Something Borrowed

“Oh.” Claire smiles, clearly not wondering why Dex couldn’t just leave the note in their apartment, why he would need to designate me as his messenger. “Well, it is going to be wild and crazy. Count on that.”

  “I can only imagine…” Dex says.

  “So, Rachel, are you taking the afternoon off then?”

  I stammer and stutter and say no, yes, I’m not sure, maybe.

  “Oh, screw work. Just come with me and run my last-minute errands for the party. I’m on my way to Lingerie on Lex to get a few extra things,” she says. We have designated tomorrow evening a hybrid lingerie shower–bachelorette party. “Please come?”

  “All right. Sure. I just need to run up and change my clothes and make one phone call. I’ll meet you in fifteen?”

  “Great!” Claire says.

  I wait for her to leave first, hoping that I can have a moment alone with Dex, but she is firmly rooted to the sidewalk. After a few seconds, Dex gives up and tells us good-bye. I am careful not to look at him as he leaves.

  “All right then,” I say to Claire. “See you in a few.”

  I walk home in a panic, telling myself we are fine, that surely Claire doesn’t suspect such a monumental betrayal. Dex calls just as I close my apartment door. I answer the phone, my hands shaking.

  “Hey,” Dex says. “Can you believe that?”

  “Omigod,” I say. “I feel like I’m going to faint. Where are you?”

  “Around the corner. In the car…Think we’re okay?”

  “I hope so,” I say, feeling my pulse slowly return to normal. “You were good…How’d you come up with that excuse so quickly?”

  “I don’t know. She bought it, didn’t she?”

  “Seemed to…but what are we going to do about the note?”

  “I’m writing one now…Shit, I have no idea what to write. This is ridiculous…I’m going to come up, okay?”

  I tell him that it’s not a good idea, that I have to go meet Claire.

  He sighs. “I wanted to spend some time with you. Can’t you get out of it?”

  I feel myself weakening. “Don’t you think it might look suspicious if I blow her off?”

  “C’mon. Just for a few minutes?”

  “Okay,” I say. “Come up. But only to give me the note. Then I really have to go meet her.”

  He arrives at my door minutes later, handing me my sandwich and the folded note. I put them both on my coffee table next to our Snapples. We sit on my couch.

  “How does stuff like that always happen in this city?” I ask.

  “I know,” he says, taking my hands. He tries to kiss me, but I am still too shaken to really reciprocate. I cannot relax. It is as if Claire is still with us.

  “I really should go,” I say, angry that she ruined our chance to have the big conversation, but also somehow relieved.

  He keeps kissing me as he removes my suit jacket and rubs my shoulder. “Dex!”

  “What?”

  “I have to go.”

  “In a minute.”

  “No. Now.”

  But as he runs his fingers over my collarbone, I stop thinking about Claire. Moments later we are making love.

  My cell phone rings immediately afterward. I jump. “Oh shit. That’s gotta be Claire. I really have to go,” I say, sitting up.

  “But I wanted to talk about this weekend,” he says.

  “What about it?” I ask, avoiding his gaze as I button my shirt.

  “Well, it’s just that…I’m really sorry about this bachelorette party and everything—”

  I interrupt him. “I know, Dex.”

  “Something has to be done soon. I just haven’t had a free moment. I haven’t had a chance…But I want you to know that I think about it—and you—all the time. I mean, all the time…” His expression is sincere, tortured. He waits for me to speak.

  This is my opening. Words form in my head; they are right on my tongue, but I say none of them, reasoning that this is not the moment to delve. We don’t have enough time for a real conversation. I reassure myself that I’m not a coward, I’m just being patient. I want to wait for the right moment to discuss the destruction of my best friend. So I give him and myself an out. “I know, Dex,” I say again. “Let’s talk next week, okay?”

  He nods somberly and hugs me hard.

