by Emily Giffin
I smiled bravely and said, “No. Actually, I called the wedding off this weekend.”
Like a Red Cross volunteer during a fire at an orphanage, Claire sprang into action. “Omigod! No! Way!” She pressed one hand to her temple and whisked me out of the conference room back up to my office, her arm around my waist as if I might, at any moment, faint. “What in the world is going on?” she asked when we were alone.
“It’s over.” I sniffed.
“Why? You and Dex are perfect together! What happened?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, my eyes filling with tears as I thought about Dex in Rachel’s closet. Despite all my plans to the contrary, I just couldn’t resist telling her. I needed her sympathy and full support. I needed her to tell me that Dex could not possibly be interested in boring old Rachel. So I dropped the bomb on her. “We broke up this weekend, and then, yesterday afternoon, I caught Dex and Rachel together.”
“What?” Claire’s mouth fell open.
I nodded. “You’re telling me.”
“What do you mean ‘together’? Are you sure?”
“Yes. I went over to talk to Rachel about this whole situation and Dex was there, in his boxers, all crouched down, hiding in her closet.”
“No!”
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh. My. God.” Claire covered her mouth with both hands and shook her head. “I—I don’t even know what to say. I just can’t…what in the world was he thinking? What was she thinking? How could they?”
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I said. “It’s all so humiliating. I mean, my maid of honor!”
“Of course not. Cross my heart,” Claire said, making a big X over her bubble-gum-pink twin set. She gave me a few seconds of respectful silence before launching into Q&A mode. “Was it a one-time thing?” she asked.
“It had to be a one-time thing, don’t you think?”
“Oh. I’m sure. Dex would never like her,” she said.
“I know. I just can’t see it. There’s no way, right?”
“No way. He just couldn’t go from you to her. She’s just so plain, and…I don’t know…. I know she’s your best friend so I don’t want to say anything bad—”
“What? She is so not my best friend anymore. I despise her.”
“I don’t blame you,” Claire said solemnly, ready to step up and fill Rachel’s bland shoes.
I threw her the bone she so craved. “You’re my best friend now.”
Claire clasped her hands together and looked at me as though she might cry. Ever since our roomie days together, Claire had jockeyed for position as my most favored friend. At times, she was downright obsequious. But it was what I needed at that moment, and she delivered. “Oh, Darce. I’m totally here for you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
“We’re going to have the best time hanging out as single girls again,” she said. “What are you doing tonight? Henry Fabuss is throwing a big bash at Lotus this evening—for his thirtieth. We should totally go. He’s such a hoot—and he’s so totally dialed in, you know? Everyone’s going to be there. It would really get your mind off this.”
“Not tonight,” I said. “I think I just need some alone time. In fact, I think I’m going home now. I can’t stand being here—and I don’t want anyone to see me crying.”
“Want me to come with you? I’m sure Cal would let me leave with you,” she said. “We could go shopping. Retail therapy.”
“No, thanks. I think I want to be alone,” I said, even though I was actually planning to be with Marcus.
“Okay,” she said, obviously disappointed. “I understand.”
“I just need to get this e-mail out before I leave. Can you read it and see what you think?”
Proofing my e-mails used to be Rachel’s role. She had been so good at it. I vowed to banish her from my thoughts. She was persona non grata until her apology came forth in skywriting. Meanwhile, Claire took her job seriously, leaning in close to my monitor, and reading the e-mail twice. She finally looked up, gave me a brisk nod, and said it was fine, just fine. So I hit send and sashayed down the hall, relishing the stares and whispers from my colleagues along the way.
Nine
Marcus agreed to leave work early and meet me back at his apartment, where we had fantastic sex. Afterward, I rested my head on his chest and told him my conference room tale.
“I’m surprised you didn’t jet with the Tiffany box,” he said after I had finished the story.
“I wanted to,” I said. “I bet it was something good…. Oh, well. We’ll get a replacement when you and I get married.”
No response.
“Do you want to talk about that?” I probed, stroking his arm.
“Talk about what?”
“Us getting married.”
“Um—okay. What exactly do you want to talk about?”
“Well, don’t you want to do it before the baby’s born?” I asked, thinking that I couldn’t even focus on my pregnancy until the details of our relationship were squared away. Besides, I was already in full-on wedding mode. There was no reason to let my preparations lapse. I even planned on keeping my dress, knowing that I couldn’t find a better gown. “I think we should talk about it. Don’t you?”
“I guess so,” he said reluctantly.
I chose to ignore his tone and pressed on. “Okay—so when do you think we should do it?”
“I don’t know. In six months?”
“When I’m totally showing? No, thanks.”
“Five months?”
“Marcus!”
“Four?”
“No. Too long. I think we should do it right away. Or as soon as we can get some plans together.”
“I thought you said that we were going to just get a justice of the peace?”
I had, in fact, said something like that somewhere along the line. But that was back when I actually worried about Dexter’s feelings. Back when I wasn’t even sure that Marcus and I were going to end up together. Now I wanted to have a big wedding just to spite Dex and Rachel and invite all of our mutual friends. I’d invite Rachel’s parents too, and then they could report back to her how beautiful I looked, how thrilled I was in my new relationship, how moving Claire’s toast was.
