Gradually my friends peel away, saying their final happy birthdays. Dex and I outlast everyone, even Marcus. We sit at the bar making conversation with the actor/bartender who has an “Amy” tattoo and zero interest in an aging lawyer. It is after two when we decide that it’s time to go. The night feels more like midsummer than spring, and the warm air infuses me with sudden hope: This will be the summer I meet my guy.
Dex hails me a cab, but as it pulls over he says, “How about one more bar? One more drink?”
“Fine,” I say. “Why not?”
We both get in and he tells the cabbie to just drive, that he has to think about where next. We end up in Alphabet City at a bar on Seventh and Avenue B, aptly named 7B.
It is not an upbeat scene—7B is dingy and smoke-filled. I like it anyway—it’s not sleek and it’s not a dive striving to be cool because it’s not sleek.
Dex points to a booth. “Have a seat. I’ll be right with you.” Then he turns around. “What can I get you?”
I tell him whatever he’s having, and sit and wait for him in the booth. I watch him say something to a girl at the bar wearing army-green cargo pants and a tank top that says “Fallen Angel.” She smiles and shakes her head. “Omaha” is playing in the background. It is one of those songs that seems melancholy and cheerful at the same time.
A moment later Dex slides in across from me, pushing a beer my way. “Newcastle,” he says. Then he smiles, crinkly lines appearing around his eyes. “You like?”
I nod and smile.
From the corner of my eye, I see Fallen Angel turn on her bar stool and survey Dex, absorbing his chiseled features, wavy hair, full lips. Darcy complained once that Dex garners more stares and double takes than she does. Yet, unlike his female counterpart, Dex seems not to notice the attention. Fallen Angel now casts her eyes my way, likely wondering what Dex is doing with someone so average. I hope that she thinks we’re a couple. Tonight nobody has to know that I am only a member of the wedding party.
Dex and I talk about our jobs and our Hamptons share that begins in another week and a lot of things. But Darcy does not come up and neither does their September wedding.
After we finish our beers we move over to the jukebox, fill it with dollar bills, searching for good songs. I push the code for “Thunder Road” twice because it is my favorite song. I tell him this.
“Yeah. Springsteen’s at the top of my list, too. Ever seen him in concert?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Twice. Born in the U.S.A. and Tunnel of Love.”
I almost tell him that I went with Darcy in high school, dragged her along even though she much preferred groups like Poison and Bon Jovi. But I don’t bring this up. Because then he will remember to go home to her and I don’t want to be alone in my dwindling moments of twenty-somethingness. Obviously I’d rather be with a boyfriend, but Dex is better than nothing.
It is last call at 7B. We get a couple more beers and return to our booth. Sometime later we are in a cab again, going north on First Avenue. “Two stops,” Dex tells our cabbie, because we live on opposite sides of Central Park. Dex is holding Darcy’s Chanel purse, which looks small and out of place in his large hands. I glance at the silver dial of his Rolex, a gift from Darcy. It is just shy of four o’clock.
We sit silently for a stretch of ten or fifteen blocks, both of us looking out of our respective side windows, until the cab hits a pothole and I find myself lurched into the middle of the backseat, my leg grazing his. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, Dex is kissing me. Or maybe I kiss him. Somehow we are kissing. My mind goes blank as I listen to the soft sound of our lips meeting again and again. At some point, Dex taps on the Plexiglas partition and tells the driver, between kisses, that it will just be one stop after all.
We arrive on the corner of Seventy-third and Third, near my apartment. Dex hands the driver a twenty and does not wait for change. We spill out of the taxi, kissing more on the sidewalk and then in front of José, my doorman. We kiss the whole way up in the elevator. I am pressed against the elevator wall, my hands on the back of his head. I am surprised by how soft his hair is.
I fumble with my key, turning it the wrong way in the lock as Dex keeps his arms around my waist, his lips on my neck and the side of my face. Finally the door is open, and we are kissing in the middle of my studio, standing upright, leaning on nothing but each other. We stumble over to my made bed, complete with tight hospital corners.
