Something Borrowed

  “Yeah. He broke it off both times. He keeps saying things to me like, ‘It’s not ovah till it’s ovah’ and ‘The fat lady hasn’t sung yet.’”

  I wonder if Roger knows anything about me, or if he’s just doing the typical bachelor banter. “When?” I ask Dex.

  “When does the fat lady sing?” Dex curls his body around mine.

  “Well, yeah. Sort of.” We are getting into sensitive territory, and I am thankful he can’t see my eyes. “When did he break off the engagements?”

  “Not sure about the first time. But the second time was right before the ceremony.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. The bride was getting dressed when he went to her room. Knocked on her door and gave her the news right in front of her mother, her grandmother, and her ninety-five-year-old great-grandmother.”

  “Was she surprised?” I ask, realizing that it’s a dumb question. Nobody expects the groom to barge in and call off the wedding.

  “Apparently. But she shouldn’t have been that surprised…She must’ve known he had done it once before.”

  “Was there somebody else?” I ask tentatively.

  “Don’t think so. No.”

  “Then why did he do it?”

  “He said he couldn’t see it lasting forever.”

  “Oh.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  He must know what I’m thinking.

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  The dialogue of the new relationship. After a couple is established, the question becomes a relic.

  “I’m thinking that I don’t believe in that wedding-day, Julia Roberts Runaway Bride—or groom—routine.”

  “You don’t believe in it?”

  I am treading carefully. “I just think it’s unnecessary…needlessly mean,” I say. “If someone is going to call it off, they should do it before the wedding day.”

  My message isn’t exactly subtle.

  “Well, I agree, but don’t you think it’s better to pull the cord than make a mistake? Don’t you owe it to the other person and yourself and the whole institution of marriage to say something, even if you come to the realization late in the game?”

  “I’m in no way advocating the making of that sort of mistake. I’m just saying you should figure it out before the wedding day. That’s what engagements are for. And in my book, by the wedding day it’s a done deal. Suck it up and make the best of it. That’s a cold move, telling her when the gown is on.”

  I picture Darcy in this humiliating scenario, and my empathy for her is unequivocal.

  “You think? Even if it just ends up in a divorce?” he asks.

  “Even if. You ask that girl if she’d rather be divorced or dissed in her dress in front of all those people.”

  He makes a noncommittal “hmmm” sound so I can’t tell whether he agrees. I wonder what it all will mean for us. If he’s even thinking about us at all. He has to be. I feel my muscles tense, my foot twitch nervously. I tell myself that it’s not July Fourth yet. I don’t want to think about it anymore at all.

  I reach over Dex and turn up my stereo. Creedence Clearwater Revival is singing “Lookin’ Out My Back Door.” Talk about an upbeat song. It is exactly what I need to block out images of Dex and Darcy’s wedding. Instead, I picture a road trip with Dexter. We are in a white convertible with the top down, sunglasses on, trucking along a stretch of highway with no other cars in sight.

  Bother me tomorrow, today I’ll buy no sorrow.

  Doo, doo, doo, lookin’ out my back door.

  Fourteen

  Every year over the July Fourth holiday, there is a mass exodus from Manhattan. People head for the Hamptons, the Cape, Martha’s Vineyard, even New Jersey. Nobody stays. Not even Les. The summer of the bar exam, when Nate and I stayed in the city to study, I was amazed at what a different, downright peaceful place it was without all of the people. Of course, I plan on staying home this year too—I can’t stomach the thought of seeing Dex and Darcy together. I call Dex and tell him this. He says what I have been hoping he would say.

  “I’ll stay too.”

  “Really?” My heart races just imagining spending the night with Dex.

  “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

  So we devise our plan: we will both “discover” at the last moment that we have to work. We will bitch and moan up a storm but insist to Darcy that she should go on and have fun without us. By then she will have a fresh pedicure, new outfits purchased, parties lined up, and reservations made at her favorite restaurants. So there’s no way she’ll stay home, and Dex and I will be together, uninterrupted for days. We will fall asleep together, wake up together, and eat our meals together. And although Dex hasn’t confirmed it, I assume that at some point, we will have our big talk.

