Something Borrowed (45 page)

seemed so bittersweet.

"Annalise had her baby?" Dex asks, as I get back into bed.

"Yes. A girl Hannah Jane," I say, and then proceed to burst into

tears. It is my first hard cry in front of Dex. The kind where your

face gets all puffy and ugly and wet, and you can't breathe through

your nose, and you feel the pressure building in your head. I know

that I am going to have a migraine in the morning if I don't stop.

But I can't. I turn away from Dex and sob. Dex keeps his arms

tightly wrapped around me and makes consoling sounds, but he

doesn't ask me why, exactly, I am crying. Maybe because he

understands. Maybe because he knows that it's not the time for

questions. Whatever his reason, I have never loved him more. I let

him kiss me. I kiss him back. We make love for the first time post-Darcy.

The following day Darcy finally contacts Dex. He calls me

straightaway with the update.

My heart jumps. I haven't let go of the fear that Darcy will

somehow get Dex back, undo her pregnancy, change her mind,

rewrite history. "Tell me everything," I say.

Dex summarizes their conversation, or rather, Darcy's demands:

he is to get the remainder of his stuff out in seven days during

business hours or it will be put out with the trash. He must leave

the keys. The furniture will stay, except for the table that he

"bullied" her into buying, the dresser he "brought into the joke of

a union," and the "ugly lamps" from Dexter's mother.

He must

pay her parents back for her gown and the

nonrefundable

wedding deposits, which include just about everything, in excess

of fifty thousand dollars. She will handle return of the wedding

gifts. She is keeping the diamond ring he replaced only days

before their breakup.

I wait for him to finish, and then say, "Pretty skewed terms, don't

you think?"

"You could say that."

"You guys should split the wedding costs," I say. "She's pregnant

with someone else's child!"

"Tell me about it."

"And technically, the ring is yours," I say. "Under New York law.

You weren't married. She only gets the ring if you're married."

"I don't care," he says. "It's not worth fighting about."

"And what about the apartment? It was your apartment first."

"I know but I don't even want it now. Or the furniture,"

he says.

I am glad that he feels this way. I can't imagine ever visiting him

in Darcy's old apartment.

"Where do you think you'll move?"

"I'm just going to live with you."

"Really?"

"It was a joke, Rach We'll hold off on that for a little while."

I laugh. "Oh yeah. Right."

I am a little disappointed, but mostly relieved. I feel as if I could

live with Dex immediately, but I want it to work, to be right, and I

see no reason to rush things.

"I called a few places this morning I found a one-bedroom on

East End. I might just hit the bid."

Hit the bid. Just as you did with me.

"How is Darcy going to pay the rent alone?" I ask, more curious

than concerned, although there is a part of me that is worried

about her well-being, how she will manage, what will happen to

her and her baby. I can't turn off the caring-about-Darcy switch

after a lifetime of looking out for her.

"Maybe Marcus is moving in with her," Dex says.

"Do you think?"

"They are having a baby together."

"I guess so. But do you really think they're going to get married?" I

ask.

"I have no idea. I don't care," he says.

"You haven't heard from Marcus, have you?"

"Nope Have you?"

"No."

"I don't think we will."

"Are you going to call him?"

"Maybe someday. Not now."

"Hmm," I say, thinking that maybe I will someday call Darcy too.

Although I can't imagine it happening for a very long time. "So

was that it? Did she mention me?"

"No. I was shocked. Tremendous restraint for her. She must be

getting some big-time coaching."

"No kidding. Restraint is not Darcy's style."

"But enough about her," Dex says. "Let's forget about her for a

while."

"I will if you will," I say.

"So what do you want to do tonight?" Dex asks. "I think I'll be able

to get out of here at a decent hour. What's your schedule?"

It is five now, and I have at least four hours of work remaining,

but I tell him that I can leave whenever.

"Should we meet at eight?"

"Sure. Where?"

"Let's make dinner together at your place. We've never done that."

"Okay, but I can't cook," I confess.

"Yeah you can."

"No, I really can't. Truly."

"Cooking is easy," he says. "You just sort of figure it out as you go

along."

I smile. "I can do that."

After all, that is pretty much what I have been doing lately.

An hour later, I leave my office for home, not caring if I run into

Les. I take the elevator down to the lobby, then two escalators

down to Grand Central Station. I pause to admire the gorgeous

main terminal, so familiar and so associated with work that I

somehow miss its beauty on a daily basis. I study the marble

staircases at either end of the concourse, the arched windows, the

dramatic white columns, and the soaring turquoise ceiling painted

with constellations. I watch the people, mostly in business attire,

moving in every direction toward trains bound for the suburbs,

subways reaching every corner of New York, and a multitude of

exits to the busy city streets. I glance at the clock in the center of

the terminal, take in its intricate face. Six o'clock exactly. Early.

I walk slowly toward Grand Central Market, a food hall comprised

of individual stalls selling gourmet treats, located on the east end

of the concourse. I have often passed through this corridor with

Hillary, buying the occasional chocolate truffle to go with our

Starbucks coffee. But this evening, I am on a greater mission. I

move from stall to stall, filling my arms with delicacies: hard and

soft cheeses, freshly baked breads, Sicilian green olives, Italian

parsley, fresh oregano, a perfect Vidalia onion, garlic, oils and

spices, pasta, red, green, and yellow produce, an expensive

chardonnay, and two exquisite, restaurant-perfect pastries. I exit

the corridor on Lexington, passing by a makeshift cab line and

throngs of harried Midtown commuters. I decide to walk home.