  After he leaves, I call Claire and tell her that I got stuck on a work call but will be right over. I finish dressing, down my Snapple, and put my egg-salad sandwich in the refrigerator. I walk to the door as I eye the folded note. I can’t help myself. I go back, unfold it, read it:

  DARCY,

  JUST WANTED YOU TO HAVE A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM ME BEFORE YOUR BIG NIGHT OUT. I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT TIME WITH YOUR FRIENDS.

  LOVE, DEXTER

  Why did he have to insert the word “love”? I comfort myself by thinking that he didn’t just make love to her, and we will talk next week, still within Hillary’s deadline. Then I scurry off to meet Claire, to help her prepare for Darcy’s big weekend.

  The whole situation is completely out of control, the stuff that happens to other people. Not to people like me.

  The shower/bachelorette party is agony from start to finish, for obvious reasons, and also because I have nothing in common with Darcy’s PR friends, all of whom are materialistic, shallow, bitchy egomaniacs. Claire is the best of the lot, which is scary. I tell myself to smile and suck it up. It is only one evening.

  We meet at Claire’s first to give Darcy her lingerie, an arsenal of black lace and red silk that I simply cannot compete against. If Darcy decides to wear any of this stuff before the wedding—particularly a La Perla garter with fishnet stockings—I am dead. Unless she only debuts my gift, a long ivory nightgown with a high neckline, something that Caroline Ingalls might have worn on Little House on the Prairie. It screams sweet and wholesome, in contrast to the other sultry, skimpy gifts that scream, “Bend me over a chair and bust out the whipped cream.” Darcy pretends to like my gift, as I catch a knowing glance between Claire and Jocelyn, an Uma Thurman look-alike. For one paranoid second, I believe that Claire suspects the truth after our chance meeting yesterday and has shared her suspicions with Jocelyn. But then I just chalk it up to this sentiment: Darcy’s dowdy friend Rachel strikes again. How can she be the maid of honor when she doesn’t even know how to give a proper piece of lingerie?

  After the shower segment of the evening, we cab it to Churrascaria Plataforma, an all-you-can-eat Brazilian rotisserie in the Theater District, where waiters bring you endless servings of skewered meat. It is an amusing choice for a bunch of paper-thin women, half of whom are vegetarians and subsist on celery and cigarettes. Our group parades proudly into the restaurant, fetching plenty of stares from a predominantly male patronage. After a painful round of overpriced cocktails (put on my credit card) we are seated at a long table in the center of the restaurant where the PR girls continue to work the room, pretending to be oblivious to the attention they are garnering from all angles.

  I watch a nearby table of women in conservative, Ann Taylor attire eye our group with a strange mix of envy and condescension. I make a bet with myself that before the evening is over, the Ann Taylor women will complain to their waiter that our table is being too loud. Our waiter will give us a saccharine suggestion that we bring the volume down just a tad. Then our table will get all huffy and declare the Ann Taylor women a bunch of fat losers. I am seated at the wrong table, I think, as Claire and I flank Darcy upon her command. She is still wearing a little veil constructed out of the ribbons and bows from her gifts, happy to be conspicuous, the hottest girl at a table full of gorgeous women. Except for me, that is. I pretend to care about the flimsy conversation swirling about me as I sip my sangria and smile, smile.

  After dinner, we make our way to Float, a Midtown dance club complete with velvet ropes and self-important bouncers. Of course we are on a VIP list—compliments of Claire—and are able to power our way past the long line of nobodies (Darcy’s description). The evenin
g follows the stale, silly script for the typical twenty-something bachelorette party. Which would be okay, I guess, except for the fact that most of us are no longer twenty-somethings. We are too old for the shrieking and the shots and the wild dancing with any guy self-confident (or self-destructive) enough to penetrate our group of nine women. And Darcy is too old for the scavenger list that Claire has prepared: find red-haired boy to buy her a sex-on-the-beach, dance with a man over fifty (imagine this species who still frequents dance clubs), kiss a guy with a tattoo or body piercing.

