Something Borrowed (40 page)

Then Ethan tells them that he thinks I should blow off the

wedding. Phoebe wants to know more about the bride, so Ethan

gives the rundown on Darcy, including some color on our

friendship. He even throws in the bit about Notre Dame. I answer

questions when directly asked, but otherwise I just listen to the

three of them discussing my plight as if I'm not present.

It is

amusing to hear Martin and Phoebe using Dex's name and Darcy's

name and analyzing both in their British accents.

People whom

they have never met and likely will never meet.

Somehow it helps

put things in perspective. Almost.

"You don't want to be with him anyway," Phoebe says.

"That's what I tell her," Ethan says.

Martin offers that maybe he'll still call it off.

"No," I say. "He came over to my place the night before I left and

told me in no uncertain terms. He's getting married."

"At least he told you outright," Martin says.

"At least," I say, thinking that that was a good thing.

Otherwise I

would be filled with hope on this visit. I have to give Dex limited

credit for telling me face-to-face.

Suddenly Phoebe gets this fabulous idea. Her friend James is

newly single, and he loves American women. Why not set that up

and see what happens?

"She lives in New York," Martin says. "Remember?"

"So? That's just a minor logistical problem. She could move. He

could move. And at the very least, they both will have a good time.

Perhaps have a good shag."

"Not everyone sees a shag as therapy," Martin says.

Phoebe raises one eyebrow. I wish I could do that.

There are times

when it is such an appropriate gesture. "Oh, really?

You might

want to give it a go, Marty." She turns back to me, waiting to hear

my position on this topic.

"A good shag can never hurt," I say, to win favor with Phoebe.

She runs her hands through her tousled hair and looks smug. "My

point precisely."

"What're you doing?" Ethan asks, as Phoebe retrieves her cell

phone from her purse.

"Calling James," she says.

"Fucking hell, Pheebs! Put your mobile down," Martin says. "Have

some tact."

"No, it's okay," I say, fighting against my prudish instincts. "You

can call him.'

Phoebe beams. "Yeah. You boys stay out of this one."

So the next night, thanks to Phoebe, I am eating Thai food on a

blind date with James Hathaway. James is a thirty-year-old

freelance journalist. He is nice-looking, although Dexter's

opposite. He is on the short side, with blue eyes, light hair, and

even paler eyebrows. Something about him reminds me of Hugh

Grant. At first I think it's just the accent, but then I realize that

like Hugh, he has a certain flippant charm. And like Hugh, I bet

he's slept with plenty of women. Maybe I should let him add me to

his List.

I nod and laugh at something James just said, a wry comment

about the couple next to us. He's funny. It suddenly occurs to me

that maybe Dex is not very funny. Of course, I've always

subscribed to the notion that if I want to laugh out loud, I'll watch

a Seinfeld rerun, that I don't need to date a stand-up comic, but I

contemplate revising my position. Maybe I do want a funny guy.

Maybe Dex is lacking some crucial element. I try to run with this,

picturing him as humorless, even boring. It doesn't really work.

It's hard to trick yourself like that. Dex is funny enough. He is

perfect for me. Other than the small, bothersome part about him

marrying Darcy.

I realize that I have missed what James has been going on about,

something about Madonna. "Do you like her?" he asks me.

"Not especially," I say. "She's okay."

"Usually Madonna elicits a stronger response. Usually people love

her or hate her Ever played that game? Love it or hate it?"

"No. What is it?"

James teaches me the rules of the game. He says that you throw

out a topic or a person or anything at all, and both people have to

decide whether they love it or hate it. Being neutral isn't allowed.

What if you are neutral? I ask. I don't love or hate Madonna.

"You have to pick one or the other. So pick," he says.

"Love her or

hate her?"

I hesitate and then say, "Okay then. I hate her."

"Good. Me too."

"Do you really?" I ask.

"Well, actually, yes. She's talentless. Now you do one."

"Um I can't think. You do another one."

"Fine. Water beds."

"So tacky. I hate them," I say. I'm not on the fence with that one.

"I do as well. Your turn."

"Okay Bill Clinton."

"Love him," James says.

"Me too."

We keep playing the game as we finish our wine.

As it turns out, we both hate (or at least hate more than we love)

people who keep goldfish as pets, Speedos, and Ross on Friends.

We both love (or love more than we hate) Chicken McNuggets,

breast implants (I lie here, just to be cool, but am surprised that

he does not lie in the other direction maybe he fears that I have

them), and watching golf on television. We are split on rap music

(I love; it gives him headaches), Tom Cruise (he loves; I still hate

for dumping Nicole), the royal family (I love; he says he's a

republican, whatever that means), and Las Vegas (he loves; I

associate it with craps, dice-rolling, Dex).

I think to myself that I like (I mean, love) the game.

Being

extreme. Clear-cut. All or nothing. I do Dex in my mind, flipflopping

my decision twice hate, love, hate, love. I remember that

my mother once told me that the opposite of love isn't hate, it's

indifference. She knew what she was talking about. My goal is to

be indifferent to Dex.

James and I finish our dinner, decide to skip dessert, and go back

to his place. He has a nice flat larger than Ethan's full of plants

and cozy, upholstered furniture. I can tell that a woman recently

moved out. To this point, half of the bookshelf is bare.

The whole

left side. Unless they kept their books segregated all along, which

is doubtful, he has pushed all of his to one side. Maybe he wanted

an exact percentage of how much more empty his life is without

her.

"What was her name? Your ex?" I ask gingerly. Maybe I shouldn't

be bringing her up, but I'm sure he assumes that Phoebe told me

his situation. I'm sure she filled him in on mine as well.

