by Emily Giffin
I call opposing counsel, a reasonable midfortyish associate with a minor speech impediment who must have been passed over for partner at his firm. I tell him that our papers were served incorrectly, that I would re-serve them by hand but they would arrive a day late. He interrupts me with a pleasant chuckle and says with a lisp that it is not a problem, that of course he wouldn't challenge service. I bet he hates his job as much as I do. If he liked it, he'd be all over this lapse like white on rice. Les would have a field day if the other side served a day late.
I send Les an e-mail message, one brief sentence: "Opposing counsel says they're fine with receiving papers by hand today." That will show him. I can be as curt and surly as the next guy.
Around one-thirty, after I have printed a new set of papers and turned them over to our courier for delivery, Hillary comes to my office and asks if I have lunch plans.
"No plans. You want to go?"
"Yeah. Can we go somewhere nice? Get a good meal? Steak or Italian?"
I smile and nod, retrieving my purse from under my desk. Hillary could eat a big lunch every day, but I get too sleepy in the afternoon. Once, after ordering a hot open-face turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and green beans, I actually took the subway home for an afternoon nap. I returned to six voice-mail messages, including a ranting one from Les. That had been my last nap, unless you count the times I turn my chair to the window and balance a paper in my lap. The technique is foolproof-if someone barges in, it just looks as if you're reading. I sling my purse over my shoulder as
Kenny, our internal messenger from the mailroom, peeks around my half-open door.
"Hey, Kenny, come on in."
"Ra-chelle." He says my name in a French accent. "These are for you." He smirks as he produces a glass vase filled with red roses. A lot of roses. More than a dozen. More like two dozen, although I don't count. Yet.
"Holy shit!" Hillary's eyes are wide. I can tell that it takes tremendous effort for her not to grab the card.
"Where should I put em?" Kenny asks.
I clear a spot on my desk and point. "Here's fine."
Kenny shakes his wrists, exaggerating the weight of the vase, whistles, and says, "Woo-hoo, Rachel. Someone's diggin' you."
I wave my hand at him, but there is no way to deny that these are from anyone other than a guy with romantic interest. If they weren't red roses, I could pawn them off on some familial occasion, tell them it was some special day for me or that my parents are aware of my service error and are trying to comfort me. But these are not only roses, they are red roses. And bountiful. Most certainly not from a relative.
Kenny leaves after making one final remark about the roses costing someone some serious jack. I try to head out the door after him, but there is no chance that we are going anywhere until Hillary gets full information.
"Who are they from?"
I shrug. "I have no clue."
"Aren't you going to read the card?"
I am afraid to read it. They have to be from Dex-and what if he signed his name? It is too risky.
"I know who they're from," I say.
"Who?"
"Marcus." He is the only other possibility.
"Marcus? You guys barely hung out at all this weekend. What's the deal? Are you holding back on me? You better not be holding back on me!"
I shush her, tell her that I don't want everybody at the firm knowing my business.
"Okay, well then, tell me. What does the card say?" She is in interrogation mode. For as much as she hates the firm, she is one tough litigator.
I know I can't get out of reading the card. Besides, I, too, am dying to know what it says. I pluck the white envelope out of the plastic fork in the vase, open it very slowly as my mind races to make up a story about Marcus. I slide the card out and read the two sentences silently: I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE SEE ME TONIGHT. It is written in Dexter's all-capitals handwriting, which means he had to go to the flower store in person. Even better. He did not sign his name, probably imagining a scenario like this one. My heart is racing, but I try to avoid a full-on grin in front of Hillary. The roses thrill me. The note thrills me even more. I know I will not refuse his invitation. I will be seeing him tonight, even though I am more afraid than ever of getting hurt. I lick my lips and try to appear composed. "Yeah, from Marcus," I say.
Hillary stares at me. "Let me see," she says, grabbing for the card.
I pull it out of her reach and slip it into my purse. "It just says he's thinking of me."