  The whole event is overplayed and unsophisticated, but Darcy shines. She is on the dance floor, glistening, her hair curling slightly from perspiration. Her tanned, flat stomach shows between her low-slung pants and halter top. Her cheeks are rosy, dewy. Everyone wants to talk to the bride-to-be. Single girls ask wistfully what her dress looks like and more than one guy tells her she should reconsider the marriage, or at the very least, have one final fling. I dance on the outskirts of the group, biding my time.

  When the night is finally over, I am exhausted, sober, and five hundred bucks poorer. We file out of the club as Darcy turns to me and says that she wants to sleep over at my place, just the two of us, like old times. She is so thrilled with the idea that I cannot refuse. I smile. She whispers in my ear that she wants to shake Claire, that it won’t be the same if she comes along. It reminds me of high school and how Darcy would decide who she wanted to include and exclude. Annalise and I seldom had a say and often could not figure out why someone failed to make the cut.

  We hail a cab as Darcy thanks Claire, tells her the evening was a blast, and says to me loudly, with a nudge, “Why don’t we share a cab back uptown? I’ll drop you off first.”

  I say sure, and we head up to my apartment.

  José is on duty. He is happy to see Darcy, who always flirts with him. “Where you been, girl?” he asks. “You don’t visit me no more.”

  “Planning my wedding,” she says in her beguiling way. She points to her now-crumpled veil that she is clutching like a precious souvenir.

  “Aww. Say it ain’t so! You gettin’ maah-ried?”

  I clench my teeth and hit the up button on the elevator.

  “Yeah,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Why, do you think I shouldn’t?”

  José laughs, showing all his teeth. “Hell, no. Don’t do it!” Even my doorman wants her. “Blow that guy off,” he says.

  Clearly he hasn’t put the pieces of this puzzle together.

  Darcy takes his hand in hers and twirls herself around. She finishes the move with a hip-to-hip bump.

  “C’mon, Darce,” I say, already in the elevator, holding the door-open button with my thumb. “I’m tired.”

  She twirls one last time and then joins me in the elevator.

  On the ride up, she waves and blows kisses into the security camera, just in case José is watching.

  When we get into my apartment, I immediately turn down the volume on my answering machine and switch off my cell phone in case Dex calls. Then I change into shorts and a T-shirt and give Darcy clothes to wear.

  “Can I have your Naperville High shirt instead? So it will feel like old times.”

  I tell her that it is in the wash, and she will have to make do with my “1989 Indy 500” T-shirt. She says it is good enough, as it reminds her of home too.

  I brush my teeth, floss, and wash my face as she sits on the edge of my tub and talks to me about the party, how much fun it was. We trade places. Darcy washes her face and then asks if she can use my toothbrush. I say yes even though I think it’s disgusting to share with anyone. Even Dex. Okay, maybe not Dex, but anyone else. Through a mouthful of toothpaste, she remarks that she is not drunk, or even very buzzed, which is surprising considering the amount of alcohol we consumed. I tell her it must be all the meat we ate.

  She spits into the sink. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. I probably gained five pounds tonight.”

  “No way. Think of how much you burned off dancing and sweating.”

  “Good point!” She rinses her mouth, splashing water everywhere, before she leaves the bathroom.

  “Are you all ready for bed?” I ask, wiping up her mess with a towel.

  She turns and watches me, unapologetic. “No. I want to stay up and talk.”

  “Can we at least get in bed and talk?”

  “If we keep the light on. Otherwise you’ll fall asleep.”

  “All right,” I say.

  We get in bed. Darcy is closer to the window, on Dexter’s side of the bed. Thank goodness I changed my sheets this morning.

  We are facing each other, our bent knees touching.

  “What should we discuss first?” she asks.

  “You choose.”

  I brace myself for wedding talk, but instead she starts a long gossip session about the girls at the party, what everyone wore, Tracy’s new short haircut, Jocelyn’s struggle with bulimia, Claire’s incessant name-dropping.

  We talk about Hillary not showing up for her party. Of course, Darcy is red-hot mad about that. “Even if she is in love, she should have blown off Julian for one night.”

  Of course, I can’t tell her that the real reason for Hillary’s boycott has nothing to do with a new boyfriend.

