Something Borrowed (25 page)

before the wedding. Time is running out. I tell myself not to panic,

to savor the present.

But I can sense a recent shift. I allow myself to think of the future

now. I've stopped feeling sick when I imagine Dex canceling the

wedding. I've stopped feeling that my loyalty to Darcy should

always come before all else, namely what I want. I'm still not sure

where things will go, where I want them to go, but my fear of

breaking the rules has dulled somewhat, as has my instinct to put

Darcy above myself.

Tonight Dex talks about work. He often tells me about his deals,

and although I am interested in the mechanics of it all, what I

really like is the color that Dex provides about the major players at

his firm, the people who fill his daily life. For example, I know that

he likes working for Roger Bollinger, the head of his group. Dex is

Roger's golden boy and Roger is Dexter's role model.

When he

tells a story about Roger, he imitates Roger's Boston accent in a

way that convinces me that if I ever meet Roger it will seem as

though Roger is imitating Dex imitating Roger. Roger is barely

five feet four (my question guys usually don't supply details on

the appearance of other guys and are far more likely to report on

wit or intelligence) but it doesn't hurt him with women, according

to Dex. Incidentally, Dex reported this tidbit matter-of-factly, not

admiringly, which reassures me that Dex does not have womanizing tendencies. Womanizers feel either (a) impressed by

or (b) competitive with fellow womanizers.

He finishes telling me a story about Roger and then asks, "Did I

tell you that Roger was engaged twice?"

"No," I say, thinking that he knows he hasn't. It's not the kind of

thing you forget sharing, particularly given our circumstances. I

feel suddenly chilly, and pull the sheet up over both of us.

"Yeah. He broke it off both times. He keeps saying things to me

like, 'It's not ovah till it's ovah' and 'The fat lady hasn't sung yet.' "

I wonder if Roger knows anything about me, or if he's just doing

the typical bachelor banter. "When?" I ask Dex.

"When does the fat lady sing?" Dex curls his body around mine.

"Well, yeah. Sort of." We are getting into sensitive territory, and I

am thankful he can't see my eyes. "When did he break off the

engagements?"

"Not sure about the first time. But the second time was right

before the ceremony."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope. The bride was getting dressed when he went to her room.

Knocked on her door and gave her the news right in front of her

mother, her grandmother, and her ninety-five-year-old greatgrandmother."

"Was she surprised?" I ask, realizing that it's a dumb question.

Nobody expects the groom to barge in and call off the wedding.

"Apparently. But she shouldn't have been that surprised She

must've known he had done it once before."

"Was there somebody else?" I ask tentatively.

"Don't think so. No."

"Then why did he do it?"

"He said he couldn't see it lasting forever."

"Oh."

"What are you thinking?"

He must know what I'm thinking.

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

The dialogue of the new relationship. After a couple is established,

the question becomes a relic.

"I'm thinking that I don't believe in that wedding-day, Julia

Roberts Runaway Bride or groom routine."

"You don't believe in it?"

I am treading carefully. "I just think it's unnecessary needlessly

mean," I say. "If someone is going to call it off, they should do it

before the wedding day."

My message isn't exactly subtle.

"Well, I agree, but don't you think it's better to pull the cord than

make a mistake? Don't you owe it to the other person and yourself

and the whole institution of marriage to say something, even if

you come to the realization late in the game?"

"I'm in no way advocating the making of that sort of mistake. I'm

just saying you should figure it out before the wedding day. That's

what engagements are for. And in my book, by the wedding day

it's a done deal. Suck it up and make the best of it.

That's a cold

move, telling her when the gown is on."

I picture Darcy in this humiliating scenario, and my empathy for

her is unequivocal.

"You think? Even if it just ends up in a divorce?" he asks.

"Even if. You ask that girl if she'd rather be divorced or dissed in

her dress in front of all those people."

He makes a noncommittal "hmmm" sound so I can't tell whether

he agrees. I wonder what it all will mean for us. If he's even

thinking about us at all. He has to be. I feel my muscles tense, my

foot twitch nervously. I tell myself that it's not July Fourth yet. I

don't want to think about it anymore at all.

I reach over Dex and turn up my stereo. Creedence Clearwater

Revival is singing "Lookin' Out My Back Door." Talk about an

upbeat song. It is exactly what I need to block out images of Dex

and Darcy's wedding.

Instead, I picture a road trip with Dexter. We are in a white

convertible with the top down, sunglasses on, trucking along a

stretch of highway with no other cars in sight.

Bother me tomorrow, today I'll buy no sorrow. Doo, doo, doo,

lookin' out my back door.

Every year over the July Fourth holiday, there is a mass exodus

from Manhattan. People head for the Hamptons, the Cape,

Martha's Vineyard, even New Jersey. Nobody stays.

Not even Les.

The summer of the bar exam, when Nate and I stayed in the city

to study, I was amazed at what a different, downright peaceful

place it was without all of the people. Of course, I plan on staying

home this year too I can't stomach the thought of seeing Dex and

Darcy together. I call Dex and tell him this. He says what I have

been hoping he would say.

"I'll stay too."

"Really?" My heart races just imagining spending the night with

Dex.

"Yeah. Let's do it."

So we devise our plan: we will both "discover" at the last moment

that we have to work. We will bitch and moan up a storm but

insist to Darcy that she should go on and have fun without us. By

then she will have a fresh pedicure, new outfits purchased, parties

lined up, and reservations made at her favorite restaurants. So

there's no way she'll stay home, and Dex and I will be together,

uninterrupted for days. We will fall asleep together, wake up

together, and eat our meals together. And although Dex hasn't

confirmed it, I assume that at some point, we will have our big

talk.

