles--such as Alex would have every last detail about him recorded somewhere. He wasn''t so famous in the mainstream that someone like me--unconnected to his industry--would necessarily know of his work if I hadn''t gone looking. But living in downtown Manhattan, you tended to hear of such things as the popular photo blog By the Night, to which he''d become a contributor five years ago. The blog covered the posh international party scene: film festivals and music festivals with the right kind of celebrities in attendance, polo matches, and myriad other fêtes for fancy people. Alex covered Paris and the south of France; he photographed soccer players and models, French actresses, and visiting Russian oligarchs.

After a couple of years the site was defunct, but Alex''s career seemingly continued on its upward trajectory. He, or someone who worked for him, maintained a website with a sleek catalog of his editorial work, but the only contact information was for press. Other than a couple of interviews in Paris Match and BlackBook, there was nothing about his personal life anywhere. Every time a new social-networking site became popular--MySpace, Facebook, ASmallWorld--I looked for information about him, to no avail. The closest I ever came was a Facebook fan page devoted to his work with a couple hundred members. A therapist I went to see years ago told me that I had to focus on accepting that I would most likely never know what happened after I left France. But how do you come to accept something like that? She didn''t seem to know, so I stopped seeing her. But that was all years ago.

If any tenuous connection existed now between Alex and me, it would be through Kate. A cold chill suddenly runs through me. Does Kate know him? Has this connection been there all this time? I text Kate: Party looks fun! Do you know the photographer? She texts me back uncharacteristically fast: No. Some French guy. Tracey Bliss is in LOVE with him! So happy you''re coming! Xoxo I want to pepper Kate with more questions about him, but for some reason I hold back. I''ve never told Kate about France, about Sophie. I haven''t told anyone I''ve met since I''ve been living here. I''ve never known quite what to say about it, so I don''t even begin; how could I tell one part of the story without telling the rest? It was all anyone could talk about during my last.