Something Borrowed (36 page)

have. I close my eyes and picture the wedding scenes that Hillary

painted for me. I then add my own honeymoon reel Darcy clad in

her new lingerie, posing seductively on their bed. I can see it all so

perfectly.

And suddenly, all at once, it is clear to me why I won't force Dex's

hand. Why I said nothing over July Fourth, nothing in the time

since, nothing last night. It all comes down to expectations. In my

heart, I don't actually believe that Dex is going to call off the

wedding and be with me, no matter what I do or say. I believe that

those Dex and Darcy wedding and honeymoon scenes will unfold

while I am left on the sidelines, alone. I can already feel my grief,

can envision my final time with Dex, if it hasn't happened already.

Sure, I have occasionally scripted a different ending, one in which

Dex and I are together, but those images are always short-lived,

never escaping the realm of "what if." In short, I have no real faith

in my own happiness. And then there is Darcy. She is a woman

who believes that things should fall into her lap, and consequently, they do. They always have. She wins because she

expects to win. I do not expect to get what I want, so I don't. And I

don't even try.

It is Saturday afternoon, and we're in the Hamptons. I took the

train out this morning, and now our whole group is reunited in

the backyard. The togetherness is a recipe for disaster.

Julian and

Hillary are playing badminton. They ask if anyone wants to

challenge them in a doubles match. Dex says sure, he will. Hillary

glares at him. "Who do you want to be your partner, Dexter?"

Until this point, Dexter did not know that I told Hillary anything

about us. I had two reasons for keeping him in the dark on this: I

didn't want him to feel uncomfortable around her, and I didn't

want him to have free license to tell a friend.

But Hillary makes her snide remark in a way that you simply

cannot miss if you are aware of the situation. Which apparently

Julian is, because he gives her a look of warning. It has become

clear that he will be the steadying force in their duo.

She does not stop there. "Well, Dex, who is it going to be?" She

rests her hand on her hip and points at him with her racquet.

Dex stares back at Hillary. His jaw clenches. He is pissed.

"What if two people both want to be your partner, then what?"

Hillary's voice is dripping with innuendo.

Darcy seems oblivious to the tension. So do Marcus and Claire.

Perhaps everyone is used to Hillary's occasional confrontational

tone. Maybe they just chalk it up to the lawyer in her.

Dex turns around and looks at us. "Any of you guys wanna play?"

Marcus waves his hand dismissively. "Naw, man. No, thanks.

That's a girly game."

Darcy giggles. "Yeah, Dex. You're a girly man."

Claire says no, she hates sports.

"Badminton is hardly a sport," Marcus says, opening a can of Budweiser.

"It's like calling tic-tac-toe a sport."

"Looks like it's between Darcy and Rachel. Doesn't it?"

Hillary

says. "You want in, Rach?"

I am frozen at my post at the picnic table, flanked by Darcy and

Claire.

"No, thanks," I say softly.

"You want me to be your partner, honey?" Darcy asks.

She looks

across the yard at Dex as she shades her eyes with her hand.

"Sure," he says. "C'mon then."

Hillary snorts as Darcy hops up from the table with a warning that

she sucks at badminton.

Dex looks down at the grass, waiting for Darcy to take the fourth

racquet and join him in the plot of grass outlined by various flipflops

and sneakers.

"We play to ten," Hillary says, tossing the bird up for her first

serve.

"Why do you get to serve first?" Dex asks.

"Here," she says, tossing the bird over the net. "By all means."

Dex catches the bird and glares at her.

The game is cutthroat, at least every time Hillary and Dex have

control. The bird is their ammunition and they smack it with full

force, aiming at one another. Marcus does the color in a Howard

Cosell voice. "And the mood is tense here in East Hampton as

both sides strive for the championship." Claire is cheering for

everyone. I say nothing.

The score is 9-8, Hillary and Julian lead. Julian serves underhand.

Darcy squeals and swats with her eyes closed and through sheer

luck happens to make contact with the bird. She sends it back

across the net to Hillary. Hillary lines up her shot and hits a

vicious forearm that conjures Venus Williams. The bird sails

through the air, whizzing just over the net toward Darcy. Darcy

cowers, preparing to swat at the bird, as

Dex yells, "It's out! It's out!" His face is red and covered with

beads of sweat.

The bird lands squarely beside Claire's flip-flop.

"Out!" Dexter yells, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm.

"Bullshit. The line is good!" Hillary shouts back.

"That's match!"

Marcus offers good-naturedly that he doesn't think a badminton

game should be called a match. Claire is up off the bench, trotting

over to the bird to examine its alignment with her shoe.

Hillary

and Julian join her from their side of the net. There are five pairs

of eyes peering down at the bird. Julian says that it is a tough call.

Hillary glares at him before she and Dex resume their shouting of

"out" and "in," like a couple of playground enemies.

Claire announces a "do-over" in her best "let's make peace" voice.

But clearly she was not an outdoor girl growing up because

declaring a do-over is one of the biggest causes of dissension in

the neighborhood. Hillary proves this to be the case.

"Bullshit,"

she says. "No do-over. The line has been in all day."

"All day? We've been playing for twenty minutes," Dex says

snidely.

"I don't think it's landed on the line yet," Darcy offers.

But not as

if she cares. As competitive as she is in real-life matters, sports

and games do not concern her. She bought properties in Monopoly based on color; she thought the little houses were so

much cuter than the "big, nasty Red Roof Inns."

"Fine. If you want to cheat your way through life,"

Hillary says to

Dex, disguising her true intent with a friendly smile, as though

simply engaging in playful banter. Her eyes are wide, innocent.

I think I might faint.

"Okay, you win," Dex says to Hillary, as if he could not care less.

Let Hillary win her stupid game.

