by Emily Giffin
One thing I did know for sure was this: if Dex and Rachel did not wish me a happy birthday in some form, there would be no redemption. Ever. My hatred for them was growing faster than the fruit flies had multiplied in our peanut butter jars in biology class sophomore year. I tried to remember what that experiment sought to prove, vaguely recalling something about eye color. Red eyes versus green eyes. I forgot the details. With Rachel as a lab partner, I hadn’t needed to pay too much attention. She had done all the work. I suddenly wondered what color eyes my baby would have. I hoped for blue, or at least green like mine. Everyone knows blue eyes are prettier, at least on a girl, which is why there were so many songs about brown-eyed girls, to make them feel better. I listened to Marcus snore as I played with a tuft of hair on his chest. He had just the right amount.
“Hmm,” he said, pulling me on top of him.
Having just puked fajitas, I wasn’t in the mood for sex, but I caved. It seemed as good a way as any to begin my thirtieth birthday. So after a quick, perfunctory round, I waited for him to open his eyes and wish me a happy birthday. Tell me that he loved me. Reassure me that thirty wasn’t old and that I had at least six good years left before I would need to think about plastic surgery. Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds passed with still no words from my boyfriend.
“Did you fall back asleep?” I demanded.
“No. I’m awake…” he mumbled, his eyelids fluttering.
The alarm clock sounded in a series of increasingly louder, high-pitched beeps. Marcus reached over and silenced his clock with a slap. I waited, feeling like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles when her whole family forgot her birthday. Sure, it had only been a few minutes, whereas Molly’s character had to endure a whole day of neglect, but after all I’d been through in recent weeks, all of the trauma and pain, those minutes felt like hours. It was bad enough that I had to turn thirty on a Monday and that I had to puke twice. But now the father of my child couldn’t even muster a tiny, heartfelt “happy birthday” on the heels of gratuitous sex.
“I’m sick,” I said, trying another angle for attention. “Morning sickness. I threw up twice.”
He rolled over, his back toward me. “You feel better now?” he asked, his voice muffled under his comforter.
“No,” I said. “Worse.”
“Mmmmmm. I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said.
I sighed loudly and said in my most sardonic tone, “Happy birthday to me.”
I expected his eyes to snap open, an immediate apology to spring from his lips. But he only mumbled again, still facedown in his pillow, “Happy birthday, Darce. I was getting to that.”
“The hell you were. You totally forgot!”
“I didn’t forget…I just gave you your present,” he said. I couldn’t see his face but knew he was smirking.
I told him I wasn’t amused and then announced that I was going to take a shower. “By all means,” I said, “you just stay in bed and relax.”
Marcus tried to redeem himself after I had showered, but he didn’t have much ammunition. It was clear he had not yet bought me a card or a present. Nor had he purchased my Pillsbury sticky cinnamon buns and pink candles even though I had told him that this was my family tradition, a tradition that Dex had continued over the past seven years. Instead, Marcus only offered me a few sweeties and babies, along with a pack of saltines from his delivery from the diner the night before. “Here,” he said. “In case you start to feel morning sickness again. I heard once that these do the trick.”
I wondered where he had heard that before. Had he ever gotten another girl pregnant? I decided to broach the topic later and snatched the crackers from his outstretched hand, saying, “You’re way too good to me. Really, Marcus, you have to tone this down. I can’t handle all the over-the-top gestures.”
“Oh, relax. I got you covered, Darce. You’ll get your present tonight,” Marcus said as he sauntered naked toward the bathroom. “Now go play nice with the other kids.”
“Buh-bye,” I said, as I slipped on my favorite Marc Jacobs pumps and walked toward the door. “Have fun shopping for my gift!”
“What makes you think I don’t have it already?” he said.
“Because I know you, Mr. Last Minute…and I mean it, Marcus. I want something good. Think Fifty-seventh Street!”
When I got to work, Claire was waiting in my office with yellow roses and what appeared to be a professionally wrapped gift. “Happy birthday, hon!” she trilled.