“Are you drunk?” His voice is a whisper in the dark.
“No,” I say. Because you always say no when you’re drunk. And even though I am, I have a lucid instant where I consider clearly what was missing in my twenties and what I wish to find in my thirties. It strikes me that, in a sense, I can have both on this momentous birthday night. Dex can be my secret, my last chance for a dark twenty-something chapter, and he can also be a prelude of sorts—a promise of someone like him to come. Darcy is in my mind, but she is being pushed to the back, overwhelmed by a force stronger than our friendship and my own conscience. Dex moves over me. My eyes are closed, then open, then closed again.
And then, somehow, I am having sex with my best friend’s fiancé.
Two
I wake up to my ringing phone, and for a second I am disoriented in my own apartment. Then I hear Darcy’s high-pitched voice on my machine, urging me to pick up, pick up, please pick up. My crime snaps into focus. I sit up too quickly, and my apartment spins. Dexter’s back is to me, sculpted and sparsely freckled. I jab hard at it with one finger.
He rolls over and looks at me. “Oh, Christ! What time is it?”
My clock radio tells us it is seven-fifteen. I have been thirty for two hours. Correction—one hour; I was born in the central time zone.
Dex gets out of bed quickly, gathering his clothes, which are strewn along either side of my bed. The answering machine beeps twice, cutting Darcy off. She calls back, rambling about how Dex never came home. Again, my machine silences her in midsentence. She calls back a third time, wailing, “Wake up and call me! I need you!”
I start to get out of bed, then realize that I am naked. I sit back down and cover myself with a pillow.
“Omigod. What do we do?” My voice is hoarse and shaking. “Should I answer? Tell her you crashed here?”
“Hell, no! Don’t pick up—lemme think for a sec.” He sits down, wearing only boxers, and rubs his jaw, now covered by a shadow of whiskers.
Sick, sobering dread washes over me. I start to cry. Which never helps anything.
“Look, Rachel, don’t cry,” Dex says. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
He puts on his jeans and then his shirt, efficiently zipping and tucking and buttoning as though it is an ordinary morning. Then he checks the messages on his cell phone. “Shhhit. Twelve missed calls,” he says matter-of-factly. Only his eyes show distress.
When he is dressed, he sits back on the edge of the bed and rests his forehead in his hands. I can hear him breathing hard through his nose. Air in and out. In and out. Then he looks over at me, composed. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. Rachel, look at me.”
I obey his instructions, still clutching my pillow.
“This will be fine. Just listen,” he says, as though talking to a client in a conference room.
“I’m listening,” I say.
“I’m going to tell her I stayed out until five or so and then got breakfast with Marcus. We got it covered.”
“What do I tell her?” I ask. Lying has never been my strong suit.
“Just tell her you left the party and went home…Say you can’t remember for sure whether I was still there when you left, but you think I was still there with Marcus. And be sure to say you ‘think’—don’t be too definite. And that’s all you know, okay?” He points at my phone. “Call her back now…I’ll call Marcus as soon as I leave here. Got it?”
I nod, my eyes filling with tears again as he stands.
“And calm down,” he says, not meanly, but firmly. Then he is at t
he door, one hand on the knob, the other running through his dark hair that is just long enough to be really sexy.
“What if she already talked to Marcus?” I ask, as Dex is halfway out the door. Then, more to myself, “We are so screwed.”
He turns around, looks at me through the doorway. For a second, I think he is angry, that he is going to yell at me to pull myself together. That this isn’t life-or-death. But his tone is gentle. “Rach, we are not screwed. I got it covered. Just say what I told you to say…And Rachel?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
Are we talking to each other—or to Darcy?
As soon as Dex leaves, I reach for the phone, still feeling dizzy. It takes a few minutes, but I finally work up the nerve to call Darcy.
She is hysterical. “The bastard didn’t come home last night! He better be laid up in a hospital bed!…Do you think he cheated on me?”