Hillary doesn't want it this way. She looks disoriented, unsure

whether to reargue the point or savor her victory. I am afraid of

what she will say next.

Dex tosses his racquet in the grass under a tree. "I'm gonna take a

shower," he says, heading for the house.

"He's pissed," Darcy says, offering us a blinding glimpse of the

obvious. Of course, she thinks it's about the game.

"Dex hates to

lose."

"Yeah, well he can be a big baby," Hillary says with disgust.

I note (with satisfaction? hope? superiority?) that Darcy does not

defend Dex. If he were mine, I'd say something. Of course, if he

were mine, Hillary would not have been so merciless in the first

place.

I give her a measured glance, as if to say, enough.

She shrugs, plops down in the grass, and scratches a mosquito

bite on her ankle until it bleeds. She swipes at the blood with a

blade of grass, then looks up at me again.

"Well?" she says defiantly.

That night, Dex is so quiet at dinner that he borders on surly. But

I cannot tell if he is mad at Hillary, or at me for telling her. He

ignores both of us. Hillary ignores him right back, except for an

occasional barb, while I make feeble attempts to talk to him.

"What are you ordering?" I ask him as he scans his menu.

He refuses to look up. "I'm not sure."

"Go figure," Hillary mumbles. "Why don't you order two meals?"

Julian squeezes her shoulder and shoots me an apologetic look.

Dex turns in his chair toward Marcus and manages to avoid all

conversation and eye contact with me and Hillary for the rest of

our dinner. I am seized by worry. Are you mad? Are you mad? Are

you mad? I think as I struggle to eat my swordfish.

Please don't be

mad. I am desperate, frantic to talk to Dex and clear the air for

our remaining time together. I don't want to end on such a sour

note.

Later at the Talkhouse, Dex and I are finally alone. I am ready to

apologize for Hillary when he turns on me, his green eyes flashing.

"Why the hell did you tell her?" he hisses.

I am not well trained in conflict and feel startled by his hostility. I

give him a blank look, pretending to be confused.

Should I

apologize? Offer an explanation? I know we had an unspoken vow

of secrecy, but I had to tell someone.

"Hillary. You told her," he says, brushing a piece of hair off his

forehead. I note that he is even hotter when he's angry his jaw

somehow more square.

I push this observation aside as something snaps inside me. How

dare he be angry with me! I have done nothing to him!

Why am I

the one feeling frantic, desperate to be forgiven?

"I can tell anyone I want," I say, surprised by the hardness in my

voice.

"Tell her to stay outta this," he says.

"Stay out of what, Dex? Our fucked-up relationship?"

He looks startled. And then hurt. Good.

"It's not fucked up," he says. "The situation is, but our relationship

is not."

"You're engaged, Dexter." My indignation boils into fury. "You

can't separate that from our relationship."

"I know. I'm still engaged but you hooked up with Marcus."

"What?"I ask, incredulous.

"You kissed him at Aubette."

I can't believe what I'm hearing he is engaged and is finding fault

with a nothing little kiss! I fleetingly wonder how long he has

known and why he hasn't said anything before now. I fight back

the instinct to be contrite.

"Yeah, I kissed Marcus. Big deal."

"It's a big deal to me." His face is so close to mine that I can smell

the alcohol on his breath. "I hate it. Don't do it again."

"Don't tell me what to do," I whisper fiercely back.

Angry tears

sting my eyes. "I don't tell you what to do You know what?

Maybe I should tell you what to do How about this one: marry

Darcy. I don't care."

I walk away from Dex, almost believing it. It is my first free

moment of the summer. Perhaps the freest moment of my life. I

am the one in control. I am the one deciding. I find a space on the

back patio, alone in a massive crowd, my heart pounding. Minutes

later, Dex finds me, grips my elbow.

"You don't mean what you said about not caring." Now it is his

turn to be anxious. It never ceases to amaze me how foolproof the

rule is: the person who cares the least (or pretends to) holds the

power. I have proven it true once more. I shake his hand off my

arm and just look at him coldly. He moves closer to me, takes my

arm again.

"I'm sorry, Rachel," he whispers, bending down toward my face.

I do not soften. I will not. "I'm tired of the warring emotions, Dex.

The endless cycle of hope and guilt and resentment. I'm tired of

wondering what will happen with us. I'm tired of waiting for you."

"I know. I'm sorry," he says. "I love you, Rachel."

I feel myself weakening. Despite my tough-girl facade I am

buzzing from being this near him, from his words. I look into his

eyes. All of my instincts and desires everything tells me to make

peace, to tell him that I love him too. But I fight against them like

a drowning person in a riptide. I know what I have to say. I think

of Hillary's advice, how she has been telling me to say something

all along. But I am not doing this for her. This is for me. I

formulate the sentences, words that have been ringing in my head

all summer.

"I want to be with you, Dex," I say steadily. "Cancel the wedding.

Be with me."

There it is. After two months of waiting, a lifetime of passivity,

everything is on the line. I feel relieved and liberated and changed.

I am a woman who expects happiness. I deserve happiness. Surely

he will make me happy.

Dex inhales, on the verge of responding.

"Don't," I say, shaking my head. "Please don't talk to me again

unless it's to tell me that the wedding is off. We have nothing

more to discuss until then."

Our eyes lock. Neither of us blinks for a minute or more. And

then, for the first time, I beat Dex in a staring contest.

It is two days after I delivered my ultimatum and one month

before the wedding. I am still invigorated by my stand and filled

with a soaring, positive feeling, stronger than hope. I have faith in

Dex, faith in us. He will cancel. We will live happily ever after. Or

something close to that.

Of course I worry about Darcy. I even worry that she might do

something crazy when faced with her first dose of rejection. I have