“You remembered!” I said. “What gorgeous roses!”
“Of course I remembered, silly,” she said, placing the fishbowl vase of flowers on my desk. “So how do you feel today?”
I looked at her, worried that she could tell I had morning sickness. “Fine. Why?”
“Just wondering if it feels any different being thirty?” she whispered. Claire was still twenty-eight for another few weeks, in the safety zone, buffered by twenty-nine.
“A little,” I said. “Not too bad, though.”
“Well, when you look as good as you do, what’s a little thing called age?” Claire said. She had been full of compliments since my breakup with Dex. I enjoyed them, of course, but sometimes I had the sense that they verged on pity remarks. She continued, “You could easily still pass for twenty-seven.”
“Thanks,” I said, wanting to believe her.
Claire smiled sweetly as she handed me my gift. “Here! Open! Open!”
“I thought you were going to make me wait until lunch!” I said, eagerly eyeing the present. Claire had excellent taste and never skimped in the gifting department. I ripped open the paper and saw a satisfying, red Baccarat box. I lifted the hinged lid and peered down at the chunky green crystal heart threaded with a black silk cord.
“Claire! I love it! I love it!”
“You do? Really? I have a gift receipt if you want to get a different color. The purple one was really pretty, too, but I thought this one would look nice with your eyes…”
“No way! This is perfect!” I said, thinking that Rachel probably would have picked some boring limited edition book. “You’re the best.” I hugged her, silently taking back every mean thing I had ever thought about her, every petty criticism. Like how annoying and clingy she got after too many drinks, always needing to accompany me to the bathroom at bars. How she bragged about her hometown of Greenwich and her debutante days. And how she stayed so hopelessly lumpy despite daily visits to the gym. What was she doing, I used to ask Rachel, eating Ho Hos in the locker room?
“The green matches your eyes,” Claire said again, beaming.
“I love it,” I said, as I admired the necklace from my compact mirror. The heart fell at just the right spot, accentuating my thin collarbone.
Claire took me to lunch later that day. I kept my cell phone on, just in case Dex or Rachel decided that lunchtime was the appropriate time to phone, apologize profusely, beg for my forgiveness, and wish me a happy birthday. It rang five different times, and every time I’d say to Claire, “Do you mind?” and she’d wave her hand and say, “Of course not. Go on.”
All of the calls (except Bliss Spa reminding me of my five o’clock facial) were from birthday well-wishers. But no Rachel or Dex.
I know it was on Claire’s mind, too, as she mouthed, “Who?” each time I answered.
After the fifth call, she asked, “Have you heard from Rachel today?”
“No,” I said.
“Dex?”
“Nope.”
“How rude not to call on your birthday and try to make up.”
“I know!”
“Any sightings since Crate and Barrel?” she asked.
“No. Have you seen them?”
“No. Nobody has seen them,” Claire said—which was saying something as her network was expansive. The next best thing to hiring a private investigator (and believe me, I had considered it) was having Claire as my new best friend.
“Maybe they broke up,” I said.
“Probably so,” she said.
“Out of guilt if nothing else.”
“Or maybe they just went on another exotic trip together,” I said.
She patted my arm sympathetically and ordered me a second glass of chardonnay. I knew I shouldn’t be drinking—but Dr. Jan had specifically said that I could drink on special occasions. Besides, plenty of French babies were born undamaged, and I was sure their mothers kept up with their daily intake of wine.
“I do have a little nugget for you, though,” I said, inhaling deeply, excited to drop the Marcus news on her. Minus the pregnancy, of course.
“Oh, really?” Her bangle bracelets clinked together as she crossed her arms and leaned toward me.
“I’m seeing someone,” I said proudly.
“Who?” she asked, wide-eyed. I detected a hint of jealousy. Claire, bless her heart, was a fast and furious matchmaker, but she never seemed to make much progress in her own right.
