by Emily Giffin
Six
After that night on the couch, Marcus stopped resisting and stopped referring to us as a mistake. Although he seldom initiated contact, he was always available when I asked to see him—whether during lunch in the middle of the day or at night whenever Dex worked late. All my free time involved Marcus. And when I wasn’t with Marcus, I was thinking about him, fantasizing about him. The sex was ridiculous, over-the-top stuff I thought only existed in movies like 9½ Weeks. I couldn’t get enough of Marcus, and he clearly was just as obsessed with me. He tried to play it cool, but every now and then, I’d get a clue about his feelings by the sound of his voice when I’d call or the way he’d look at me after sex when I’d lounge naked in his apartment.
But despite our escalating romance, Marcus never so much as hinted that I should call off the wedding. Not once. Not even when I pressed him on it, asking him point-blank if I should go through with it. He’d just say, “That’s up to you, Darce.” Or, even more frustrating, he’d say that I should marry Dex. I know it was just his guilt talking, but I hated it anyway. Although I had no intention of canceling my wedding and should have been enjoying the freedom that came with a demand-free love affair, I still wanted Marcus to tell me that he had to be with me, that if I didn’t tell Dex the truth about us, he would. Such measures would have matched the passionate idea of us—that unstoppable, unnameable force drawing us together. But that wasn’t Marcus’s style. Although he overcame the guy’s guy hurdle by sleeping with a friend’s fiancée, he wasn’t willing to go the whole way and actually sabotage the wedding.
And so my engagement to Dex stayed on course, the partition between fiancé and lover firm. I’d leave Marcus’s apartment and return to my own, completely switching gears, picking up my wedding files and ordering three hundred wedding favors without batting an eye. As into Marcus as I was, I still thought of myself as part of the golden couple and believed that nobody was better for me in the long run than Dex. At least on paper. Dex had it all over Marcus on paper. For one, he was better looking. If you polled a hundred women, Dex would get every vote. Marcus wasn’t as tall, his hair wasn’t as thick, and his features weren’t as chiseled. And in other categories, too, Marcus came up short: he wasn’t as neat, he had a terrible work ethic, he didn’t make as much money, he didn’t come from as good a family, his taste wasn’t as refined, he had cheated on past girlfriends, and was capable of lying to a friend.
Marcus only prevailed in that fuzzy, intangible way that either matters a lot or not much at all, depending on whom you ask. We were all about all the stuff you can’t really articulate. The lust, passion, the physical connection. He was irresistible, imperfections and all, and I couldn’t stop going back for more. Not that I really tried. I breezed along, making wedding plans, returning home to Dex after having sweaty, intense sex with his groomsman. I reassured myself that I’d get my fix before the wedding, and that from that day forward, I’d be a loyal wife. I was just having a final fling. Just getting things out of my system. Plenty of guys did it. Why couldn’t I?
Of course, I didn’t tell a soul about my affair. Not my mother, with whom I usually shared all. Not Claire, who wouldn’t even begin to understand why I would cheat on someone with Dexter’s pedigree and jeopardize my future. And certainly not Rachel. Because she’s so judgmental and because I knew she had a small crush on Marcus.
Only once did I come close to divulging the full truth. It was after I misplaced my ring in Marcus’s apartment and accused his maid of stealing it. I was in a panic, worried about getting a replacement before the wedding, worried about telling Dex that the ring was missing, and suddenly worried about whether I should marry Dex at all. So in desperation, I turned to Rachel for guidance. She had always been my decision maker on even the most trivial matters, like whether to buy the chocolate or tan raw leather Gucci boots (although at the time, that didn’t feel very trivial), so I knew she’d rise to the occasion in my hour of need. I confessed my affair, but downplayed its importance, telling her that it had only happened once. I also told her that I had slept with a guy from work—rather than Marcus. I just wanted to spare her feelings because at that point I didn’t think the full truth would ever emerge.
