by Emily Giffin
There it is. The Question.
I have thought of it a hundred times, worded the inquiry exactly like that, with the same intonation, the same emphasis on the word "doing." But every time I answer it differently:
We are following our hearts.
We are taking a chance.
We are crazy.
We are self-destructive.
We are lustful.
We are confused.
We are rebelling.
He is afraid of marriage.
I am afraid of being alone.
We are falling in love.
We are already in love.
And the most common: we have no idea.
This is the one I offer up. "I don't know."
"Neither do I," he says softly. "Should we talk about it?"
"Do you want to?"
"Not really," he says.
I am relieved that he doesn't. Because I don't. I am too afraid of what we might decide. Either choice is scary. "Let's not, then. Not now."
"Then when?" he asks.
For some reason, I say, "After July Fourth."
It sounds arbitrary, but it has always been a benchmark of sorts, the summer midpoint. Even though more than half the summer is left after the Fourth of July, the part that follows is the faster half, the part that always flies by. June, although a day shorter, feels so much longer than August.
"Okay," he says.
"No examining anything until July Fourth." I state the rule clearly, as I would at the outset of a law-school exam. My voice is firm, even though I'm not sure what we've just decided. That we are finished as of July Fourth? Or maybe… no, he couldn't think that I meant that is when he would tell Darcy he can't go through with marrying her. No, that is not what we just decided. We simply decided to decide nothing. That is all.
Still, picking the date scares me. I picture a giant countdown of days, hours, minutes, seconds. Like the clocks set up in 1999 for the countdown to the new millennium. I remember watching the seconds roll off such a clock in the post office near Grand Central Station sometime in December. That clock made me nervous, frantic. I wanted to attack my to-do list, clear my desk of backed-up calls, finish it all immediately. At the same time, watching those numbers tick by paralyzed me. I had too much to do, so why do anything at all?
I try to calculate the number of hours left before July Fourth. How many nights we will have together. How many times we will make love.
My stomach growls. Or maybe it's his. I can't tell because I am flat against him. "Are you hungry? We can order food," I say, and kiss his chest. "Or I can make us something."
I imagine myself whipping up a tasty snack. I can't cook, but I would learn. I would make an excellent, nurturing wife.
He tells me that he doesn't want to waste time eating. He can get something on his way home. Or just go to bed hungry. He says he wants to feel me against him until it's time to leave.
The next day I ask Dex if there were any problems when he returned home. It is a vague question, but he knows what I am asking. He says that Darcy was not home when he got in, so he had time to shower, reluctantly wash me off him. He says that Darcy had left him a message: "It's eleven and you're not answering your cell or your phone at work. You're probably having an affair. I'm going out with Claire."
It is her usual tongue-in-cheek accusation when Dex works late. She asks him if he's having an affair, never believing that he would do such a thing. She changes the person every time, selecting a random female name from his office. The less attractive the woman, the more amused she is. "I know you're in love with Nina," she'll say, knowing that Nina is a chubby word processor from Staten Island with fake nails adorned with glitter art.
I think of Dex returning home last night. A whole scene unfurls in my mind-Dex stealing into his apartment, hurrying to shower and get in bed, waiting for the key to turn in the lock, pretending to be asleep when Darcy enters their room. She hovers over him, studying him in the dark.
"How was your date with Nina?" she asks in a wry, loud voice.
He wipes his eyes with his fists as people do on television when they're awakened from a sound sleep. "Hi," he says wearily and then pretends to fall back asleep.
She cuddles up to him in bed, tossing out an "I love you."
His jaw clenches, but he says it back. What choice does he have? He falls asleep thinking about me. Thinking that her chin is too sharp against his chest.
I am watching them on the beach, down by the water.
Darcy and Dex standing together in the not-too-hot June sun. This weekend is the first that I have seen them together since Dex and I soberly, willfully, made love. I am wearing dark sunglasses so I can study them from my towel without being obvious, while Claire babbles to me about-what else?-the wedding. What if the night is chilly? Should we buy matching wraps, a light, gauzy cardigan? I nod and murmur that it is a good idea.