I share the plan with Hillary, who has high expectations. She is

convinced that the long weekend will be the turning point in my

relationship with Dex. As she leaves work at noon on the third,

she stops by my office and tells me to have a great weekend.

"Good luck." She crosses her fingers in the air.

"What do you mean? You think we're going to get caught?"

"No. That's not what I meant. I mean good luck with your talk.

You are going to talk to Dex about what's going on, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I suppose so."

"You suppose so?"

"I'm sure we will. That is the plan."

"Okay. Make sure that you do." She gives me a stern look. "It's

crunch time."

I grimace.

"Rachel, do not wimp out on this. If you want to be with him,

now's the time to pipe up."

"I know. I got it," I say. And for a second I picture myself being

Hillary-like. Strong, bold, and confident.

"I'll call you if your girl seems at all suspicious."

I nod, feeling a stab of guilt over such plotting against Darcy.

Hillary knows what I'm thinking. "You gotta do what you gotta

do," she says. "Don't turn soft now."

At seven sharp, just as planned, Dexter arrives at my door with a

fresh haircut that further accentuates his cheekbones.

He holds a

bottle of red wine, a small black duffel bag, and a bunch of white

Casablanca lilies, the kind you find at every Korean deli for three

bucks a stem. Even though they are inexpensive and somewhat

wilted, I like them as much as my expensive roses.

"These are for you," he says. "Sorry. They're kind of dying

already."

"I love them," I say. "Thank you."

He follows me into the kitchen as I look for a vase to put them in.

I point to my favorite blue one in my top cupboard, just out of my

reach. "Can you get that for me?"

He retrieves the vase and sets it on my counter as I begin

trimming the stems and arranging them. I am a domestic goddess

as far as he can tell.

"We did it," Dex whispers into my ear.

Goose bumps rise on my arms. I manage to get the flowers in the

vase and add a little water before turning around to kiss him. His

neck is warm, and the back of his hair is still damp from his

haircut. He smells of cologne, which he doesn't usually wear. Of

course, I am also wearing perfume, which I don't usually wear.

But this is a special occasion. When you are used to snippets of

time, our stretch of days might as well be forever. The way I feel

reminds me of bursting off the bus on the last day of school before

summer vacation. No worries except what to do first ride bikes,

go to the pool, or play Truth or Dare with Darcy and Annalise in

my cool, unfinished basement. Today I know what I want to do

first and I am pretty sure we will be doing it soon. I kiss Dex's

neck as I inhale his sweet skin and the scent of lilies.

"This weekend is going to be out of control," he says, sliding my

tank top over my head, letting it fall at our feet. He unhooks my

bra, cups my breasts and then my face. His fingers press the back

of my neck.

"I'm so glad you're here," I say. "I'm so happy."

"Me too," he says, as he works on my button-fly.

I lead Dex over to my bed and remove his clothes, admiring his

body from every angle, kissing him in new places. On the back of

his knees. On his elbows. We have time.

We make love slowly, each of us stopping the other at various

points until we can't stand it any longer, and then reversing in the

other reckless, breathless direction. He feels more mine than he

ever has, and I know why: he is not going home to her tonight. He

will not have to wash off, or check for signs of our togetherness. I

sink my nails into his back and pull him harder against me.

After we make love, we order food from the diner and eat burgers

by candlelight. Then we climb back into bed, where we talk and

listen to music, fighting through waves of fatigue so that we can

savor our time together, not waste it sleeping.

Our only interruption comes around midnight, when Dex says he

should probably phone Darcy. I tell him it's a good idea,

wondering whether I should give him privacy or stay in bed beside

him. I decide to go to the bathroom, let him do his thing. I run

water so I can't hear any piece of their conversation. A minute

later, Dex calls my name.

I open the door a crack. "Are you off?"

"Yeah. C'mere. You didn't have to leave."

I get back in bed beside him, find his hand.

"Sorry about that," he says.

"No problem. I understand."

"Just taking precautions I figure she won't call now. I told her I

was on my way home to bed."

"What is she doing?"

"They're all at the Talkhouse. Drunk and happy."

But we are sober and happier, all tangled up in my sheets, our

heads resting on one pillow. When Dex sits up to blow out the

candle burning on my windowsill, I notice that trimmings from

his haircut have transferred from his neck to my white pillowcase.

There's something about those tiny black hairs that makes me so

happy I want to cry.

I close my eyes so that I won't.

At some point, we fall asleep.

And then morning comes.

I wake up, remembering the first morning we woke up together,

the panic that gripped my heart on that Sunday I turned thirty.

The feeling I have now could not be more different.

Calm joy.

"Hi, Rachel."

"Hi, Dex."

We are both grinning.

"Happy Fourth of July," he says, his hand resting on my inner

thigh.

"Happy Fourth."

"It's not your typical Fourth. No fireworks planned, no picnics, no

beach. You okay with that?" he asks.

"Yeah. I'm okay with that," I say.

We make love and then shower together. I am selfconscious at

first, but after a few minutes, I relax and let him wash my back.

We stay under the hot water (he likes his showers as hot as I do)

long past the point of wrinkled fingers. Then we are out in the

world, walking down Third Avenue to Starbucks. It is a humid,

gray day, and rain feels likely. But we don't need good weather.

Happiness wells inside me.

We are alone in line to order, Marvin Gaye singing over the sound

system. I order a tall skim latte. Dex says, "Give me the same thing

in a large with, um just regular milk."

I like that he abandons the Starbucks terminology, skipping the