I start to say no, that he was probably just out with Marcus, but think better of it. Wouldn’t that look too obvious? Would I say that if I knew nothing? I can’t think. My head and heart are pounding, and the room is still spinning intermittently. “I’m sure he wasn’t cheating on you.”
She blows her nose. “Why are you sure?”
“Because he wouldn’t do that to you, Darce.” I can’t believe my words, how easily they come.
“Well, then, where the fuck is he? The bars close by four or five. It’s seven-freaking-thirty!”
“I don’t know…But I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
Which, in fact, there is.
She asks me what time I left and whether he was still there and who he was with—the exact questions that Dex prepped me on. I answer carefully, as instructed. I suggest that she call Marcus.
“I already called him,” she says. “And that dumbass didn’t answer his goddamn cell.”
Yes. We have a chance.
I hear the click of call-waiting and Darcy is gone, then back, telling me that it is Dex and she’ll call me when she can.
I stand and walk unsteadily to my bathroom. I look in the mirror. My skin is blotchy and red. My eyes are ringed with mascara and charcoal liner, and they burn from sleeping in my contact lenses. I remove them quickly just before dry-heaving over my toilet. I haven’t thrown up from drinking since college, and that only happened once. Because I learn from my mistakes. Most college kids say, “I will never do this again,” and then do it the following weekend. But I stuck to it. That is how I am. I will learn from this one too. Just let me get away with it.
I shower, wash the smoke from my hair and skin with my phone resting on the sink, waiting to hear from Darcy that everything is okay. But hours pass and she does not call. Around noon, the birthday well-wishers start dialing in. My parents do their annual serenade and the “guess where I was thirty years ago today?” routine. I manage to put on a good front and play along, but it isn’t easy.
By three o’clock, I have not heard from Darcy, and I am still queasy. I chug a big glass of water, take two Advil, and contemplate ordering fried eggs and bacon, which Darcy swears by when she’s hungover. But I know that nothing will kill the pain of waiting, wondering what is going on, if Dex is busted, if we both are.
Did anybody see us together at 7B? In the cab? On the street? Anyone besides José, whose job it is to know nothing? What was happening on the Upper West Side in their apartment? Had he gone mad and confessed? Was she packing her bags? Were they making love all day in an attempt to repair his conscience? Were they still fighting, going around and around in circles of accusation and denial?
Fear must supersede all other emotions—stifling shame or regret—because crazily enough, I do not seem to feel guilty about betraying my best friend. Not even when I find our used condom on the floor. The only real guilt I can muster is guilt over not feeling guilty. But I will repent later, just as soon as I know that I am safe. Oh, please, God. I have never done anything like this before. Please let me have this one pass. I will sacrifice all future happiness. Any chance of meeting a husband.
I think of all those deals I tried to strike with Him when I was in school, growing up. Please don’t let me get any lower than a B on this math test. Please, I will do anything—work in a soup kitchen every Saturday instead of just once a month. Those were the days. To think that a C once symbolized all things gone wrong in my tidy world. How could I have ever, even fleetingly, wished for a dark side? How could I have made such a huge, potentially life-altering, utterly unforgivable mistake?
Finally I can’t take it any longer. I call Darcy’s cell phone, but it goes straight to voice mail. I call their home number, hoping she will pick up. Instead Dex answers. I cringe.
“Hi, Dex. This is Rachel,” I say, trying to sound normal.
You know, the maid of honor in your upcoming wedding—the woman you had sex with last night?
“Hi, Rachel,” he says casually. “So did you have fun last night?”
For a second, I think that he is talking about us and am horrified by his nonchalance. But then I hear Darcy clamoring for the phone in the background and realize that he is only talking about the party.
“Oh yeah, it was a great time—a great party.” I bite my lip.
Darcy has already snatched the phone from him. Her tone is chipper, fully repaired. “Hey. I’m sorry I forgot to call you back. You know, it was high drama over here for a while.”
“But you’re okay now? Everything’s all right with you—and Dex?” I have trouble saying his name. As if it will somehow give me away.