My bags are heavy, but I don't mind. I'm not carrying a briefcase

full of law books and cases; I'm carrying dinner for Dex and me.

When I get back to my apartment, I tell Jose to let Dex up when

he arrives. "No need to buzz for him anymore."

He winks and hits the elevator door for me. "Aww. So it's serious!

That's good stuff."

"Good stuff," I echo, smiling.

A moment later, I am arranging groceries on my counter more

food than my apartment has ever seen at one time. I put the

chardonnay in the refrigerator, play some classical music, and

search for the recipe book that my mother gave me at least four

Christmases ago, a book I have never before used. I flip through

the glossy, pristine pages, finding a salad and pasta recipe that

contains my approximate ingredients. Then I find an apron another virginal gift and set about peeling, chopping, and

sauteing. I glance at the book for guidance, but I do not follow

every instruction precisely. I substitute parsley for basil, skip the

drained capers.

Dinner will not be perfect, but I am learning that perfection isn't

what matters. In fact, it's the very thing that can destroy you if you

let it.

I change my clothes, selecting a white sundress with pink

embroidered flowers. Then I set the table, begin to boil water for

our pasta, light candles, and open the bottle of chardonnay, filling

two glasses, sipping mine. I glance at my watch. Ten minutes to

spare. Ten minutes to sit and reflect on my new life, on how it

feels to be Dex's legitimate, only love. I settle into my couch, close

my eyes, inhale deeply. Good smells and beautiful, clear notes fill

my apartment. Peace and calm rush over me as I process the lack

of any bad feelings: I'm not jealous, I'm not worried, I'm not

scared, I'm not lonely.

Only then do I acknowledge that what I am feeling might actually

be true happiness. Even joy. Over the past several days, when I

have felt the beginning of this emotion tugging at my heart, it has

crossed my mind that the key to happiness should not be found in

a man. That an independent, strong woman should feel fulfilled

and whole on her own. Those things might be true. And without

Dex in my life, I like to think I could have somehow found

contentment. But the truth is, I feel freer with Dex than I ever did

when I was single. I feel more myself with him than without.

Maybe true love does that.

And I do love Dex. I have loved him from the very beginning, back

in law school, when I pretended to myself that he wasn't my type.

I love him for his intelligence, his sensitivity, his courage. I love

him wholly and unconditionally and without reservation. I love

him enough to take risks. I love him enough to sacrifice a

friendship. I love him enough to accept my own happiness and

use it, in turn, to make him happy back.

There is a knock at my door. I stand to open it. I am ready.

It is Saturday, what would have been Darcy and Dexter's wedding

night. I am with Dex at 7B, the bar where it all began, back on the

eve of my thirtieth birthday. We are sitting in our same booth. It

was my idea to come back here. I suggested it in a playful way, but

in truth I felt a strong need to return and revisit the way I felt

before it all began. I want to ask Dex if he feels at all wistful on

this night, but instead I tell him a Les story how he blasted me in

the hall for not using jump cites in a draft brief.

"That guy sounds like a miserable human being Can't you work

with someone else?"

"No. I'm his personal slave. He monopolizes my time, and now

other partners won't ask me to work on their matters because Les

inevitably pulls rank and leaves them high and dry. I'm trapped."

"Do you ever think about changing firms?"

"Sometimes. I just started revising my resume today, in fact.

Maybe I'll leave the law altogether, although I have no idea what I

would do."

"You'd be good at so many things," Dex says, with a loyal nod.

I add "supportive" to the growing list of things I love about him.

I consider telling him about my idea of temporarily moving to

London, wondering if he'd come with me. But tonight isn't the

time for that conversation. We have enough going on right below

the surface. He has to be thinking about her, thinking, What if?

How could he not be?

"I'm going to play some songs on the jukebox," I say.

"Want me to come with you?"

"No. I'll be right back."

"Pick some good ones, all right?"

I give him a "have some faith in me" look. I walk over to the

jukebox, past a couple smoking in silence. I slip a nappy five into

the slot. The machine spits the bill back out at me three times, but

I am patient, smoothing out the edges on my thigh before it finally

takes. I flip through the songs, considering each one carefully. I

choose songs that Dex likes, and songs that remind me of our first

summer together. And of course I play "Thunder Road." I glance

over at Dex, who appears to be deep in thought. He suddenly

looks over at me and waves, a silly smile on his face. I go sit back

down, sliding in beside him. As he drapes his arm around me, a

wave of emotion leaves me breathless.

"Hi there," he says, in a way that tells me he knows exactly how

I'm feeling.

"Hi," I say back, in the same tone.

We are one of those couples I used to watch, thinking to myself

that I'd never be on the inside of something so special. I remember reassuring myself that it probably looked nicer than it

actually was. I am happy to be wrong about that.

I smile up at Dex, my gaze resting on a tiny patch in his left

eyebrow, a blank space where perhaps three or four hairs should

be.

"What happened there?" I ask, reaching to touch his brow. My

fingertips rest lightly on the spot.

"Oh, that. It's a scar. I fell playing hockey when I was a kid. Hair

never grew back there."

I wonder why I never noticed it before and realize that I never

knew he played hockey. There is so much that I still don't know

about Dex. But now we have time. Endless time stretches before

us. I study his face for other discoveries until he laughs selfconsciously.

I laugh too, and then our smiles fade away in unison.

We drink our Newcastles in easy silence.

"Dex?" I say, after a long while.

"Yeah?"

"Do you miss her?"

"No," he says firmly. His breath is warm in my ear.

"I'm with you.

No."

I can tell that it is the truth.

"You aren't at all sad tonight?"