  I share the plan with Hillary, who has high expectations. She is convinced that the long weekend will be the turning point in my relationship with Dex. As she leaves work at noon on the third, she stops by my office and tells me to have a great weekend. “Good luck.” She crosses her fingers in the air.

  “What do you mean? You think we’re going to get caught?”

  “No. That’s not what I meant. I mean good luck with your talk. You are going to talk to Dex about what’s going on, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. I suppose so.”

  “You suppose so?”

  “I’m sure we will. That is the plan.”

  “Okay. Make sure that you do.” She gives me a stern look. “It’s crunch time.”

  I grimace.

  “Rachel, do not wimp out on this. If you want to be with him, now’s the time to pipe up.”

  “I know. I got it,” I say. And for a second I picture myself being Hillary-like. Strong, bold, and confident.

  “I’ll call you if your girl seems at all suspicious.”

  I nod, feeling a stab of guilt over such plotting against Darcy.

  Hillary knows what I’m thinking. “You gotta do what you gotta do,” she says. “Don’t turn soft now.”

  At seven sharp, just as planned, Dexter arrives at my door with a fresh haircut that further accentuates his cheekbones. He holds a bottle of red wine, a small black duffel bag, and a bunch of white Casablanca lilies, the kind you find at every Korean deli for three bucks a stem. Even though they are inexpensive and somewhat wilted, I like them as much as my expensive roses.

  “These are for you,” he says. “Sorry. They’re kind of dying already.”

  “I love them,” I say. “Thank you.”

  He follows me into the kitchen as I look for a vase to put them in. I point to my favorite blue one in my top cupboard, just out of my reach. “Can you get that for me?”

  He retrieves the vase and sets it on my counter as I begin trimming the stems and arranging them. I am a domestic goddess as far as he can tell.

  “We did it,” Dex whispers into my ear.

  Goose bumps rise on my arms. I manage to get the flowers in the vase and add a little water before turning around to kiss him. His neck is warm, and the back of his hair is still damp from his haircut. He smells of cologne, which he doesn’t usually wear. Of course, I am also wearing perfume, which I don’t usually wear. But this is a special occasion. When you are used to snippets of time, our stretch of days might as well be forever. The way I feel reminds me of bursting off the bus on the last day of school before summer vacation. No worries except what to do first—ride bikes, go to the pool, or play Truth or Dare with Darcy and Annalise in my cool, unfinished basement. Today I know what I want to do first and I am pretty sure we will be doing it soon. I kiss Dex’s neck as I inhale his sweet skin and the scent of lilies.

  “This weekend is going to be out of control,” he says, sliding my tank top over my head, letting it fall at our feet. He unhooks my bra, cups my breasts and then my face. His fingers press the back of my neck.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” I say
. “I’m so happy.”

  “Me too,” he says, as he works on my button-fly.

  I lead Dex over to my bed and remove his clothes, admiring his body from every angle, kissing him in new places. On the back of his knees. On his elbows. We have time.

  We make love slowly, each of us stopping the other at various points until we can’t stand it any longer, and then reversing in the other reckless, breathless direction. He feels more mine than he ever has, and I know why: he is not going home to her tonight. He will not have to wash off, or check for signs of our togetherness. I sink my nails into his back and pull him harder against me.

  After we make love, we order food from the diner and eat burgers by candlelight. Then we climb back into bed, where we talk and listen to music, fighting through waves of fatigue so that we can savor our time together, not waste it sleeping.

  Our only interruption comes around midnight, when Dex says he should probably phone Darcy. I tell him it’s a good idea, wondering whether I should give him privacy or stay in bed beside him. I decide to go to the bathroom, let him do his thing. I run water so I can’t hear any piece of their conversation. A minute later, Dex calls my name.

  I open the door a crack. “Are you off?”