She pushes her hair behind her ears and asks suspiciously, "Have you been on more than that one date? What's the full story?"
I sigh and head into the hallway, fully prepared to sell out poor Marcus. "Okay, we had a date last week that I didn't tell you about," I start, as we walk toward the elevator. "And, um, he told me his feelings were growing…"
"He said that?"
"Something like that. Yeah."
She digests this. "And what did you say?"
"I told him I wasn't sure how I felt and, um, I thought we should keep things low-key over the weekend."
Frieda from accounting darts into the elevator after us. I hope that Hillary will save further interrogation for after our elevator ride, but no, she continues as the doors close. "Did you guys hook up?"
I nod so that Frieda, standing with her back to us, won't know my business. I would have said no, but red roses would make less sense had there been no hook-up.
"But you didn't sleep together, did you?" At least she whispers this.
"No," I say, and then give her a look to be quiet.
The elevator doors open, and Frieda scurries on her way.
"So? Tell me more," Hillary says.
"It was pretty minor stuff. C'mon, Hill. You're relentless!"
"Well, if you'd told me the entire story up front, I wouldn't need to be relentless." Her face looks trusting again. I am out of the woods.
We talk about other things on our short walk to Second Avenue. But then, over steak at Palm Too, she says, "Remember when you dropped that beer on Saturday night, while you and Dex were talking?"
"When?" I ask, feeling panicked.
"You know, when you were talking, and I came up-right at the end of the evening?"
"Oh yeah. I guess. What about it?" I make my face as blank as possible.
"What was going on? Why was Dex so upset?"
"He was upset? I don't remember." I look at the ceiling, wrinkle my forehead. "I don't think he was upset. Why do you ask?"
When trapped, answering a question with a question is always a sound tactic.
"No reason. It just seemed odd, is all."
"Odd?"
"I don't know. It's crazy…"
"What?"
"It's crazy, but… you guys looked like a couple."
I laugh nervously. "That is crazy!"
"I know. But as I was watching you two talk, I thought to myself that you would be way better with Dex. You know, better than he is with Darcy."
"Oh, come on," I say. More nervous laughter. "They look great together."
"Sure. Yes. They have all of that surface stuff. But something about them doesn't fit." She brings her water glass to her lips and inspects me over it.
Keep your day job, Hillary.
I tell her she is nuts, even though I love what she has just told me. I want to ask her why she thinks this. Because we both went to law school? Because we have some shared trait-more depth or dignity than Darcy? But I say nothing more, because it's always wise to say as little as possible when you're guilty.
Les barges into my office after lunch to ask me about another matter for the same client. I have figured out over the years that this is his awkward way of apologizing. He only comes by my office after an explosion, like the one this morning.
I swivel in my chair and give him the update. "I've checked all of the cases in New York. And federal cases too."
"Okay. But keep in mind that our fact pattern is unique," Les says. "I'm not sur
e the Court will care much about precedent."
"I know that. But as far as I can tell, the general holding we rely upon in Section One of our brief is still good law. So that's a good first step."
So there.
"Well, make sure you check case law in other jurisdictions too," he says. "We need to anticipate all of their arguments."
"Yup," I say.
As he turns to leave, he says over his shoulder, "Nice roses."
I am stunned. Les and I do not make small talk, and he has never commented on anything other than my work, not even a "How was your weekend?" on a Monday morning, or a "Cold enough out there for you?" when we ride the elevator together on a snowy day.
Maybe two dozen red roses make me seem more interesting. I am more interesting, I think. This affair has given me a new dimension.
I am shutting down my computer, about to leave work, with plans to see Dexter. We have not yet spoken, only traded a series of conciliatory messages, including one from me thanking him for the beautiful flowers.
Hillary appears in my doorway, on her way out. "You're leaving now too?"
