Something borrowed aod-1

by Emily Giffin

  In any event, I don't know exactly how I'd feel if Darcy busted us and my friendship with her ended. I can't really get there mentally. The fact is, Darcy is one hundred percent clueless, and she and Dex are still very much engaged. And likely, it will stay that way; they will get married and she will never discover the truth about our affair.

  Hillary is a different story.

  "Well?" she asks.

  "Well, what?"

  "Who were you really seeing last night? Who really sent you those?" She points at my roses.

  "Someone else."

  "No shit."

  I swallow.

  "Okay, look, I wasn't born yesterday. You get in a fight with Dex at the Talkhouse, you both clam up when I arrive on the scene. Then you leave the Hamptons early the next day, all down in the dumps, with false claims of imminent deadlines-I know your work schedule, Rach, and you had nothing due yesterday. And then these flowers arrive." She points at my roses, still in full bloom. "You name Marcus, whom you basically ignored over the weekend. Which is odd, even if you did decide to play it low-key. Then you tell me you have a date with Marcus, and I see him out sans you-with another woman!" She finishes her catalog of evidence with a jubilant smile.

  "Was she cute?" I ask.

  "The woman?"

  "Yeah. Marcus's date."

  "Actually, yes, she was quite attractive. As if you care."

  She is right-I don't.

  "Now quit stalling and address my point," she says.

  "What point is that?"

  "Rachel!"

  "It certainly does look bad," I say, still reluctant to confess.

  "Rachel. Who do you think I'm going to tell? I'm your friend. Not Darcy's. Hell, I don't even like her that much…"

  I pick up my tape dispenser, pull out two inches of tape, and hold it between my index finger and thumb. For some reason, this is a harder confession than the one to Ethan. Maybe because it is face-to-face. Maybe because her past has not been as dicey as Ethan's.

  "Okay." Hillary tries again. "Let me say the words for you, and you can just nod your head." Her voice is like that of a mother to a child.

  I nervously play with the tape, wrapping it around my thumb. She is about to spell it all out, and I have two choices-admit or deny. An admission might be a huge relief. A denial will have to be accompanied by a suitably indignant expression and a barrage of "How could you think that? Are you crazy?" et cetera. I am in no mood for that charade.

  "Dex is cheating on Darcy," she says. "With you."

  Drum roll.

  I raise my chin and return her gaze. Then I nod the smallest of nods, my head barely moving.

  "I knew it!"

  I consider telling her that I don't want to talk about it, but in truth, I do want to talk about it. I want her to tell me that I'm not a terrible person. I want her to expound upon her earlier statement that I would be better suited to him than Darcy. And most of all, I just want to talk about Dex.

  "When did this all start?"

  "The night of my parry."

  She stares at the ceiling for a second and nods as if everything makes sense now. "Okay, start from the beginning. Leave nothing out." She settles into her chair and tears off a piece of her bagel.

  "The first time I slept with him was an accident."

  "The. first time? You've slept with him? Multiple times?"

  I give her a look.

  "Sorry, go on. I just can't believe this!"

  "Okay. So yes, the night of my party, we were the last two out… we went for drinks, one thing led to another, and we slept together back at my apartment. It was an accident. I mean, we were both drunk. I was, anyway."

  "Oh, I remember. You were a little bit out of it that night."

  "Yeah. I was. But, interestingly, Dex says he wasn't that drunk." This detail not only shifts the responsibility his way, but simultaneously makes the genesis of the affair more meaningful.

  "So he, what, took advantage of you?"

  "No! I didn't mean to imply that… I knew what I was doing."

  "Okay." She motions for me to go on.

  I tell her about waking up the following morning, Darcy's frantic messages, our panic, and Dexter using Marcus as his alibi. "So that's it," I say.

  "What do you mean, 'that's it'? Clearly not." She gives my roses a purposeful glance.

  "I mean, that was it for a while. We both felt regretful and-'

  "How regretful?"

  "Regretful, Hillary! Obviously!" To myself, I recall that first day, and my complete lack of penitence. "So that was it. In my mind, it was over."