  “Yeah. C’mere. You didn’t have to leave.”

  I get back in bed beside him, find his hand.

  “Sorry about that,” he says.

  “No problem. I understand.”

  “Just taking precautions…I figure she won’t call now. I told her I was on my way home to bed.”

  “What is she doing?”

  “They’re all at the Talkhouse. Drunk and happy.”

  But we are sober and happier, all tangled up in my sheets, our heads resting on one pillow. When Dex sits up to blow out the candle burning on my windowsill, I notice that trimmings from his haircut have transferred from his neck to my white pillowcase. There’s something about those tiny black hairs that makes me so happy I want to cry.

  I close my eyes so that I won’t.

  At some point, we fall asleep.

  And then morning comes.

  I wake up, remembering the first morning we woke up together, the panic that gripped my heart on that Sunday I turned thirty. The feeling I have now could not be more different. Calm joy.

  “Hi, Rachel.”

  “Hi, Dex.”

  We are both grinning.

  “Happy Fourth of July,” he says, his hand resting on my inner thigh.

  “Happy Fourth.”

  “It’s not your typical Fourth. No fireworks planned, no picnics, no beach. You okay with that?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I’m okay with that,” I say.

  We make love and then shower together. I am self-conscious at first, but after a few minutes, I relax and let him wash my back. We stay under the hot water (he likes his showers as hot as I do) long past the point of wrinkled fingers. Then we are out in the world, walking down Third Avenue to Starbucks. It is a humid, gray day, and rain feels likely. But we don’t need good weather. Happiness wells inside me.

  We are alone in line to order, Marvin Gaye singing over the sound system. I order a tall skim latte. Dex says, “Give me the same thing in a large with, um…just regular milk.”

  I like that he abandons the Starbucks terminology, skipping the word “grande” and ordering his coffee as a guy’s guy should.

  The perky girl behind the register bellows our order to her colleague, who promptly marks our cups with a black marker. Starbucks employees are consistently, freakishly chipper, even during the worst of morning rush hour when they have to deal with hordes of cranky people waiting impatiently for their caffeine fix.

  “Oh wait,” the girl says, beaming. “Are these together or separate?”

  Dex answers quickly, “We’re—they’re together.”

  I smile at his slip. We are together.

  “Will there be anything else?”

  “Um. Yeah. I’ll have a blueberry muffin,” Dex says and then looks at me. “Rachel?”

  “Yeah. I’ll have one too,” I say, resisting the urge to order a low-fat muffin. I don’t want to be anything like Darcy.

  “So two blueberry muffins.” Dex pays and drops his change into the tip mug in front of the register. The girl smiles at me, as if to say, your guy is not only hot but generous too.

  Dex and I both add a packet of brown sugar to our coffee, stir, and find a seat at the counter facing the street. The sidewalks are deserted.

  “I like New York this way,” I say, tasting my foam. We watch a lone yellow cab drift up Third Avenue. “Listen…no honking.”

  “Yeah. It really is dead,” he says. “I bet we could get reservations anywhere tonight. Would you like to go out?”

  I look at him. “We can’t do that.”

  Getting coffee is one thing. Dinner is another.

  “We can do whatever we please. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” He winks and sips his coffee.

  “What if somebody sees us?”

  “Nobody’s here.” He motions out the window. “And so what if they do? We’re allowed to eat, aren’t we? Hell, I could even tell Darcy we’re going to grab a bite together. She knows that we’re both stuck here working, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “C’mon. I want to take you out. I’ve never taken you out on a proper date. I feel bad about that. What do you say?”

  I raise my eyebrows and smirk.

  “What’s that look for?” Dex asks. His full lips meet the rim of his cup.

  “It’s just that ‘proper’ is not the word that comes to mind when I think about us.”

  “Oh, that,” Dex says, waving his hand in the air, as though I have just stated an insignificant detail about our relationship. “Well, that can’t be helped…I mean—yes, the circumstances are…less than ideal.”