"Yeah," I say, wishing I had slipped out ahead of her. She often asks me if I want to get a drink after work, even on Mondays, which virtually everybody else considers the only stay-in night of the week. She isn't so much a party girl, like Darcy, she just isn't one to sit home and do nothing.
Sure enough, she asks if I want to grab a margarita at Tequilaville, our favorite place near work despite-or maybe because of-the stale chips and touristy crowd. It is always a welcome escape from the predictable New York scene.
I say no, I can't.
Of course she wants a reason. Every reason I think of she can and will refute: I'm tired (c'mon, one drink?), I have to go the gym (blow it off!), I'm cutting back on alcohol (a blank, incredulous stare). So I tell her that I have a date. Her face lights up. "So ole Marky Mark's flowers worked their magic, huh?"
"You got me," I say, glancing at my watch for good measure.
"Where are you going? Or are you staying in?"
I tell her we're going out.
"Where?"
"Nobu," I say, because I ate there recently.
"Nobu on a Monday night, huh? He does dig you."
I regret my choice; I should have gone for the no-name neighborhood Italian restaurant.
"If the date ends before two, call me and give me the scoop," she says.
"Sure thing," I say.
I go home forgetting all about Marcus and Hillary.
"Thank you so much for seeing me," Dex says, as I open the door. He is wearing a dark suit and white shirt. His tie is removed, likely stuffed into his briefcase, which he puts on the floor right inside my door. His eyes are tired. "I didn't think you would."
I never considered not seeing him. I tell him this, realizing that it might erode my power. I don't care. It is the truth.
Both of us begin to apologize, moving toward each other awkwardly, self-consciously. He takes one of my hands in his, squeezes it. His touch is both soothing and electrifying. "I'm so sorry for everything," he says slowly.
I wonder if he knows to be sorry about the beach too, if that is included in "everything." I have replayed that scene over and over, mostly in sepia, like Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" video. I blink, squeezing the images out of my mind. I want to make up. I want to move on.
"I'm sorry too," I say. I take his other hand, but there is still much space between us. Enough to fit another person or two.
"You have no reason to be sorry."
"Yes I do. I had no right to be angry at you. I was so out of line… We weren't going to discuss anything until after July Fourth. That was the deal…"
"It's not fair to you," he says. "It's a fucked-up deal."
"I am fine with the way things are," I say. It's not exactly true, but I am afraid of losing him if I ask for more. Of course, I am terrified of truly being with him too.
"I need to tell you about that afternoon with Darcy," he says.
I know he is talking about the shower episode, and I can't bear to hear it. The sepia beach frolic is one thing, the up-close and color porn scene is another. I don't want a single detail from his perspective. "Please don't," I say. "You really don't have to explain."
"It's just that… I want you to know that she initiated it… Truly… I've been avoiding it for so long, and I just couldn't get out of it." His face twitches, a mask of guilty discomfort.
"You do not have to explain," I say again, more firmly. "She's your fiancee."
He nods, looking relieved.
"You know when the two of you were on the beach?" I ask quietly, surprising myself by bringing it up.
"Yeah," he says knowingly, and then looks down. "When I came back up to the towels, I knew. I knew you were upset."
"How did you know?"
"You heard me say your name and ignored me. You were so cool. Chilly. I hated that."
"I'm sorry. It's just that you looked so happy with her. And I felt so-so…" I struggle to find the right word. "Well, obsolete, used."
"You are not obsolete, Rachel. You are all I think about. I couldn't sleep last night. Couldn't work today. You are anything but obsolete." His voice has lowered to a whisper, and we have assumed the position of slow-dancers, my arms around his neck. "And you must know that I'm not using you," he says into my ear. I feel the goose bumps rising.
"I know," I say into his shoulder. "But it's just so weird. Watching you with her. I don't think I should go to the Hamptons with you both again."
"I'm so sorry," he says again. "I know. I just wanted to spend time with you."
We kiss once. It is a soft, closed-mouth kiss, our lips barely touching. There is no connotation of lust or sex or passion. It is the other side of a love affair, the part I like the best.
