Something Borrowed (11 page)

"So?" Darcy asks. "Are you going to tell us or not?"

"Not."

"If I promise not to tell Dex?"

"Still not."

Darcy makes an exasperated sound. Then she tells me that she

will find out one way or another and hangs up.

The next I hear from Dex is on Thursday night, the day before we

are scheduled to leave for the Hamptons.

"Do you want a ride? We have room for one more," he says.

"Claire's coming with us. And your boyfriend's in."

"Well, in that case, I'd love a ride," I say, trying to sound breezy

and casual. I need to show him that I've moved on. I have moved

on.

At five o'clock the next day, we are assembled in Dexter's car,

hoping to get ahead of the traffic. But the roads are already

clogged. It takes us an hour to get through the Midtown Tunnel

and nearly four hours to make the 110-mile drive to East

Hampton. I sit in the backseat between Claire and Marcus. Darcy

is in a giddy, hyper mood. She spends most of the car ride facing

the three of us in the backseat, raising various topics, asking

questions, and generally carrying the conversation. She makes

things feel celebratory; her good moods are as infectious as her

bad ones are contaminating. Marcus is the second most talkative

in our group. For a thirty-mile stretch, he and Darcy are a running

comedy routine, making fun of each other. She calls him lazy, he

calls her high maintenance. Claire and I chime in occasionally.

Dex says virtually nothing. He is so quiet that at one point Darcy

yells at him to stop being such a bore.

"I'm driving," he says. "I need to concentrate."

Then he looks at me in the rearview mirror. I wonder what he's

thinking. His eyes give nothing away.

It is getting dark when we stop for snacks and beers at a gas

station on Route 27. Claire sidles up to me in front of the chips,

loops her arm through mine, and says, "I can tell he really likes

you." For a second I am startled, thinking that she means Dex.

Then I realize she is talking about Marcus.

"Marcus and I are just friends," I say, selecting a can of Pringles

Light.

"Oh, c'mon now. Darcy told me about your date," she says.

Claire is always in the know about everything the latest trend, the

hot new bar opening, the next big party. She has her manicured

fingers on the pulse of the city. And knowing the details of

Manhattan's singles is part of her bag too.

"It was just one date," I say, happy that Darcy has not determined

what happened with Marcus, despite a barrage of questioning.

She even probed him with an e-mail; he forwarded me the

message with his subject line reading "Nosy bastards."

"Well, the summer is long," Claire says wisely. "You're smart not

to commit until you see what else is out there."

We arrive at our summer house, a small cottage with limited

charm. Claire found it when she came out alone in mid-February,

disgusted with all of us for not sacrificing a free weekend to

house-hunt. She organized everything, including setting up the

other half of the share. As we tour the house, she apologizes again

for the lack of a pool, and laments that the common areas aren't

really large enough for good parties. We reassure her that the big

backyard with a grill makes up for that. Plus, we are close enough

to the beach to walk, which, in my opinion, is the most important

thing about a summerhouse.

We unpack the car and find our bedrooms. Darcy and Dex have

the room with the king-sized bed. Marcus has his own room,

which could come in handy. And Claire has her own room a

reward for her efforts. I am rooming with Hillary, who blew off

work today and took the train in last night. Hillary is always

blowing off work. I don't know anyone more laid-back about

work, particularly at a big firm. She comes to work late every

day closer and closer to eleven with each passing year and she

refuses to play the games that other associates play, like leaving a

jacket on the back of their chair or a cup full of coffee on their

desk before leaving at night so that partners will think they've

only left for a short break. She billed fewer than two thousand

hours last year and therefore received no bonus. "Do the math and

you'll realize that making a bonus comes out to less per hour than

flipping burgers at McDonald's," she said this year on the day

checks were handed out.

I call her on my cell now. "Where are you?"

"Cyril's," she shouts over the crowd. "Want me to stay here or

meet you guys somewhere?"

I pass along the question to Darcy and Claire.

"Tell her we're going straight to the Talkhouse," Darcy says. "It's

already late."

Then, as I expected, Claire and Darcy insist on changing their

clothes. And Marcus, who is still wearing his work clothes, goes to

change too. So Dex and I sit in the den, opposite each other,

waiting. He holds the remote control but does not turn the TV on.

It is the first time we have been alone since the Incident. I am

conscious of sweat accumulating under my arms. Why am I

nervous? What happened is behind us. It is over. I must relax, act

normal.

"Aren't you going to doll up for your boyfriend?" Dex asks quietly,

without looking at me.

"Very funny." Even the mere exchange of words now feels illicit.

"Well, aren't you?"

"I'm fine in this," I say, glancing down at my favorite jeans and

black knit top. What he doesn't know is that I already put much

thought into this outfit when I changed after work.

"So you and Marcus make a swell couple." He glances furtively at

the staircase.

"Thanks. So do you and Darcy."

We exchange a lingering look, too loaded with potential meaning

to begin to interpret. And then, before he can respond, Darcy

bounds down the stairs in a curve-hugging chartreuse sheath. She

hands Dex a pair of scissors and crouches at his feet, lifting her

hair. "Can you cut the tag, please?"

He snips. She stands and spins.

"Well? How do I look?"

"Nice," he says, and then glances at me sheepishly as if the oneword

compliment to his fiancee might somehow upset me.

"You look awesome," I say, to show him that it doesn't.

Not in the

least.

We pay the cover and make our way through the massive crowd at

Stephen's Talkhouse, our favorite bar in Amagansett, saying hello

to all of the people we know from various circles back in the city.