“Well, I was actually thinking that we could have a little ceremony. Just something small. Like fifty people or so.” My count was more like one hundred, one twenty-five, but I would ease him into the idea.
“Fifty, huh? So pretty much immediate family?” he asked as he scratched the back of his neck.
“Yeah, pretty much. And our closest friends.”
He smirked. “Like Dex and Rachel?”
I gave him a look.
“No?” he asked, grinning. “Not Dex and Rachel?”
“Be serious! What do you think about having a real wedding?”
He shrugged and then said, “I’m not sure about all that. That’s not really my thing. I’m still kind of thinking that the justice of the peace is the way to go. Or we could elope. I don’t know. Do we have to talk about this right now?”
“Okay, fine.” I sighed, resigning myself to the fact that he probably wasn’t going to be satisfying about a wedding. But what guy really is? Other than those repulsive, girly types on TLC’s A Wedding Story who blubber their way through the ceremony. And who wants a guy like that?
Later that evening, after Marcus and I came back from dinner, I checked my messages. I had twenty-two at work, fourteen at home. Thirty-six messages in eight hours. And only two were work related. Which meant thirty-four personal messages. Likely an all-time personal record. I sat at Marcus’s table, listening to the words of support as I took notes on a pad. When I got to the very last message, the third one from Claire, I looked up at Marcus. “They didn’t call,” I said, shocked. “Neither one of them.”
“Did you think they would?” Marcus asked.
“Yes. They owe me a call. Especially Rachel.”
“But didn’t you say tha
t you never wanted to speak to her again?”
I shot him a look of annoyance. “She should still try to call and apologize…”
Marcus shrugged.
“And as for Dex, I have to talk to him. About logistics. The wedding stuff,” I said. “I just can’t believe neither one of them called.”
Marcus shrugged again. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Okay. For the record, I abhor that statement.”
“What statement?”
“‘I don’t know what to tell you.’”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“‘I don’t know what to tell you,’” I mimicked again. “It’s what repairmen say when they can’t fix what’s broken. ‘But I just bought this car/computer/dryer last month!’ you say, at their mercy, and they shoot back with an ‘I don’t know what to tell you.’ Translation: ‘It’s not my problem and I really don’t give a shit.’”
Marcus smiled. “Sorry. I won’t say it again.”
“Thank you,” I said, still clutching the phone. “So do you think I should call Dex?”
“Do you want to call him?” Marcus asked as he inspected the bottom of his foot and picked at a callus.
“It’s not a question of want. It’s a question of need. We have logistics to work out,” I said, slapping his hand away from his foot. “Like canceling the photographer and caterer and band. And reaching everyone on our invite list. Like the honeymoon tickets. Like his moving out.”
“So call him.”
“But he should call me.”
“So wait for him to call you.”
“Look, mister. You better start taking a more active interest in these details. In case you forgot, you’re an integral part of this whole saga, and you better start having an opinion on all related matters.”
Marcus made a face as if to say, I don’t know what to tell you.
The next few days, leading up to what would have been my wedding day, were jam-packed with nonstop drama. More phone calls, e-mails, and long drawn-out conversations with Claire about why in the world Dex would want to hook up with Rachel, even longer sessions with my mother, who still cried often and could not seem to accept that Dex and I were not going to reunite.
But there was still no word from Dex or Rachel. It infuriated me that they weren’t calling. As much as I didn’t want to be the one to phone first, I finally broke down and dialed Dexter’s work number. We only discussed logistics—the money he owed me, the number of days he had to come remove his belongings from my apartment, that sort of thing. After I had given him my orders, I paused, waiting for him to tell me that the thing with Rachel was a fluke, and that he was only using her to get back at me. When he didn’t, I reasoned that he was still so pissed about Marcus that he actually wanted me to think the worst. So I certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking about her. Nor would I ask him where he was staying. Never one to impose on a friend, he had likely checked into a hotel. I pictured him ordering a club sandwich from room service and stirring whiskey from the minibar into a glass of Coke as he clicked his way through the Pay-Per-View selections.
“Well. Good-bye, Dex,” I said as emphatically as possible. This was it. He had one more chance to tell me something, issue a final statement, plead his case. Maybe even tell me that he was sorry or that he missed me.
“All right, then. Bye, Darce,” he said without the slightest trace of emotion. I told myself that it just hadn’t hit him yet, the finality of it all. When it did, there was going to be some serious depression going on, some serious minibar bingeing happening somewhere in this city.
On what would have been my wedding night, Marcus and I hunkered down in his apartment, ordered Chinese, and had sex twice. Throughout the evening I kept announcing how happy I was not to be making “the biggest mistake of my life.” In truth, I felt a bit wistful. Not because I wanted to be marrying Dex. Not because I missed Rachel. I had way too much indignation brewing to be nostalgic about either of them. It was more about the wedding, the party-that-almost was. It would have been the event of the year, I told Marcus.
“I hear ya,” Marcus said. “I could be hanging with my college buddies right now, drinking for free.”
