Something Borrowed

  “Hmm…Well, has he mentioned the engagement at all?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What? What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

  “It means I think he should call the shit off.”

  “Because of me?” My stomach drops at the thought of being responsible for Darcy’s canceled wedding. “Maybe he just has cold feet?”

  I hear my voice rising hopefully at the suggestion of mere cold feet. Why does part of me want it to be that simple? And how can I be so thrilled to be near Dex, so deeply moved by his e-mail, and still want, on some level, for him to marry Darcy?

  “Rach—”

  “Ethan, I know what you’re going to say.”

  I don’t know exactly what he is going to say, but I have a hunch from his tone that it has something to do with where things are going to end up if I don’t cease and desist. That it’s going to blow up somehow. That someone—likely me—is going to get hurt. But I don’t want to hear him say any of it.

  “Okay. Just be careful. Don’t get busted. Shit.”

  I hear him laughing again.

  “What?”

  “Just thinking of Darcy…It’s sort of satisfying.”

  “Satisfying how?”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t even tell me that part of you doesn’t like zinging her a little bit. There’s some poetic justice here. Darcy’s been riding roughshod over you for years.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, genuinely surprised to hear him describe our friendship like that. I know I’ve been feeling more irritated by her recently and I know that she has not always been the most selfless of friends, but I’ve never thought of her as riding roughshod over me. “No she hasn’t.”

  “Yeah, she has.”

  “No. She hasn’t,” I say more firmly. I’m not sure who I am defending—me or Darcy. Yes, there was the matter of you, Ethan. But you don’t know about that.

  “Oh, please. Remember Notre Dame? The SATs?”

  I think back to the day we all received our SAT scores, sealed in white envelopes from Guidance. We were all tight-lipped, but dying to know what everyone else got. Finally Darcy just said at lunch, “Okay, who cares. Let’s just tell our scores. Rachel?”

  “Why do I have to go first?” I asked. I was satisfied with my score, but still didn’t want to go first.

  “Don’t be a baby,” Darcy said. “Just tell us.”

  “Fine. Thirteen hundred,” I said.

  “What was your verbal?” she asked.

  I told her 680.

  “Nice,” she said. “Congratulations.”

  Ethan went next. Fourteen ten. No surprise there. I forget what Annalise got—something in the low eleven hundreds.

  “Well?” I looked at Darcy.

  “Oh. Right. I got a thirteen hundred five.”

  I knew instantly that she didn’t have a 1305. The SAT is not scored in increments of five. Ethan knew too, because he kicked me under the table and hid a smile with his ham sandwich.

  I didn’t care that she lied per se. She was a known embellisher. But the fact that she lied about her score to beat me by five—that part really figured. We didn’t call her on it. There was no point.

  But then she said, “Well, maybe we’ll both get into Notre Dame.”

  It was her Ethan power move in the fifth grade all over again.

  Like a lot of kids in the Midwest, my dream growing up was to attend Notre Dame. We’re not Irish or even Catholic, but ever since my parents took me to a Notre Dame football game when I was eight, I wanted to go there. To me it was what a college should be—stately stone buildings, manicured lawns, plenty of tradition. I wanted to be a part of it. Darcy never showed the slightest interest in Notre Dame and it irritated me that she was infringing on my terrain. But I wasn’t too worried about her taking my spot. My grades were higher, my SATs were probably higher, and besides, more than one student from our high school got into Notre Dame every year.

  That spring, the acceptance and rejection letters trickled in slowly. I checked the mailbox every day, in agony. Mike O’Sullivan, who had three generations of alumni in his family and was the president of our class, got into Notre Dame first. I assumed that I would be next, but Darcy got her letter before I did. I was with her when she got the mail, although she wouldn’t open the envelope in front of me. I went home, hoping guiltily that she had received bad news.

  She called an hour later, ecstatic. “I can’t believe it! I got in! Can you believe it?”

  In short, no. I couldn’t. I mustered up a congratulations, but I was crushed. Her news meant one of two things: she had taken my spot, or we would both go to Notre Dame and she would upstage me for four more years. As much as I knew I would miss Darcy when I went away, I felt strongly that I needed to establish myself apart from her. Once she got in, there would be no perfect resolution.