As always, Rachel gave sound advice. Over Chinese delivery, she convinced me that the affair was simply a manifestation of cold feet, the cold feet that only a man—or a woman with endless options—can understand. She made me see that although the initial passion of an intense affair is hard to pass up, what I had with Dex was better, more enduring. I believed her, and decided that I was going to marry Dex.
Then, one night in August, about three weeks before my wedding, something happened that made me question my decision. I had a client dinner that was canceled at the last minute, so I showed up at Marcus’s apartment to surprise him. He wasn’t yet home, but I convinced his doorman to give me his spare key so I could wait inside for him. Then I went upstairs, got undressed except for a pair of leopard-print heels, and sprawled out on his couch, anxious for him to come find me.
About an hour passed, and just as I was dozing, I heard unmistakable female giggling in the hallway and Marcus’s low voice, obviously cracking up his companion. I scrambled to get dressed, but couldn’t do so before Marcus and a blonde—who vaguely reminded me of Stacy from Aureole—walked inside. She had a pretty face but was pear-shaped, and worse, wearing Nine West footwear from about three seasons ago. The three of us stood there, mere feet apart. I was still completely naked but for my Blahniks.
“Darcy—you scared the shit out of me,” Marcus said, looking not nearly scared enough as far as I was concerned. “My doorman didn’t tell me you were up here.”
I managed to throw on one of Marcus’s dirty T-shirts that was draped over the back of his couch, but not before I caught the girl giving me an envious once-over. “I guess he forgot,” I hissed.
“I’ll leave,” the blonde said, backing up like a trapped doe.
“You do that,” I said, pointing at the door.
Marcus said, “Bye, Angie, I’ll—”
“He’ll call you tomorrow, Angie,” I spit out caustically. “Toodle-oo.”
As soon as the door closed, I tried to hit him, while screaming at him: You bastard, you liar, you tainted my engagement, you ruined my life.
I knew deep down that I had no right to be so enraged, that I was only a few weeks away from marrying somebody else. And yet, at the same time, I felt that I had every right. So I kept delivering inept blows while he effortlessly blocked each one with his hands or forearms just as my personal trainer does during a kickboxing session.
This battery went on for some time, until finally Marcus got angry. He grabbed my wrists, shook me a little, and shouted, “What did you think was going to happen, Darcy?”
“With Angie?” I said, hoping that he was about to tell me that he and Angie were strictly friends, that nothing was going to happen.
“No,” he said with disgust. “What did you think was going to happen after you got married? Have you even stopped to think about that?”
Of course I had, I told him, suddenly on the defensive. I hadn’t expected this line of questioning.
“And?”
“I don’t even know if I am getting married,” I said. Of course, I had every intention of getting married but thought I had a greater right to be indignant if my nuptials were up in the air.
“Well, assuming you do,” Marcus said. “Did you think we’d keep seeing each other?”
“No,” I snapped back self-righteously.
“I mean, Jesus Christ, Darcy,” he shouted. “It’s bad enough that I’ve been seeing my friend’s fiancée for almost two fucking months. But, you know, I draw the line there. I’m not gonna sleep with his wife in case that’s what you had in mind.”
“I did not have that in mind,” I said. If he was going to take the high ground, then so would I—although the high ground was eroding quickly.
“So what then? Did you think I was going t
o be celibate after you got married? Pine away after you for the rest of my life? Hang out with you and Dex all the while thinking, ‘Gee whiz, what a lucky guy he is. How I wish I could be him.’?”
“No,” I said, although I did like the whole star-crossed lovers theme. Who doesn’t? I mean, there is a reason why Romeo and Juliet is such a beloved tale.
“Then Christ, Darcy, what do you want from me?” he shouted louder, now pacing back and forth across his apartment.
I considered this for a moment and then said, in a pitiful, small voice with my dying-calf-in-a-hailstorm expression, “I want you to love me.”
He made a puh sound and looked at me, disgusted. Everything was backfiring. Why was I suddenly the bad guy?