“Um, yeah, hold on one sec.”
I hear her close a door; she always moves into their bedroom when she talks on the phone. I picture their four-poster bed, which I helped Darcy select from Charles P. Rogers. Soon to be their marital bed.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine now. He was just with Marcus. They stayed out late and then ended up going to the diner for breakfast. But of course, you know, I’m still working the pissed-off angle. I told him he’s totally pathetic, that he’s a thirty-four-year-old engaged man and he stays out all night. Pathetic, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But harmless enough.” I swallow hard and think, yes, that would be harmless enough. “Well, I’m glad you guys made up.”
“Yeah. I’m over it, I guess. But still…he should have called. That shit does not fly with me, you know?”
“I hear you,” I say, and then bravely add, “I told you he wasn’t cheating on you.”
“I know…but I still pictured him with some stripper bimbo from Scores or something. My overactive imagination.”
Is that what last night was? I know I’m not a bimbo, but was it some conscious choice of his to get laid before the wedding? Surely not. Surely he wouldn’t choose Darcy’s maid of honor.
“So anyway, what did you think of the party? I’m such a bad friend—I get wasted and leave early. And, oh shit! Today’s your actual birthday. Happy birthday! God, I’m the worst, Rach!”
Yeah, you’re the bad friend.
“Oh, it was great. The party was so much fun. Thank you for planning it—it was a total surprise…really awesome…”
I hear their bedroom door open and Dex say something about being late.
“Yeah, I actually gotta run, Rachel. We’re going to the movies. You wanna come?”
“Um, no, thanks.”
“Okay. But we’re still on for dinner tonight, right? Rain at eight?”
I totally forgot that I had plans to meet Dex, Darcy, and Hillary for a small birthday dinner. There is no way I can face Dex or Darcy tonight—and certainly not together. I tell her that I’m not sure I’m up to it, that I am really hungover. Even though I stopped drinking at two, I add, before I remember that liars offer too much extraneous detail.
Darcy doesn’t notice. “Maybe you’ll feel better later…I’ll call you after the movie.”
I hang up the phone, thinking that it was w
ay too easy. But instead of feeling relieved, I am left with a vague dissatisfaction, wistfulness, wishing that I were going to the movies. Not with Dex, of course. Just someone. How quickly I turn my back on the deal with God. I want a husband again. Or at least a boyfriend.
I sit on the couch with my hands folded in my lap, contemplating what I did to Darcy, waiting for the guilt to come. It doesn’t. Was it because I had alcohol as an excuse? I was drunk, not in my right mind. I think of my first-year Criminal Law class. Intoxication, like insanity, infancy, duress, and entrapment, is a legal excuse, a defense where the defendant is not blameworthy for having engaged in conduct that would otherwise be a crime. Shit. That was only involuntary intoxication. Well, Darcy made me do those shots. But peer pressure does not constitute involuntary intoxication. Still, it is a mitigating circumstance that the jury might consider.
Sure, blame the victim. What is wrong with me?
Maybe I am just a bad person. Maybe the only reason I have been good up to this point has less to do with my true moral fiber and more to do with the fear of getting caught. I play by the rules because I am risk-averse. I didn’t go along with the junior-high shoplifting gags at the White Hen Pantry partly because I knew it was wrong, but mostly because I was sure that I would be the one to get caught. I never cheated on an exam for the same reason. Even now I don’t take office supplies from work because I figure that somehow the firm’s surveillance cameras will catch me in the act. So if that is what motivates me to be good, do I really deserve credit? Am I really a good person? Or just a cowardly pessimist?
Okay. So maybe I am a bad person. There is no other plausible explanation for my lack of guilt. Do I have it in for Darcy? Was I driven by jealousy last night? Do I resent her perfect life—how easily things come to her? Or maybe, subconsciously, in my drunken state, I was getting even for past wrongs. Darcy hasn’t always been a perfect friend. Far from it. I start to make my case to the jury, remembering Ethan back in elementary school. I am on to something…Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, consider the story of Ethan Ainsley…