  “That’s an understatement. Let’s call a spade a spade, Dex. We’re having an affair.”

  It is the most I have ever said about what we are doing. I know Hillary wouldn’t give me any awards for forthrightness, but my heart still skips. It is a bold comment for me.

  “I guess so,” he says hesitantly. “But when I’m with you, I’m not thinking about the impropriety of our…relationship. Being with you doesn’t feel wrong.”

  “I know what you mean,” I say, thinking that there would be a few people out there who might beg to differ.

  I wait for him to say more about it. About us. Our future. Or at the very least our coup this weekend. He doesn’t. Instead he suggests we take our coffee home and read the paper in bed.

  “Sounds perfect,” I say, wondering what section he reads first. I want to know every single thing about him.

  It rains on and off all day, so we stay in, moving from bed to sofa to bed, talking for hours, never checking the time. We talk about everything—high school, college, law school, our families, friends, books, movies. But not Darcy or the situation. Not even when she calls his cell phone to say hello. I study my cuticles as he tells her he just stepped out of his office to get a bite to eat, and that yes, he’s getting a lot done, been working on a pitch all day. He mumbles “Me too” at the end of their brief conversation, so I know what he has just told her. I tell myself that many couples punctuate their calls with “I love yous” in the automatic way other people say “good-bye.” It doesn’t mean anything.

  As Dex snaps his cell phone shut, looking chagrined, my cell phone rings. It’s Darcy. Dex laughs. “She just told me she had to run. Sure she did! To call you!”

  I don’t pick up, but I listen to her message afterward. She bitches about the weather but says that they are having fun anyway. She says she misses me. That it’s not the same without Dex and me. I will not feel guilty. I will not.

  That evening Dex and I separate for a few hours so that he can go home and change for dinner, as he has only packed jeans and shorts and basic toiletries. I miss him while he’s gone, but I like the way the separation makes our dinner seem more like a date
. Besides, I am grateful for the chance to primp alone. I can do the things that a guy you just started seeing should not see you do—pluck a stray eyebrow hair, strategically spray perfume (behind the knees, between the breasts) and apply makeup to make it look like you are wearing very little.

  Dex picks me up at seven-forty-five and we cab it down to one of my favorite restaurants in Manhattan, Balthazar, where it is usually impossible to get a reservation unless you call weeks in advance or are willing to take a six o’clock or eleven-thirty seating. But we get in promptly at eight o’clock and are given an ideal, cozy booth. I ask Dex if he knows that Jerry Seinfeld proposed to his wife, Jessica Sklar, at Balthazar. Perhaps this is the exact spot where Jerry popped the question with the Tiffany ring.

  “I didn’t know that,” Dex says, glancing up from the wine list.

  “Did you know that she dumped her husband of four months for Jerry?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I think I heard that one.”

  “Soo…Balthazar must be the restaurant of choice for the scandalous.”

  He shakes his head and gives me an exasperated smile. “Please stop calling us that.”

  “Face facts, Dexter. This is scandalous…We’re just like Jerry and Jessica.”

  “Look. We can’t help the way we feel,” Dex says earnestly.

  Yeah. And perhaps that is what Jessica whispered to Jerry on her cell phone, while her unsuspecting husband sat guffawing at Must-See TV in the next room.

  As I scan my menu, I realize that my opinion of Jerry and Jessica might be changing. I used to subscribe to the notion that he was a heartless home wrecker and she a shameless gold digger who coldly upgraded her Nederlander husband for a wealthier, wittier model the second the opportunity presented itself, which, I read, was at the Reebok Sports Club, the Upper West Side gym that Darcy also belongs to. Now, I’m not so sure. Maybe that was how it all went down. Then again, maybe Jessica married Eric Nederlander, whom she thought she loved by any relative measure in her life up to that point, and then she met Jerry, days after returning from her Italian honeymoon, and quickly realized that she had never really loved before, that her feelings for Jerry far surpassed whatever she felt for Eric.