Dex has just finished a quick swim, even though the water is freezing. Now they are talking, huddled close together. Perhaps he is giving her the report on the water temperature. She hesitantly steps closer to the ocean's reach, just enough to let the water coat her feet. They are both smiling. Dex kicks water onto her shins and she shrieks, turns, and scampers a few feet from him. I can see the muscles strain in her long, tanned legs. She is wearing the nude-colored bikini. Her hair is down, blowing around her face. He laughs, and she raises her index finger as if to scold him and then walks toward him again. They are engaged in a full-fledged frolic. It pains me to watch them, but I can't stop. I can't look away.
I feel as if they are putting on a show. Well, Darcy is always putting on a show. But Dex is a willing participant. Surely he knows we are all watching. That I am watching. It is always that way when you are in a group and someone decides to go for a swim or walk to the water. The ocean is like a giant stage. It is natural that the others watch, if only for a moment. Dex must be aware of this, yet he is still in full-throttle playful-couple mode. He should be brooding on his towel, napping, or reading a novel-something dark, to give me the impression that he is confused, upset, torn. But instead he is splashing Darcy and grinning.
Marcus cups his mouth with his hands, yells down at them. "How cold is it?"
"Freaking freezing!" Darcy announces, her hand stroking Dex's back, while he reports a manly "Nah, it feels good. Come on down!"
Rage commingles with hurt. For the first time, I completely regret having sex with Dex. I feel foolish, suddenly sure that it meant next to nothing to him. Tears sting my eyes as I force myself to turn away from them, slip on my headphones. I order myself not to cry.
Before I can hit play, Marcus asks me what I'm listening to. I have only seen him once since our date and that was just for a quick weekday lunch at a deli near my office, but we have talked several times, and one conversation lasted over an hour. The only apparent reason why date number two has not happened, at least as far as he knows, is mere circumstance. He's busy, I'm busy. Work has been crazy. That whole routine. So the door is still wide open, which I am very glad about. I need to focus more on him. Feelings for him might emerge once I put Dex behind me. I smile and say, "Tracy Chapman. It's a good CD. Wanna listen?"
I hand him my headphones as Dex and Darcy walk toward us. Marcus listens for a few seconds. "That's nice." He gives my headphones back to me and fishes a Coke out of our cooler. "Want a sip?" he asks just as Darcy and Dex are standing over us.
I tell him sure, take the can, and wipe the lid with the edge of my towel after I swallow.
He says with a knowing, goofy look, "I don't mind your germs. If you catch my drift."
I laugh and shake my head, as if to say, Marcus, you crazy nut, you.
Marcus winks. I laugh again.
Perfect timing. Dex catches the whole exchange. I do not look at him. I will not. "Is anybody else getting in?" he asks.
Claire gives him the standard response. "Not yet. I'm not hot enough."
Marcus says he hates to swim, par
ticularly in freezing water. "Please make me see how that is fun."
Darcy giggles. "It's not fun. It's torture!"
I say nothing, hit the play button on my Discman.
"What about you, Rachel?" Dex asks, still hovering over me.
I ignore him, pretending that the volume is too high to hear him.
He and Darcy return to their towels on the other side of Claire. Darcy brushes sand from her feet and ankles, while Dex sits cross-legged, looking at the ocean. I can see his shoulder and back out of the corner of my eye. I try not to think about his smooth skin and how he feels against me. I won't be feeling it again. I tell myself it's not the end of the world. It is for the best.
Before dinner that night, as I am dressing, Darcy comes to my room to ask me if I brought an eyelash curler. I tell her no, that I don't own an eyelash curler. Maybe Hillary does, but she is showering. She sits on my bed and sighs, her features rearranging in a dreamy expression.
"I just had the best sex," she says.