I sat down, pulling his T-shirt over my knees. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Crying always worked with Dex. But Marcus didn’t fold. “Oh, stop crying!” he said. “Stop it now!”
“Well, do you love me?” I pressed, hopeful.
He shook his head. “I’m not playing your manipulative little games, Darce.”
“I’m not manipulating you…. Why won’t you answer the question?” I was suddenly on a singular quest.
“Why don’t you answer my question? Okay? You tell me what the hell difference it would make if I did love you? Tell me that. Huh?” His face was turning red and his hands were moving all over the place. Unless it involved a sporting event or gambling, I had never seen him agitated, let alone angry or upset.
For a second, I was enchanted by the intensity of his reaction, as well as the word love coming from him. It was the closest he had ever come to telling me that he had real feelings for me. But then I pictured Angie and I was straight back to being furious. “Well, if you do love me, then what about Angie?” I pointed at the door, where my weak competition had exited. “Why was she here? Who is she, anyway?”
“She’s nobody,” he said.
“If she’s such a nobody,” I asked, “then why were you going to have sex with her?”
I expected a denial, but instead he looked at me defiantly.
“Were you going to have sex with her?” I asked.
He waited several beats, and then said, “Yup. Matter of fact, that was the plan.”
I delivered a solid punch to his shoulder. My hand hurt, but he didn’t flinch.
“You’re such an asshole,” I said. “I hate you so much!”
He gave me a blank stare and said, “Just go, Darcy. Leave now. This is over. We’re done. I’ll see you at your wedding.”
I could tell he meant it. I was stunned, simply couldn’t believe it would all end like this. “Is that what you really want?”
He spit out a disdainful laugh. “Has this ever been about anything other than what you want?”
“Oh, puh-lease,” I said. “As if you haven’t been enjoying every second of it.”
“Sure. It’s been fun,” he said flippantly.
“That’s it? Fun?”
“Yeah. Fun. A blast. A real joyride. The time of my life,” Marcus said. “What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?”
I considered the question and answered it honestly. “I want you to want me. For more than just fun. For more than just great sex. I want you to want me for real.”
He sighed, laughed, and shook his head. “Okay, Darce, I want you. I want you. I want you all to myself. Are you happy now?”
Before I could answer, he turned the corner into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. I waited a minute before I followed him, finding the door unlocked. He was leaning against his sink in the dark. From the light in the hall, I could see his face in the mirror. He looked sad, and that both surprised and softened me.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“Yes what?”
“Yes to your question. I am happy that you want me,” I said. “And I love you too.”
He gave me a disarmed look. I had my answer. Marcus loved me. I felt a rush of joy—a feeling of triumph and passion. “I’m calling off the wedding,” I finally said.
More silence.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you.”
“What do you think of that?”
“Are you sure you wanna do that?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
In truth, I wasn’t at all sure, but it was the first moment I could actually picture doing it—cutting the long, safe cord with Dex and starting a new life. Maybe it took seeing Marcus with someone else and realizing that we were over in a matter of days if I didn’t make a choice. Maybe it was watching him lean against his bathroom sink with those sad brown eyes. Maybe it was hearing him use the word love. And maybe it was the fact that the emotional ante had been so raised, I had nowhere else to go but there. It would have been anticlimactic to say anything else.
Moments later, Marcus and I were having intense, condomless sex.
“I’m going to come,” Marcus finally breathed, after I had twice.
“Two more seconds,” I said, crouching over him.
“Move now. I mean it.”
So I moved harder, right down on him, not caring that I was in the middle of my cycle, probably at the most perilous millisecond of the month.
“What are you doing?” he shouted, his eyes wide and scared. “You wanna get pregnant?”
At that instant, it seemed like a great idea—the perfect romantic solution. “Why not?”
He gave me a half-smile and told me I was crazy.
“Crazy for you,” I said.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he said. “I mean it.”