  "But not in his, right?"

  I choose my words carefully and tell her about his Monday call to me and the things he said. And then everything that happened in the Hamptons. And about our first sober kiss. The turning-point kiss. Sleeping with him for the real first time.

  She takes another big bite of her bagel. "So is this-what? A purely physical thing? Or do you really like him?"

  "I really like him," I say.

  She digests this. "So is he going to break off the engagement?"

  "We haven't talked about it."

  "How can you not talk about it? Wait-was that what you were fighting about in the Talkhouse?"

  I tell her that we weren't exactly fighting, but that I was upset about him having sex with Darcy. Hence the roses.

  "Okay. So if he's sorry for sleeping with his fiancee, that sounds like he's headed in the direction of breaking up with her, right?"

  "I don't know. We really haven't discussed it yet."

  She looks confused. "When are you going to?"

  "We said we'd talk about it around July Fourth."

  "Why then?"

  "Arbitrary. I don't know."

  She takes a swig of water. "Well, you do think he's going to dump her, right?"

  "I don't know. I don't even know if I want that."

  She gives me a nonplussed look.

  "You are forgetting an important piece of this whole thing, Hillary. Darcy is my longtime, lifelong friend. And I am her maid of honor."

  She rolls her eyes. "Details."

  "You just don't like her."

  "She's not my favorite person in the world, but Darcy is not the point."

  "She's a major point, in my opinion. She's my friend. And besides, even if she weren't, even if she were a random woman, don't you think I would have to confront the bad karma aspects of this?"

  I wonder why I am arguing against myself.

  She straightens in her chair and speaks slowly. "The world is not that black-and-white, Rachel. There are no moral absolutes. If you were sleeping with Dex for the sheer thrill of it all, then maybe I'd worry about your karma. But you have feelings for him. It doesn't make you a bad person."

  I try to memorize her speech. No moral absolutes. That is good stuff.

  "If the tables were turned," she continues, "Darcy would do the same thing in a heartbeat."

  "You think?" I ask, considering this.

  "Don't you?"

  "Maybe you're right," I say. Darcy does, after all, have quite a history of taking. I give, she takes. That's the way it has always been.

  Until now.

  Hillary smiles and nods. "I say go for it."

  More or less what Ethan said. That's two votes for me, zero for Darcy.

  "I'm going to keep seeing him as much as I can. We'll see what happens," I say, realizing that just "seeing what happens" is my version of "going for it."

  Chapter 12

  Darcy and I are flying home to Indianapolis for Annalise's baby shower, and I am stuck in the dreaded middle seat. Darcy was assigned the middle, but of course she wangled her way into my window seat, saying that if she can't look out the window she gets airsick. I wanted to tell her that this principle of car travel does not apply in a plane, but I didn't bother, just surrendered to her demand. In the past I would have done so mindlessly, but now I feel resentful. I think of Ethan and Hillary and their recent statements about D
arcy. She is selfish, plain and simple. And this is the truth, regardless of my feelings for Dex.

  A forty-something man with a crew cut has the aisle seat to my left. He has glued the entire length and width of his right forearm to our shared armrest, elbow to fingertip. He drinks and turns the pages of his magazine with his left hand so as not to lose ground.

  The pilot announces that the skies are clear and we will be landing ahead of schedule. Darcy announces that she is bored. She is the only person I know, over the age of twelve, who says with great regularity that she is bored.

  I glance up from my book. "Did you already read your Martha Stewart wedding issue?"

  "Cover to cover. There's nothing new in there. And by the way, you're the one who should be reading it. There's an article on favors-you promised you would help me think of an original idea for favors," she says, as she adjusts her seat the whole way back and then up again.

  "How about matchbooks?"

  "You said original!" Darcy crosses her arms. "Everybody does match-books! That's just a given. I need a proper favor, in addition to matches."

  "What does Martha suggest?" I ask, marking my place in my novel with my thumb.

  "I dunno, hard stuff to make. Labor-intensive stuff." She looks at me plaintively. "You have to help! You know I'm no good at crafts."

  "Neither am I."