"Katherine. Kate."

"How are you doing?"

"A bit sad. More relieved than anything. Sometimes downright

euphoric. It's been over a long time."

I nod, as if I understand, although my situation could not be more

different. Maybe Dex and I saved ourselves years of effort and

pain if we were only going to end up like James and Kate anyway.

"And you?" he asks.

"Phoebe told you?"

I can tell that he is considering a fib, and then he says,

"More or

less yes How are you?"

"I'm fine," I say. "It was a short-lived situation. Nothing like your

breakup."

But I don't believe my words. I have a flashback to July Fourth

and feel a wave of pure, intense grief that catches me off guard

with its intensity. I panic, thinking I'm going to cry. If James asks

another thing about Dex, I will. Luckily, serious conversations

seem not to be James's thing. He asks if he can get me something

to drink. "Tea? Coffee? Wine? Beer?"

"A beer would be great," I say.

As he leaves for the kitchen, I breathe deeply and force Dex from

my mind. I stand and survey the room. There is only one

photograph in view. It is of James with an attractive, older woman

who appears to be his mother. I wonder how many photographs of

Kate and James were uprooted with the breakup. I wonder if he

threw them away or saved them. That fact can tell you a lot about

someone. I wish that I had a few photos of Dex. I have none of us

together, only a few of him with Darcy. I'm sure I'll have a lot

more after the wedding. Darcy will force me to order some, maybe

even give me one in a frame, as a wedding keepsake.

How will I

ever get through it?

James returns with linen cocktail napkins, two beers poured into

mugs, and a small glass bowl of mixed nuts. All nestled neatly on a

square pewter tray. Well trained by Kate.

"Thanks," I say, sipping one of the beers.

We sit close to each other on the couch and talk about my job, his

writing. It's not perfectly comfortable, but not horrible.

Probably

because we are in a dead-end situation. There will be no second

date, so there is no pressure to perform. No expectations. We will

never have to deal with that awkward period after all the gettingto-know-you topics are covered, the lulls in conversation that

usually come on the second date, at which point both people must

decide whether to fight their way through to the comfort zone or

throw in the towel. Of course, Dex and I didn't have to deal with

that. Another great thing about Dex. We were friends first. Don't

think about Dex. Think about now, being here with James!

James leans in and kisses me. He uses a little too much tongue working it in frantic circular motions and his breath

smells vaguely of cigarettes, which is odd because he didn't smoke

this evening. Maybe he had one in the kitchen. I kiss him back

anyway, faking enthusiasm. I even moan softly at one point. I

don't know why.

How many times will I have to endure kissing someone for the

first time? Although Darcy says she will miss this element of

single life, I have no fondness for it. Except for my first real kiss

with Dex, which was absolute magic. I wonder if James is thinking

about Kate as much as I am thinking about Dex. After a reasonably long time, James's hand drifts up my shirt. I do not

object. His touch is not altogether unpleasant, and I think, why

not? Let him sample an American breast.

After a half hour of minor-to-significant groping, James asks me

to spend the night, says that he doesn't want to sleep with

me well, he does, he says, but he won't try. And I almost agree,

but then I learn that James has no saline solution. I can't sleep in

my contact lenses, and I left my glasses at home. So that is that. It

seems amusing that James's 20/20 vision prevents me from a

potentially promiscuous move.

We kiss for a bit longer, listening to his Barenaked Ladies CD. The

songs remind me of graduating from law school, dating Nate,

being dumped by Nate. I hear the lyrics and remember the

sadness.

Songs and smells will bring you back to a moment in time more

than anything else. It's amazing how much can be conjured with a

few notes of a song or a solitary whiff of a room. A song you didn't

even pay attention to at the time, a place that you didn't even

know had a particular smell. I wonder what will someday bring

back Dex and our few months together. Maybe the sound of

Dido's voice. Maybe the scent of the Aveda shampoo that I've been

using all summer.

Someday being with Dex will be a distant memory.

This fact

makes me sad too. It's like when someone dies, the initial stages

of grief seem to be the worst. But in some ways, it's sadder as time

goes by and you consider how much they've missed in your life. In

the world.

As James walks me back to Ethan's flat, he turns to me and says,

"Do you want to go to Leeds Castle with me tomorrow? Ethan

too?"

"What's Leeds Castle?" I ask, realizing that it's probably like

asking what the Empire State Building is.

"It's a castle that was a Norman stronghold and a royal residence

for six medieval queens. It's really quite lovely. There's an openair

theater nearby. It is a bit touristy, but you are a tourist after all,

aren't you?"

I am beginning to notice that Brits put a little question tag at the

end of every statement, looking for affirmation.

I give it to him. "I am a tourist, yes."

Then I tell him that Leeds Castle sounds perfect.

Because it does

sound nice. And because everything I do, every person I meet,

puts a certain distance between Dex and me. Time heals all

wounds, particularly if you pack a bunch of stuff into that time.

"Ask Ethan what he thinks about it. And call me." He writes his

phone number on the back of a gum wrapper I find in my purse.

"I'll be around."

I thank him for a nice night. He kisses me again, his hand on the

back of my neck.

"Snogging someone new right after a big breakup.

Love it or hate

it?" he asks.

I laugh. "Love it."

James smirks. "I concur."

I unlock Ethan's door, wondering if James is lying too.

The next morning Ethan stumbles bleary-eyed into the kitchen,

where I am pouring myself a glass of pulp-free orange juice.

"So? You in love with James?"

"Madly."

He scratches his head. "Seriously?"

"No. But it was fun."

I realize that I can't even recall exactly what James looks like. I

keep picturing this guy from my Federal Income Tax class in law