  Still, I wanted that acceptance more than I had ever wanted anything. And I had my pride on the line. I waited, prayed, even thought about calling the admissions office to beg. One sickening week later, my letter arrived. It looked just like Darcy’s. I ran inside, my heart pounding in my ears as I sliced open the envelope, unfolded the paper that held my fate. Close…you are very highly qualified…but no cigar.

  I was devastated and could barely speak to my friends in school the next day, especially Darcy. At lunch, as I fought back tears, she informed me that she was going to Indiana anyway. That she wanted nothing to do with a school that would turn me down. Her charity upset me all the more. For once, Annalise spoke up. “You took Rachel’s spot, and you didn’t even want to go there?”

  “Well, it was my first choice. I changed my mind. And how was I supposed to know it would happen like this?” she said. “I assumed she would get in; I only beat her by a few points on the SAT.”

  Ethan had had enough. “You didn’t get a damn thirteen hundred five, Darcy. The SAT is scored in increments of ten.”

  “Who said I got a thirteen hundred five?”

  “You did,” Ethan and I said in unison.

  “No I didn’t. I said a thirteen ten.”

  “Omigod!” I said, looking at Annalise for support, but her gumption had run out. She claimed that she had forgotten what Darcy said.

  We argued for the rest of the lunch hour about what Darcy had said and why she had applied to Notre Dame if she didn’t want to go there. We both ended up crying, and Darcy left school early, telling the school nurse she had cramps. The whole thing blew over when I got into Duke and talked myself into being happy with that result. Duke had a similar look and feel—stone buildings, pristine campus, prestige. It was just as good as Notre Dame and maybe it was better to broaden my horizons and leave Indiana.

  But to this day I wonder why Notre Dame picked Darcy over me. Maybe a junior male member of the admissions staff fancied her photo. Maybe it was just Darcy’s typical good luck.

  In any case, I’m glad that Ethan refreshed my memory about Notre Dame. It replaces the Becky Zurich showdown in the forefront of my mind. Yes, Darcy could be a good friend—she usually was—but she also screwed me at a few pivotal moments in life: first love, college dream. Those were no small matters.

  “All right,” I say to Ethan. “But I think you’re overstating the point a little. I wouldn’t use the term ‘roughshod.’”

  “Okay, but you know what I mean. There’s an undercurrent of competition.”

  “I guess so. Maybe,” I say, thinking that it isn’t much of a competition when one person consistently loses.

  “So, anyway, please keep me posted. This is good stuff.”

  I tell him I will.

  “Oh, one more thing,” he says. “When are you going to visit me?”

  “Soon.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “I know. But you know how it goes. Work is always crazy…I’ll come soon, though. This year for sure.”

  “Good enough,” Ethan says. “I really do miss you.”


  “I miss you too.”

  “Besides,” he says. “You might need a vacation by the time you’re through with all of this.”

  After we hang up, I note with satisfaction that Ethan never told me to stop. He only said to be careful. And I will do that. I will be careful the next time I see Dexter.

  Nine

  I avoid Darcy for three days, a very difficult thing to do. We never go so long without talking. When she finally reaches me, I blame my absence on work, say I have been unbelievably swamped—which is true—although I have found plenty of time to daydream about Dex, call Dex, e-mail Dex. She asks if I am free for Sunday brunch. I tell her yes, figuring that I might as well just get the face-to-face meeting over with. We arrange to meet at EJ’s Luncheonette near my apartment.

  On Sunday morning, I arrive at EJ’s first and note with relief that the place is full of children. Their happy clamor provides a distraction and makes me slightly less nervous. But I am still filled with anxiety at the thought of spending time with Darcy. I have been able to cope with my guilt by avoiding all thoughts of her, almost pretending that Dex is single and we are back in law school, before I ever got the big idea to introduce Darcy to him. But that tactic will not be possible this afternoon. And I’m afraid that spending time with her will force me to end things with Dex, something I desperately don’t want to do.