  "You're better than I am!"

  I turn back to my book, pretending to be engrossed.

  She sighs and chews her Juicy Fruit more vigorously. And when that doesn't work, she hits the spine of my book. "Raa-chel!"

  "Okay! Okay!"

  She smiles, unabashed, like a child who doesn't care that she's made her mother miserable, only that she got what she wanted. "So you think we should do something with d?"

  "D?" I ask, playing dumb.

  "You know, a d… for Dex and Darcy. Or is that cheesy?"

  "Cheesy," I say, which would have been my answer even before the D and R days.

  "Okay-then what?" She checks the number of fat grams in her snack mix before casting it into the seat-back pocket in front of her.

  "Well, you have your sugared almonds in netting tied with pastel ribbons… or mints in a tin with your wedding date," I say as I exert slight pressure with my left elbow, trying to wedge it in a tiny crevice on my armrest. In my peripheral vision, I see Crew Cut flex his bicep in resis-tance. "Then you have permanent keepsakes like Christmas tree ornaments…"

  "Can't. We have too many Jewish guests-and honestly, I think some people who celebrate Kwanza," she interrupts, proud of her diverse guest list.

  "Okay. But you get the point. That genre. Permanent keepsakes: ornaments, homemade CDs with your favorite songs."

  She becomes perky. "I like the CD idea! But wouldn't that be expen-siver

  I give her a look that says, yeah, but you're worth it. She eats it up. "But what's another few hundred dollars in the scheme of things, right?" she asks.

  I'm sure her parents would love this statement. "Right," I patronize.

  "So we could have, like, The Darcy and Dex Soundtrack and put our all-time favorite songs on it," she says.

  I wince.

  "Are you sure it's not cheesy? Tell me the truth."

  "No, I like it. I like it." I want to change the subject but worry that this will spark a discussion of my maid-of-honor shortcomings. So instead I strike a thoughtful pose and tell her that although the CDs would be time intensive and expensive, they would make a lovely, special favor. Then I ask her if Dex would like the idea.

  She looks at me as if to say, who cares what Dex wants? Grooms don't matter. "Okay. Now help me think of some songs."

  I hear Shania Twain singing "Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?" Or maybe Diana Ross belting out "Stop! In the Name of Love!" No, all wrong, I think. Both songs cast Darcy in the role of noble victim.

  "I can't think of one song. My mind's a blank. Help me think," Darcy says, her pen poised over her napkin. "Maybe something by Prince? Van Halen?"

  "I can't think of any either," I say, hoping that Bruce Springsteen doesn't make the cut.

  "You sure it's not cheesy?" she asks.

  "It's not cheesy," I say, and then whisper, "This guy next to me is really pissing me off. He won't give me any of the armrest." I turn to quickly survey Crew Cut's smug profile.

  "Excuse me! Sir!" Darcy leans over my lap and pokes his arm. Once, twice, three times. "Sir? Sir!"

  He casts a disdainful eye her way.

  "Sir, could you please share the armrest with my friend here?" She flashes him her most seductive smile.

  He shifts his arm one centimeter. I mumble thanks.

  "See?" Darcy asks me proudly.

  This is the part where I'm supposed to marvel at her way with men.

  "You just have to know how to ask for what you want," she whispers. My mentor in dealing with the opposite sex.

  I think of Dex and July Fourth.

  "I might have to try that," I say.

  My parents call my cell right after we land, to confirm that Darcy's father picked us up and to ask if I ate on the plane. I tell them yes, Mr. Rhone showed up, and no, they stopped serving dinner on the New York to Indy flight about ten years ago.

  As we pull into our cul-de-sac, I spot my father waiting for me on the front porch of our two-story, white-aluminum-sided, green-shuttered house. He is wearing a short-sleeved, peach-and-gray plaid shirt and matching gray Dockers. By any measure, it is an "outfit," and it has my mother written all over it. I thank Mr. Rhone for the ride and tell Darcy that I'll call her later. I am relieved that she does not ask if we can all get together for dinner. I've had enough wedding talk and know that Mrs. Rhone is incapable of discussing anything else.