“Okay, Daddy,” I said, although I really didn’t think we had hit the jackpot with our effort. There had been plenty of times in my life—especially in college—when I forgot to take my pill or hadn’t been careful enough. But I had never gotten pregnant. In fact, part of me believed that I couldn’t get pregnant. Which suited me just fine. When the time came, I would just hop on a plane and pick up a baby in China or Cambodia. Like Nicole Kidman or Angelina Jolie. And presto, I’d become a glam mom with my perfect body intact.
“That’s not funny,” Marcus said, smiling. “Go do something. Wash up or pee or something, would you?”
“No way,” I said, tucking my legs underneath me, the technique my high school friend Annalise described using while she and her husband were trying to have a baby. “Swim, you little spermies, swim!”
Marcus laughed and kissed my nose. “You freak.”
“Yes, but you love me,” I said. “Say it again.”
“Again? I never said it the first time.”
“Pretty much you did. Say it again.”
He exhaled and looked at me fondly. “I kinda love you, you freak.”
I smiled, thinking that I had finally succeeded. Marcus was broken. He was mine if I wanted him. In the days that followed, I floundered, looking for a sign, any sign. Should I choose Dex or Marcus? Marriage or sex? Security or fun?
Then, one day in early September, a week before my wedding, I finally got my final answer in the form of two parallel pink lines on a plastic, urine-soaked stick.
Seven
“What’s it say?” Marcus asked, as I emerged from the bathroom with the plastic stick in hand. He was waiting for me on his couch while flipping through a Sports Illustrated.
“It says…‘Congratulations, Daddy.’”
“No way.”
“Yes way.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. I’m pregnant.”
Marcus leaned back on his couch and closed his magazine. I sat next to him, took his hands, and waited for more. Perhaps an embrace, a gentle touch, a few tears.
“And…you’re sure…that it’s mine?”
“Yes,” I said. “That question is insulting and hurtful. I haven’t had sex with Dex since—well, since forever. And you know it.”
“You’re sure about that? Not even one time this month? It isn’t the time to exaggerate, Darce.”
“Yes, I’m
sure,” I said firmly. It was the truth, thank goodness.
I thought of my high school friend Ethan, who is fair and blue-eyed and how he had married his pregnant girlfriend, Brandi, also a blonde. Months later she gave birth to a dark-skinned baby with eyes the color of Oreos. Rachel and I felt so sorry for Ethan—for the heartache and humiliation he had to endure during his divorce. But I actually felt almost as bad for Brandi. For some reason, I identified with her in a kindred, fellow-rule-breaker way. I knew she must have suffered incredibly for nine months, hoping and praying that the baby would come out looking like her husband and not the Native Alaskan she was melting igloos with on the side. The waiting must have been agonizing. Just thinking about it made my stomach turn. So it was a very lucky thing that I hadn’t had sex with Dex in at least a month. I was sure the baby was Marcus’s.
I put the stick on his coffee table and stared at the two pink lines. “Wow,” I said, feeling giddy. “A positive test. I’ve never seen one of those…and I’ve taken plenty.”
“Should we do another test? Just to double-check?” Marcus asked, pulling another box of tests from the Duane Reade bag. “I got two brands.”
“I don’t think you get many false positives with pregnancy tests,” I said. “It only works the other way.”
“Humor me,” Marcus said as he tore the plastic wrapper off another test.
I sighed loudly as I retrieved the mug full of my pee from his bathroom.
Marcus’s face fell. “You peed in my Broncos mug?”
“Yeah. So?”
“That’s my favorite mug,” he said, cringing.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just wash it,” I said. “And anyway, haven’t you ever heard that urine is completely sterile?”
Marcus made a face.
“Since when are you a stickler for germs?” I asked, looking around his sty of an apartment.
“I’ll never be able to drink out of that mug again,” he grumbled.
I rolled my eyes and stuck a fresh stick into his precious mug. Then I slowly counted to five aloud, before withdrawing it and placing it on the coffee table next to the first test.