  A moment later, Darcy barges in carrying her big black Kate Spade bag, the one she uses for heavy errand-running, specifically the wedding variety. Sure enough, I see her familiar orange folder poking out of the top of the bag, stuffed with tear-outs from bridal magazines. My stomach drops. I had just about prepared myself for Darcy but not for the wedding.

  She gives me the two-cheek Euro kiss hello as I smile, try to act natural. She launches into a tale about Claire’s blind date from the night before with a surgeon named Skip. She says it did not go well, that Skip wasn’t tall enough for Claire and failed to ask if she wanted dessert, thus setting off her cheapskate radar. I am thinking that perhaps the only radar that had gone off was Skip’s “tiresome snob” radar. Maybe he just wanted to go home and get away from her. I don’t offer this suggestion, however, as Darcy doesn’t like it when I criticize Claire unless she does so first.

  “She is just way too picky,” Darcy says as we are led to our booth. “It’s like she looks for things not to like, you know?”

  “It’s okay to be picky,” I say. “But she has a pretty screwed-up set of criteria.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “She can be a little shallow.”

  Darcy gives me a blank stare.

  “I’m just saying she cares too much about money, appearances, and how connected the guy is. She’s just narrowing her pool a bit—and her chances of finding someone.”

  “I don’t think she’s that picky,” Darcy says. “She’d have gone out with Marcus and he’s not well connected. He’s from some dumpy town in Wyoming. And his hair is sort of thinning.”

  “Montana,” I say, marveling at how superficial Darcy sounds. I guess she’s been like this since her arrival to Manhattan, maybe even our whole lives, but sometimes when you know someone well, you don’t see them as they really are. So I honestly think I’ve managed to ignore this fundamental part of her personality, perhaps not wanting to see my closest friend in this light. But ever since my conversation with Ethan, her pushy, shallow tendencies seem magnified, impossible to overlook.

  “Montana, Wyoming. Whatever,” she says, waving her hand in the air as if she herself doesn’t hail from the Midwest. It bothers me the way Darcy downplays our roots, even occasionally bagging on Indiana, calling it backward and ugly.

  “And I like his hair,” I say.

  She smirks. “I see you’re defending him. Interesting.”

  I ignore her.

  “Have you heard from him lately?”

  “A few times. E-mails mostly.”

  “Any calls?”

  “A few.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Damn, Rachel. Don’t lose momentum.” She removes her gum and wraps it in a napkin. “I mean, don’t blow this one. You’re not going to do better.”

  I study my menu and feel anger and indignation swell inside of me. What a rude thing to say! Not that I think there is anything wrong with Marcus, but why can’t I do better? What is that supposed to mean, anyway? For our entire friendship, it has been silently understood that Darcy is the pretty one, the lucky one, the charmed one. But an implicit understanding is one thing. To say it just like that—you can’t do better—is quite another. Her nerve is truly breathtaking. I formulate possible retorts, but then swallow them. She doesn’t know how bitchy her remark is; it only springs from her innate thoughtlessness. And besides, I really have no right to be mad at her, considering.

  I look up from my menu and glance at Darcy, worried that she will be able to see everything on my face. But she is oblivious. My mom always says that I wear my emotions on my sleeve, but unless Darcy wants to borrow the outfit, she doesn’t see a thing.

  Our waiter comes by and takes our orders without a notepad, something that always impresses me. Darcy asks for dry toast and a cappuccino, and I order a Greek omelet, substituting cheddar cheese for feta, and fries. Let her be the thin one.

  Darcy whips out her orange folder and starts to tick through various lists. “Okay. We have so much more to do than I thought. My mom called last night and was all ‘Have you done this? Have you done that?’ and I started freaking out.”

  I tell her that we have plenty of time. I am wishing we had more.

  “It’s, like, three months away, Rach. It’s going to be here before we know it.”

  My stomach drops as I wonder how many more times I will see Dexter in the three months. At what point will we stop? It should be sooner rather than later. It should be now.