  Then we are on to Ethan. She wants to know if he’s gay. She is always speculating about this, proffering flimsy bits of evidence: he played four square with the girls in grade school, he took home ec in high school instead of industrial arts, he has a lot of women friends, he dresses well, and he hasn’t dated anyone since Brandi. I tell her no, that I am almost completely certain that he’s not gay.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just don’t think he is.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it if he is,” Darcy says.

  “I know that, Darce. I just don’t think he is gay.”

  “Bisexual?”

  “No.”

  “So you really don’t think he’s ever made out with another guy?”

  “No!” I say.

  “I have trouble picturing Ethan touching some guy’s penis too.”

  “Enough,” I say.

  “Okay. Fine. What is your latest analysis on Marcus?”

  “He’s growing on me,” I say, for added insurance—just in case she has the slightest intuition about my feelings for Dex.

  “He is? Since when?”

  “I kissed him on Saturday night,” I say, and instantly regret it. She will tell Dex.

  “You did? I thought you went out with Hillary and Julian on Saturday night.”

  “I did. But I met up with Marcus afterward…for a few drinks. It was no big deal, really.”

  “Did you go back to his place?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “So where did you kiss him?”

  “At Aubette.”

  “And that was it? You only kissed?”

  “Yeah. What do you think, we had sex at Aubette? Jeez.”

  “Well, this is noteworthy…I thought things had sort of tapered off with you two. So can you see yourself marrying him?”

  I laugh. This is classic Darcy—taking a little bit of information and running like crazy with it.

  “Why are you laughing? Is he not marriage material?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe…Now can we please turn out the light? My eyes hurt.”

  She says okay, but gives me a look of warning to say it’s not yet time for sleep.

  I turn off my bedside lamp, and as soon as we are in the dark, she brings up Dex and his note. She had been fairly dismissive of it when I gave it to her at the start of her party, but now she calls him thoughtful.

  “Hmm-mmm,” I say.

  A long silence follows. Then she says, “Things have been sort of weird with us lately.”

  My pulse quickens. “Really?”

  “We haven’t had sex in a long time.”

  “How long?” I ask, crossing my fingers under the sheets.

  She tells me the answe
r I want. Since before the Fourth.

  “Really?” My palms are sweaty.

  “Yeah. Is that a bad sign?”

  “I don’t know…How often did you have sex before?” I ask, grateful for the dark.

  “Before what?”

  Before he told me that he loves me. “Before the Fourth.”

  “It comes and goes. But when things are going well we have sex every day. Sometimes twice a day.”

  I force the sickening images out of my head, struggling to find something to say. “Maybe it’s the pressure of the wedding?”

  “Yeah…” she says.

  And maybe it’s because he’s having an affair with me. I have a pang of guilt, which increases tenfold when she switches topics again and asks out of the blue, “Can you believe how long we’ve been friends?”

  “I know it’s been a long time.”

  “Think of all the sleepovers we’ve had. How many sleepovers would you say we’ve had? I’m not good at estimating things. Would you say a thousand?”

  “That’s probably close,” I say.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve had one,” she says.

  My eyes have adjusted to the dark, so I can vaguely see her now. With her face freshly scrubbed and her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she looks like a teenager. We could be in her bed back in high school, giggling and whispering, with Annalise snoring softly beside the bed in her Garfield sleeping bag. Darcy always let Annalise fall asleep. I think she almost hoped she would. I know I sometimes did.

  “You wanna play twenty questions?” I ask. It was one of our favorite games growing up.

  “Yeah. Yeah. You go first.”

  “Okay. I got one.”

  “Same rules?”

  “Same rules.”

  Our rules were simple: you must choose a person (instated after Annalise tried to do neighborhood pets), someone we knew personally (no celebrities, dead or living), and you must ask yes-no questions.

  “From high school?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Male?”

  “No.”

  “Our graduating class?”

  “No.”

  “Class above us or below us?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  “No, it’s a compound,” she says. “If the answer’s yes, I still have to break it down and use another question. Remember?”