I smiled mysteriously, took a sip of water, and wiped the lipstick off my glass with my thumb. “Marcus,” I said proudly.
“Marcus?” she asked with bewilderment. “You mean, Marcus Marcus?”
I nodded.
“Really?” she asked.
“Uh-huh. Isn’t that crazy?”
Something flashed across her face that I wasn’t sure how to read. Was it jealousy that I had someone new so fast on the heels of a broken engagement? Did she, too, find him sexy in an unorthodox way? Or was it disapproval? My heart fluttered over the possibility of the latter. I desperately needed affirmation that Marcus was acceptable to a member of the Manhattan elite. I needed to be with someone whom everyone else wanted.
“When did this come about?” she asked.
“Oh, recently…” I said vaguely.
“I’m…I guess I’m a little bit surprised.”
“I know,” I said, thinking that she would have been less surprised if she hadn’t been such a sound sleeper that night over our July Fourth weekend. “Who would have thunk it?…But I really like him.”
“Really?” This time I definitely pegged her expression as disapproving.
“Why are you so surprised?”
“It’s just…I don’t know. I just didn’t think Marcus was your type.”
“You mean his looks?” I asked. “You mean the fact that I’m better looking than he is?”
“Well, that,” Claire said, struggling for tactful wording. “And, I don’t know, just everything. He’s a nice, fun guy—don’t get me wrong…” She trailed off.
“You don’t think he’s sexy?” I said. “I think he’s so sexy.”
Claire looked at me blankly. Her answer was clear. She did not find Marcus sexy. Not in the least.
“Well, I think he is,” I said again, feeling highly offended.
“That’s all that matters, then,” Claire said, patting my hand condescendingly.
“Right,” I said, knowing that that was not all that mattered. “I can’t believe you don’t think he’s cute.”
“I guess,” she said. “In a…I don’t know…‘guy’s guy’ kind of way.”
“Well, he’s great in bed,” I said, trying to convince Claire—and myself—that this single fact could make up for all of his shortcomings.
By five o’clock, I had received a dozen or more birthday e-mails and phone calls, and a stream of chipper office visits from colleagues. Still nothing from Rachel or Dex. There was one last possibility: maybe they had sent a card, note, or gift to my apartment, which I hadn’t returned to in several days. So after my facial, I cabbed it across the park to my apartment, anticipating the apologies that were surely awaiting me.
Minutes later I grabbed my mail from the lobby, unlocked my door, and surveyed my stash. I had cards from the usual lineup: my parents; my brother, Jeremy; my still-smitten high school boyfriend, Blaine; my grandmother; and my second-oldest friend from home, Annalise. The final one had no return address. It had to be from Rachel or Dex! I ripped open the envelope to find a picture of wriggling golden retriever puppies piled into a white wicker basket. A “Happy Birthday” banner stretched over the basket, each letter written in a different shade of pink. My heart sank, as I realized that the card was likely from my aunt Clarice, who still treated me as if I were ten. Unless Rachel was playing on the whole “friends since childhood” theme. I slowly opened the card, feeling hopeful until I saw the telltale ten-dollar bill taped inside and Aunt Clarice’s wobbly signature below the greeting “Hope your day is a basket of fun!”
And that was that. There was no getting around it—Rachel and Dex had blown off my thirtieth birthday, a day we had talked about for at least the past five years. I started to cry, undermining the treatment for puffy eyes that I had added to my regular facial. I called Marcus’s cell to garner some sympathy.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“That’s for me to know—and you to find out,” he said, the noise of heavy traffic in the background. I pictured him tripping down Fifth Avenue, his arms filled with packages.
“They didn’t call. Neither of them. No calls, e-mails, cards. Nothing.”
He knew who I meant. “The nerve of some ex-boyfriends,” Marcus joked.
“It’s not funny!” I said. “Can you believe them?”
“Darcy, didn’t you tell them that you never wanted to speak to them again? That they were—what were your words?—‘dead to you’?”