We move over to my bed. He sits on the edge, and I am cross-legged beside him.
"I just want you to know," he says, staring intently into my eyes, "that I would never do this if I didn't deeply care for you."
"I know," I say.
"And I'm… you know… taking this whole thing very seriously."
"Let's not talk about it until the Fourth," I say quickly. "That was the deal."
"Are you sure? Because we can talk about it now if you want."
"I'm sure. Positive."
And I am positive. I am afraid of any leads he might give me about our future. I can't bear the thought of losing him, but have yet to consider what it would be like to lose Darcy. To have done something so huge and all-encompassing and wrong and final to my best friend.
He tells me that it scares him how much I mean to him, do I know how much I mean to him?
I nod. I know.
He kisses me again, more intensely this time. Then I experience my first truly unbelievable make-up sex.
The next morning Hillary visits me on the way to her office. She asks me how my date went. I tell her it was great. She plops down in one of my guest chairs, placing her bottle of Poland Spring water and her sesame bagel on my desk. She leans back and slams my door with her elbow. Her face is all business.
It turns out that Marcus did indeed opt for the no-name Italian restaurant in his neighborhood. The same no-name Italian restaurant that for whatever reason also struck Hillary's fancy last night. A city of millions, and Marcus and Hillary were seated two tables apart, over identical plates of ravioli on a random Monday night. Welcome to Manhattan, a smaller island than you'd ever think.
"The only thing you didn't lie to me about," Hillary says, shaking her finger at me, "is that Marcus was, in fact, on a date. Just not with your lying ass-although the girl resembled you in the mouth and chin region."
"Are you mad?"
"Not mad, no."
"What then?"
"Well, for one, I'm shocked. I didn't think you were capable of such deceit." She looks impressed by this revelation. "But I'm also hurt that you feel you can't confide in me. I like to think of myself as your best fr
iend-not some figurehead, a throwback from your high school days-your present-day best friend. Which brings me to my next point…" she says knowingly. She waits for me to fill the silence.
I look at my stapler, then my keyboard, and then my stapler again.
Although I have pictured getting busted many times, it is always Darcy doing the busting. Because after all, if you're going to let your mind wander, go for the worst scenario, not some intermediate level of doom. It's like worrying about your boyfriend getting into a drunk driving accident-you don't think about him hitting a mailbox and splitting his lip. You picture lilies beside an open casket.
So I've had images of Darcy catching us. Not caught-in-bed-naked-in-the-act kind of busted-that is too far-fetched, particularly in a doorman building-but something more subtle. Darcy stops by unexpectedly, and Jose sends her up without buzzing me first (mental note to self: tell him never to do that). I answer the door assuming it is only the Chinese delivery guy bringing cartons of wonton soup and egg rolls to Dex and me, as we are understandably famished from our escapades (mental note to self, number two: always look through the peephole first). And there she stands, her big eyes taking it all in. Speechless in her horror. She flees the scene. Dex dashes into the hall in his gingham boxers, bellowing her name, like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire.
Next scene: Darcy amid cardboard boxes packing her CDs with the ever-supportive Claire offering her Kleenexes at every turn. At least Dex would get all the Springsteen albums, even Greetings From Asbury Park, which someone had given Darcy as a gift. Most of the books would stay, too, as Darcy brought few books into the union. Just a few glossy coffee table numbers.
I read once-ironically, in one of Darcy's magazines-that you should engage in this visualization exercise when you're having an affair, that you should imagine getting caught and the grim aftermath. These images should snap you back to reality, get you thinking straight, make you realize what it is you'd be losing. Of course, the article presupposed a lust-driven affair, and the article was not directed at the unattached person in the triangle, but rather the participant in the committed relationship. Then again, the article also assumed that the third party was not the maid of honor in the upcoming wedding of the other two persons. Clearly our circumstances do not fit your typical adulterous mold.