I punched him in the arm and told him to take it back. He obliged as he tilted back his third Miller Lite. “Besides, I wasn’t in the mood to get dressed up. I hate wearing a tux.”
I would have been miffed at the emotionless spin he was putting on our momentous evening together, but I could tell that deep down, he was really happy to have won the grand Darcy prize. I was in the heart of a “boy steals girl away from other boy” love-triangle thriller. Marcus was the victor, and Dex was so crushed that he was driven to hook up—or nearly hook up—with Rachel, a consolation prize if there ever was one. At least that’s the way I saw things in those sweet early days.
Ten
I don’t think my pregnancy truly sank in until the following week, when I had my first prenatal doctor’s appointment. Marcus came with me, but only after I guilt-tripped him into it. As we sat together in the waiting room, I filled out insurance forms while he flipped through a Time magazine, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. When the receptionist called my name, I stood up. Marcus stayed put. “Well, come on,” I said impatiently.
“Can’t I wait here?”
I caught a very pregnant woman, sitting with her husband, glance disdainfully at Marcus.
“Get up now,” I hissed at him.
He did so, but with a loud sigh. More like a groan.
We followed a nurse to the corridor behind the waiting room, where she asked me to step on the scale.
“With all my clothes on?” I asked. I make it a firm policy only to weigh myself naked and first thing in the morning. Or after a long sweat at the gym.
“Yes,” the nurse said impatiently.
I slipped off my Tod’s, handed my heavy silver cuff bracelet to Marcus, and instructed him to turn around. He did, but not before he rolled his eyes.
The nurse skillfully adjusted the scale with several quick sweeps of her fingertips until it finally steadied at 1261/2.
“127,” she said out loud.
I glared at her. Why did she think I’d wanted Marcus to turn around? “Looked like 1261/2 to me,” I said.
She ignored me, recording 127 on my chart.
Still, this was good news. I was 127, which meant 124 or 125 without clothes. No weight gain yet.
“How tall are you?” the nurse asked.
“Five nine and a half.”
She recorded this on my chart and led us to a small, chilly examining room. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”
I got up on the table, while Marcus glanced at another magazine rack. Upon discovering that his only offerings were Parents and American Baby, he chose to read nothing. Minutes later a young, petite blond woman who looked no older than twenty-five bounced into the room. She wore her thick blond hair in a short, pixie cut that showcased huge, brilliant-cut diamond studs. Black leather knee-high boots met the edge of her crisp white doctor’s coat.
“Hi. I’m Jan Stein. Sorry I’m running a little behind today.” She beamed, reminding me of Tammy Baxter, our head cheerleader in high school—who always got to top the pyramid while I was stuck steadying her heel.
“Darcy Rhone,” I said, sitting up straighter, noticing that she had an unusually large chest for such a small frame. Surely a doctor wouldn’t get a boob job, though. So they had to be natural. As a relatively flat-chested woman, that is the one combination that has always irked me. Fine, give a gal her big chest if it comes with a cellulite-covered ass. But Jan’s assets just weren’t fair. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t notice, I thought, as I introduced him as “the father.”
“It’s nice to meet you both.” She beamed at Marcus as I noted with satisfaction that she had a slight smear of crimson lipstick on her right front tooth.
Marcus smiled broadly back. I wanted to kick myself
for requesting a female doctor.
“Should I take my clothes off?” I asked impatiently, before Jan could engage Marcus further.
“No, I think we’ll just chat for a bit first. I want to go through your medical history and answer your questions. I’m sure you have plenty.”
“Sounds good,” I said, although I actually had none except whether it was okay to have an occasional cup of coffee or glass of wine.
Jan took a seat across from us, rolled her chair closer, and pressed my chart into an old-school wooden clipboard and said, “So. First off. Can you tell me the first date of your last menstrual period?”
“Yes. I can,” I said, proud that I’d thought to check the date on my calendar that morning. “August eighth.”
She made a note on her chart as I studied the enormous emerald-cut rock on her finger. She had to have been wearing at least a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds. I bet she was engaged to an older, gray-haired surgeon. I had a sudden pang for my engagement ring, which I planned to sell, but reassured myself that it was hip to be at a prenatal appointment with your partner, rather than your husband. I was like a celebrity. Plenty of them skipped the marriage and went right to having babies.
“So when is the baby due?” I asked. I knew she was due around early May, but I was eager to hear an exact date.
Jan pulled out a paper wheel, spun it, and squinted as she checked the dates. “Okay. Your estimated date of delivery, or EDD as you may hear me refer to it, is May second.”
The second of May would be Dexter’s thirty-fifth birthday. I looked at Marcus, who was clueless as to the implications of the due date. It’s amazing to me how few guys know their friends’ birthdays. So I announced to Jan and Marcus, “I hope I’m late—or early—because that’s my ex-fiancé’s birthday.”
Marcus rolled his eyes and shook his head while Dr. Stein laughed and then reassured me that only about 10 percent of babies are born on their actual due date.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
Jan looked stumped for a second—not a good sign if such an easy question threw her—and then said, “The due date is only a useful guide.”