I gave him credit for recalling my precise wording. “Yes—but they could at least try to redeem themselves. They didn’t even try. It’s my thirtieth birthday!”
“I know, babe. And we’re gonna celebrate. So bring your skinny ass down here.”
He was right, my ass was still skinny. This observation cheered me up a drop. “Am I going to be a basketball girl?”
“What’s a basketball girl?”
“One of those girls who looks as if she has only a basketball under her shirt. You know, with thin limbs and a still-pretty face? And then the ball falls out and she is, voilà, perfect again?”
“Sure you will. Now get down here!”
He hung up before I could ask him where we were going for dinner, how dressed up I needed to be. Well, there’s no such thing as being overdressed, I told myself, as I selected my slinkiest black dress, highest Jimmy Choo stilettos, and gauziest wrap out of my closet, lining the ensemble up on my bed. Then I showered, blew my hair out straight, applied makeup to my glowing skin, opting for neutral lips and dramatic, smoky eyes.
“Thirty and ab-so-lute-ly stunning,” I said aloud to the mirror, trying not to look at the tiny crow’s feet around my eyes. Or worry about the fact that I was no longer in my twenties, and therefore on the road to losing my two most valuable assets: beauty and youth. I was filled with an unfamiliar sense of self-doubt that I pushed aside as I grabbed Aunt Clarice’s ten for cab fare and headed out the door.
Fifteen minutes later I sauntered into Marcus’s apartment, catwalk-style.
He whistled. “You look great.”
“Thanks.” I smiled as I noticed that he was wearing old brown cords, a pilled gray sweater, and scuffed shoes. I pictured Claire’s disapproving frown when I told her about Marcus. Maybe this was part of the reason why. He was sloppy. But not couture sloppy—you know, the whole low-hanging Dolce & Gabbana jeans with a cool Hanes wifebeater. Just bad sloppy.
“No offense, but you do not look so great,” I said, remembering that Rachel once told me that anytime I had to preface a statement with “no offense” I was probably saying something I shouldn’t be saying.
“No offense taken,” Marcus said.
“Please change and kick it up a notch. And FYI, brown and gray don’t generally go together…although somehow Matt Lauer manages to pull it off.”
“I’m not changing,” he said stubbornly.
“C’mon, Marcus. Couldn’t you at least put on some khakis and a sweater purchased within the last six years?”
“I’m wearing this,” Marcus said.
We argued for a few seconds, and I finally
gave in. Nobody was going to be looking at Marcus anyway. Not with me on his arm. On our way out the door, I heard a clap of thunder. I asked Marcus for an umbrella.
“I don’t have one,” he said, sounding curiously proud of himself. “Haven’t for years.”
I told him that I truly didn’t get how one can not own an umbrella. Fine, people lose umbrellas all the time, leave them in shops or cabs when the rain has cleared, not realizing it until the next rainy day. But how could you simply not own one?
“What am I supposed to use to keep dry?” I asked.
He handed me a plastic Duane Reade bag. “Take this.”
“Really classy,” I said, snatching it from him.
The evening wasn’t off to a roaring start.
It only got worse as we stood on the corner struggling to find a cab, which is close to impossible when it’s raining. Nothing frustrates me more about living in Manhattan than being stranded on the sidewalk in inclement weather and very high heels. When I expressed this to Marcus, he suggested we make a run for the subway.
I scowled and told him that I couldn’t run in heels. And besides, Jimmy Choos shouldn’t tread the underworld. Then, when a cab finally arrived, my left shoe got stuck in a gutter, wedged in so tightly that I had to remove my foot from the shoe, bend down, and yank. As I examined the scratched heel, the Duane Reade bag flew up and rain splattered across my forehead.
Marcus chuckled and said, “The shoes would have been better off in the underworld, eh?”
I glared at him as he slid in the cab ahead of me and told the driver the address. I couldn’t determine the restaurant from the address but thought to myself that it had better be a good choice, appropriate for a thirtieth birthday. An all-caps Zagat entry I had forgotten about.