I struggle to keep my composure. "Oh, really?" I know I am opening the door for more sharing, but I don't know what else to say. My face is on fire. I hope Darcy won't notice.
"Yeah, it was phenomenal. Did you hear us?" It is like Darcy to share such details. She has always been explicit in her sexual reports. She will tell you what words were exchanged at the moment of orgasm. I have always listened, usually laughed, occasionally even enjoyed her stories. But those days are long over.
"No. I must have been in the shower," I say.
"Yeah, we were in the shower too." She finger-combs her wet hair, then shakes her head from side to side. "Wow. Haven't had sex like that in months."
I think of their wet bodies pressed together and can't decide who I hate more.
It is late, after two a.m. I have avoided Dex all night, at the house and then at dinner. Now we are at the Talkhouse. I have just ordered two beers, one for me and one for Hillary, when Dex finds me at the bar.
"Hi, Rach," he says.
I am buzzed and brazen. The alcohol has dried up my hurt, leaving only resentment and anger. They are easier emotions to manage, more straightforward. "Yes?"
"What's going on?" he asks casually.
"Nothing," I snap, turning to leave.
"Wait a sec. Where are you going?"
"To take Hillary her beer."
"I want to talk to you."
"What about?" I make my voice icy.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," I say, wishing I could think of something pointed and vengeful. I have not had much practice being mean, but my tone of voice must do the trick because Dex looks hurt. Not as hurt as I was today on the beach or during Darcy's sex report. Not hurt enough. I raise my eyebrows, looking at him with a slight look of disgust, as if to say, Yes? Is there something I can do for you?
"Are you-are you mad at me?" he asks.
I laugh-no, it is more of a snort.
"'Are you?" he asks again.
"No, Dex, I'm not mad at you," I say. "I really am not concerned with you at all. Or what you do with Darcy."
Now he knows that I know. "Rachel…" he starts, flustered. Then he tries to tell me it was her doing, that she initiated it.
"She said it was the best sex of her life," I say as I walk away, leaving him standing alone at the bar. "Good job. Congrats."
Even in the fog of my buzz, I know that I have no right to confront Dex like this. All he did was have sex with his fiancee. He has promised me nothing-we were not supposed to even discuss anything until the Fourth of July. No material misrepresentation has been made. In fact, no misrepresentation has been made at all, material or otherwise. I am in this situation of my own accord, have not been duped. But I still hate him.
I scan the crowd, trying to find Hillary. Dex follows me and grabs my arm right below my elbow. I drop one of the beers. The bottle breaks.
"Nice. Look what you did," I say, looking down at the mess.
"I'll get you another one."
"Don't bother."
"Rachel, please… I couldn't help that. It was Darcy, I swear."
Hillary suddenly appears beside us. "What's up?"
I am not sure if she heard any of our conversation.
"Nothing," Dex answers quickly. "Rachel's just mad at me for dropping her beer."
"You can have mine," Hillary says.
"No, take this one," I say, handing her the other beer.
She reluctantly takes it and asks where Darcy is.
"We were just looking for her," I say.
I glance at Dex. He is trying to cover up in front of Hillary, but he is not doing the best job of it. His eyes are wide with worry, his mouth stretched into an uneasy smile. I bet he didn't have that look on his face in the shower.
It is over, I say in my head, with the dramatic flourish of a woman wronged. Then I turn around to find Marcus. Sweet Marcus, who offered me his Coke on the beach and is not engaged to anyone.
Chapter 11
Ahh. The bunny-in-the-pot routine," Ethan says when I give him the update on Monday morning.
"It was not a bunny-in-the-pot routine!" I protest, remembering that I saw Fatal Attraction with Darcy and Ethan. Darcy had major issues with the whole premise. She kept saying how unrealistic it was-no man would cheat on his wife with a much-less-attractive woman. I guess I am disproving her theory.
"Oh no?" Ethan deadpans. "Well, perhaps a variation on that theme. More subtle though. You just exerted slight pressure… and let him know that it is unacceptable to continue relations with his fiancee."