  I watch Darcy as she continues to go through her folder, making little notes in the margins until the waiter brings our food. I check the inside of my omelet—cheddar cheese. He got it right. I begin to eat as Darcy yaps about her tiara.

  I nod, only half listening, still feeling stung by her rude words.

  “Are you listening to me?” she finally asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, what did I just say?”

  “You said you had no idea where to find a tiara.”

  She takes a bite of toast, still looking doubtful. “Okay. So you did hear me.”

  “Told ya,” I say, shaking salt onto my fries.

  “Do you know where to get one?”

  “Well, we saw some at Vera Wang, in that glass case on the first floor, didn’t we? And I’m pretty sure Bergdorf has them.”

  I think back to the early days of Darcy’s engagement, when my heart had been at least somewhat in it. Although I was envious that her life was coming together so neatly, I was genuinely happy for her and was a diligent maid of honor. I recall our long search for her gown. We must have seen every dress in New York. We made the trek to Kleinfeld in Brooklyn. We did the department stores and the little boutiques in the Village. We hit the big designers on Madison Avenue—Vera Wang, Carolina Herrera, Yumi Katsura, Amsale.

  But Darcy never got that feeling that you’re supposed to get, that feeling where you are overcome with emotion and start weeping all over the dressing room. I finally targeted the problem. It was the same problem that Darcy has trying on bathing suits. She looked stunning in everything. The body-hugging sheaths showed off her slender hips and height. The big princess ball gowns emphasized her minuscule waist. The more dresses she tried on, the more confused we became. So finally, at the end of one long, weary Saturday, when we arrived at our last appointment, at Wearkstatt in Soho, I decided that this would be our final stop. The fresh-faced girl, who was not yet jaded by life and love, asked Darcy what she envisioned for her special day. Darcy shrugged helplessly and looked at me to answer.

  “She’s having a city wedding,” I starte
d.

  “I just love Manhattan weddings.”

  “Right. And it’s in early September. So we’re counting on warm weather…And I think Darcy prefers simple gowns without too many frills.”

  “But not too boring,” Darcy chimed in.

  “Right. Nothing too plain-Jane,” I said. God forbid.

  The girl pressed a finger to her temple, scurried off, and returned with four virtually indistinguishable A-lines. And that’s when I made a decision that I was going to pick one of the dresses to be the one. When Darcy tried on the second dress, a silk satin A-line in soft white with a dropped waist and beading on the bodice, I gasped. “Oh, Darcy. It’s gorgeous on you,” I said. (It was, of course.) “This is it!”

  “Do you think?” Her voice quivered. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive,” I said. “You need to buy this one.”

  Moments later, we were placing an order for the dress, talking about fittings. Darcy and I had been friends forever, but I think it was the first time that I realized the influence I have over her. I picked her wedding dress, the most important garment that she will ever wear.

  “So you won’t mind running some errands with me today?” she asks me now. “The only thing I really want to accomplish is shoes. I need my shoes for the next fitting. I figure we’ll look at Stuart Weitzman and then zip up to Barney’s. You can come with me, can’t you?”

  I plow a forkful of my omelet through ketchup. “Sure…But I do have to go in to work today,” I lie.

  “You always have to work! I don’t know who has it worse—you or Dex,” she says. “He’s been working on this big project lately. He’s never home.”

  I keep my eyes down, searching my plate for the best remaining fry. “Really?” I say, thinking of the recent nights Dex and I have stayed at work late, talking on the phone. “That sucks.”

  “Tell me about it. He’s never available to help with this wedding. It’s really starting to piss me off.”

  After lunch and a lot more wedding conversation, we walk over to Madison, turning left toward Stuart Weitzman. As we enter the store, Darcy admires a dozen sandals, telling me that the cut of the shoes is perfect for her narrow, small-heeled feet. We finally make our way to the satin wedding shoes in the back. She scrutinizes each one, choosing four pairs to try on. I watch as she prances around the store, runway style, before settling on the pair with the highest heels. I almost ask her if she is sure they are comfortable, but stop myself. The sooner she makes a decision, the sooner I will be dismissed for the day.