We find Hillary at the bar with a Budweiser, wearing cutoff jeans,

a white scoop-neck T-shirt, and the kind of plain blue flip-flops

that Darcy and Claire would only wear to their pedicurist. There is

not a pretentious bone in Hillary's body, and as always, I am so

happy to see her.

"Hey, guys!" she yells. "What took you so long?"

"Traffic was a bitch," Dex says. "And then certain people had to

get ready."

"Well, of course we had to get ready!" Darcy says, looking down to

admire her outfit.

Hillary insists that we need a kick start to our evening and orders

a round of shots. She hands them out as we stand in a tight circle,

ready to drink together.

"To the best summer ever!" Darcy says, tossing her long, coconutscented

hair behind her shoulders. She says it at the start of every

summer. She always has wildly high expectations that I never

share. But maybe this summer she will be right.

We all throw back our shots, which taste like straight vodka. Then

Dex buys another round, and when he hands me my beer, his

fingers graze mine. I wonder if he does it on purpose.

"Thank you," I say.

"Anytime," he murmurs, holding my gaze as he did in the car.

I count to three silently and then look away.

As the night wears on, I find myself watching Dex and Darcy

interact. I am surprised by the territorial pangs I feel as I observe

them together. It is not exactly jealousy, but something related to

it. I notice little things that didn't use to register. Like once, she

slipped her four fingers into the back of his jeans right at the top.

And another time, when he was standing behind her, he gathered

all of her hair in one hand and sort of held it up in a makeshift

ponytail before dropping it back at her shoulders.

Right now, he leans in to say something to her. She nods and

smiles. I imagine that his words were "I want you tonight" or

something along those lines. I wonder if they have had sex since

he and I were together. Surely, yes. And that bothers me in some

weird way. Maybe that happens whenever you watch someone on

your List with someone else. I tell myself that I have no right to be

jealous. That I had no business adding him to my List in the first

place.

I try to focus on Marcus. I stand near him, talk to him, laugh at his

jokes. When he asks me to dance, I say yes without hesitation. I

follow him onto the crowded dance floor. We work up a good

sweat, dancing and laughing. I realize that although there is no

great chemistry, I am having fun. And who knows?

Maybe this

will lead to something.

"They're dying to know what happened on our date,"

Marcus says

into my ear.

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

"Darcy inquired again."

"She did?"

"Yup."

"When?"

"Tonight. Right after we got here."

I hesitate and then ask, "Did Dex say anything?"

"No, but he was standing right next to her looking pretty darn

interested."

"Some nerve," I say playfully.

"I know, the nosy bastards And don't look now, but they're

staring at us." His face touches mine, his whiskers scratching my

cheek.

I drape my arms over his shoulders and move my body flush

against his. "Well then," I say. "Let's give them something to look

at."

So what's the deal with you and

Marcus?" Hillary asks me the next morning as she picks through

the pile of clothes that have already accumulated beside her bed. I

resist the urge to fold them for her.

"No deal, really." I get out of bed and promptly start to make it.

"Potential?" She pulls on a pair of sweats and ties the drawstring,

cinching them at hip level.

"Maybe."

Last year Hillary broke up with Corey, her boyfriend of four years,

a nice, smart, all-around great guy. But Hillary was convinced that

as good as the relationship was, it wasn't good enough.

"He's not

the One," she kept saying. 1 remember Darcy informing her that

she might revise that opinion in her mid-thirties, a statement

Hillary and I both rehashed at length later. A classic, tactless

Darcyism. Yet, as time passes, I can't help wondering if Hillary

made a mistake. Here she is, one year later, embroiled in the

fruitless blind-dating scene while, rumor has it, her ex has moved

into a Tribeca loft with a twenty-three-year-old med student who

is a dead ringer for Cameron Diaz. Hillary claims that it doesn't

bother her. I find that very hard to believe, even for someone with

her moxie. In any case, she doesn't seem to be in a hurry to find a

Corey replacement.

"Summer potential or long-term potential?" she asks me, running

her hands through her short, sandy hair.

"I don't know. Maybe long-term potential."

"Well, you looked like a total couple last night," she says. "Out

there dancing."

"We did?" I ask, thinking that if we looked like a couple, Dex must

know that I'm not dwelling on him.

She nods, finds her "Corporate Challenge" T-shirt, and sniffs the

armpits before tossing it over to me. "Is this clean?

Smell it."

"I'm not gonna smell your shirt," I say, throwing it back. "You're

gross."

She laughs and puts on her obviously clean enough shirt. "Yeah

You two were out there whispering and laughing. I thought for

sure you were going to hook up last night, and that I would get the

room to myself."

I laugh. "Sorry to disappoint."

"You disappointed him more."

"Nah. He just said good night when we got home. Not even a kiss."

Hillary knows about the first kiss. "Why not?"

"I don't know. I think we're both proceeding with caution. We'll

have a lot of contact between now and September You know,

he's in the wedding party too. If things blow up, it could be bad."

She looks as if she is considering my point. For one second I am

tempted to tell Hillary everything about Dex. I trust her. But I

don't share, reasoning that I can always tell her, but I can't untell

her and erase the knowledge from her mind. When we are all

together, I would feel even more awkward, constantly thinking

that she's thinking about it. And anyway it is over.

There is really

nothing to talk about.

We go downstairs. Our housemates have already assembled

around the kitchen table.

"It's kick-ass outside," Darcy says, standing, stretching, and

showing off her flat stomach under a cropped T-shirt.

She sits

back down at the table, returning to her game of solitaire.