"Well, anyway… it's over," I say, realizing that those two words lump me right in with a hoard of naive women who say it's over while praying it's not, looking for any shred of hope, insisting that they only want closure when what they really want is that one last conversation disguised as seeking closure while they work to keep the door open for more. And the pathetic truth is I do want more. I wish I could undo the confrontation at the Talkhouse. I should not have said a word to Dex. I feel an ache of worry that he is going to stop seeing me altogether. He will probably decide that it's not worth it, the situation is just way too complicated.
"It's over, huh?" Ethan asks dubiously.
"Yes."
"Bravo," Ethan says in his finest English accent. "Way to take a stand."
"So, anyway," I say, as if it is easy for me to transition away from Dex.
"Yeah. So anyway. Are you coming to London the week of the Fourth?" he asks.
I had mentioned it as a possibility in a recent e-mail, before Dex and I had established our date. Now I don't want to leave. Just in case things aren't completely over. "Um, I doubt it. I already committed to the Hamptons," I say.
"Won't Dex be there?"
"Yes, but I still want to get my money's worth out of the share."
"Right. Uh-huh."
"Don't say it like that."
"Okay," he says, changing his tone. "But are you ever going to visit me? You blew me off after your bar exam too. Because of that Nate guy."
"I willVisit. I promise. Maybe in September."
"Okay… But the Fourth would have been fun."
"It's not even a holiday there," I say.
"Yeah. It's funny the way the Brits don't celebrate our independence from them… But it's a holiday in my heart, Rachel."
I laugh and tell him that I'll look into flights for the fall.
"All right. I'll e-mail you my free weekends-all my deets."
He knows I hate the word "deets." Just as I hate people who make a "rez" for dinner. Or ask you to get back to them "ASAP." And Ethan's favorite, designed especially to annoy me-"YOYO," i.e., "you're on your own."
I smile. "Sounds fab."
"Super then."
My phone rings as soon as I hang up with Ethan. Les's name shows up on my screen. I consider not picking up but have learned that avoidance techniques don't work well at a law firm. It only makes partners more irritable when you finally do talk.
"What do you mean?"
"Your mode of service. By mail? By hand?"
I nailed it to his cottage door, jackass, I think, remembering the antiquated mode of service tested by the New York bar.
"By mail," I say, glancing down at my well-worn copy of the New York Rules of Civil Procedure.
"Great. Fucking great," he says in his normal snide tone.
"What?"
"What? What?" he shouts into the phone. I pull the receiver away from my ear but now I hear his voice in stereo, filling the hall. "You fucked up! That's what! The papers needed to go by hand! Didn't you bother to read the Court's order?"
I scan the letter from the judge. Damn, he is right.
"You're right," I say solemnly. He hates excuses and I have none anyway. "I screwed up."
"What are you, a goddamn first-year associate?"
I stare at my desk. He knows full well that I'm a fifth-year.
"I mean, Christ, Rachel, this is malpractice," he growls. "You're gonna get this firm sued and yourself fired if you don't get your head out of your ass."
"I'm sorry," I say, just as I remember that he hates you that much more when you're sorry.
"Don't be sorry! Fix the shit!" He hangs up on me. I don't believe Les has ever finished a conversation with a proper good-bye, even when he's in a decent mood.
No, I'm not a first-year, asshole. Thus your tirade has no effect. Go ahead, fire me. Who cares? I think back to when I first started working at the firm. A partner would raise his eyebrows, and it would send me back to my office with tears welling, panic mounting over my job security or at the very least my yearly evaluation. Over the years my skin has thickened somewhat, and at this moment, I don't care at all. I have bigger issues than this firm and my career as a lawyer. No, scratch the word "career." Careers are for people who wish to advance. I only want to survive, draw a paycheck. This is merely a job. I can take or leave this place. I start to imagine quitting and following my yet-to-be-determined passion. I could tell myself that although I lacked a meaningful, intense relationship, I had my work.