  As I cross Darcy's yard into my own, my dad throws up his arm and gives an exaggerated, overhand wave as if signaling a far-off ship. "Hello, counselor!" he belts out, all grins. The novelty of having an attorney daughter has yet to wear off.

  "Hi, Dad!" I kiss him and then my mother, who is hovering at his side, already examining me for possible signs of anorexia, which is ridiculous.

  I am nowhere near too thin, but my mom does not accept New York's definition of thin.

  As I field their questions about my flight, I notice that the hall wallpaper has changed. I advised my mother against wallpaper, told her paint was the way to go for a fresher look. But she stuck with wallpaper, switching from tiny floral print to slightly tinier floral print. My parents' taste has not evolved since around the time that Ronald Reagan was shot. Our home still has lots of country touches-cross-stitched expressions of good cheer like "Back-door friends are best," a scattering of wooden cows and pigs and pineapples, stencil borders throughout.

  "Nice wallpaper," I say, trying to sound sincere.

  My mom doesn't buy it. "I know-you don't like wallpaper, but your father and I do," she says, motioning me into the kitchen. "And we're the ones who live here."

  "I never said I liked wallpaper," my dad says, winking at me.

  She shoots him a practiced look of annoyance. "You most certainly did, John." Then she tells me in a whisper, designed for him to hear, that, in fact, my father picked the new paper.

  He gives me a "Who, me?" expression.

  They never tire of their routine. She plays the fearless leader, corralling her unruly husband, the good-natured fool. Although I spent much of my adolescence irritated by the monotony of it, particularly when I had friends over, I have come to appreciate it in recent years. There is something comforting about the sameness of their interaction. I am proud that they have stayed together, when so many of my friends' parents have divorced, remarried, morphed two families into one, with varying degrees of success.

  My mom points to a plate of cheddar cheese, Ritz crackers, and red grapes. "Eat," she says.

  "Are these seedless?" I ask. Grapes with seeds just aren't worth the effort.

  "Yes, they are," my mom says. "Now. Shall I throw something together or would you rather orde
r pizza?"

  She knows that I'd prefer pizza. First, I love Sal's pizza, which I can only get when I'm home. Second, "throwing something together" is an exact description of my mom's cooking-her idea of seasoning is salt and pepper, her idea of a recipe is tomato soup and crackers. Nothing strikes fear in my heart like the sight of my mother strapping on an apron.

  "Pizza," my dad answers for us. "We want pizza!'

  My mom pulls a Sal's coupon off the refrigerator and dials the number, ordering a large pizza with mushrooms and sausage. She covers the mouthpiece. "Right, Rachel?"

  I give her the thumbs-up. She beams, proud to have memorized my favorite combination.

  Before she can hang up, she is inquiring about my love life. As though all my phone updates informing them that I have nothing going on were just a ruse, and I've been saving the truth tor this moment. My father covers his ears with feigned embarrassment. I give them a tight-lipped smile, thinking to myself that this inquisition is the only part of coming home that I don't like. I feel that I am a disappointment. I am letting them down. I am their only child, their only shot at grandchildren. The math is pretty basic: if I don't have children in the next five years or so, it is unlikely they will see their grandchildren graduate from college. Nothing like a little added pressure to an already stressful pursuit.

  "Not one boy out there?" my mom asks, as my dad searches for the ideal slice of cheese. Her eyes are wide, hopeful. The probe might seem insensitive, except she truly believes I have my choice of dozens, that the only thing keeping me from her grandchildren is my own neurosis. She doesn't understand that the simple, straightforward, reciprocated love she has for my father is not so easy to come by.

  "No," I say, lowering my eyes. "I'm telling you, it's harder to find a good guy in New York than anywhere." It is the cliche of single life in Manhattan, but only because it's true.

  "I can see that," my dad says, nodding earnestly. "Too many people caught up in that rat race. Maybe you should come home. At least move to Chicago. Much cleaner city. It's because Chicago has alleys, you know." Every time my dad visits New York, he harps on the lack of alleys; why would they make a city without alleys?