“Oh, my goodness. Look at her hair! Have you ever seen such poofy bangs?” Darcy gasps as she scrutinizes Laura Lindell’s photo. “She looks so ridiculous. They must be a foot high!”
I nod in agreement and wait for her next prey: Richard Meek. Only she decides to give him more credit than she gave him in the twelfth grade. “Not bad. He’s sort of cute, isn’t he?”
“Sort of. He has a nice smile. But remember how he spit all over you when he talked?”
“Yeah. Good point.”
Darcy flips the pages until she finally grows tired of it, casts it aside, and resumes control of the remote. She finds When Harry Met Sally and squeals. “It’s just starting! Yes!”
We both recline on my couch, feet to head, and watch the movie we have seen together countless times. Darcy talks out loud constantly, quoting the parts she knows. I don’t shush her once. Because even though she says talking during movies irritates Dex, I don’t mind. Not even when she gets the line slightly wrong, so that I can’t tell what Meg Ryan is really saying. It’s just Darcy. This is what she does.
And like a favorite old movie, sometimes the sameness in a friend is what you like the most about her.
Eighteen
The next evening Darcy calls me just as I am returning home from work. She is hysterical. A cold, calm feeling overcomes me. Could this be it? Has Dex told her that the wedding is off?
“What’s wrong, Darcy?” I ask. My voice sounds tight and unnatural, my heart filled with conflict—love for Dex versus friendship with Darcy. I brace myself for the worst, although I’m not sure what the worst would be—losing my best friend or the love of my life. I can’t fathom either.
Darcy says something that I can’t understand, something about her ring.
“What is it, Darce? Slow down…What about your ring?”
“It’s gone!” she sobs.
It doesn’t seem possible that your heart can sink just as you feel tremendous relief, yet that is what happens as I register that this conversation is only about a missing piece of jewelry. “Where did you lose it? It’s insured, right?”
I am asking the responsible-friend questions. I am being helpful. But I sound rote. If she were any less hysterical, she might be able to tell that I don’t care a lick that her ring has been misplaced. I tell her that she is a slob, that she probably just put it somewhere and forgot. “Remember the time you thought it was gone and then found it in one of your slippers? You’re always misplacing things, Darce.”
“No, it’s different this time! This time it’s gone! It’s gone! Dex is going to kill me!” Her voice is trembling.
Maybe not, I think. Maybe this will be the opening he has been waiting for. And then I hate myself for thinking such a thing. “Have you told him?”
“No. Not yet. He’s still at work…What am I going to do?”
“Well, where did you lose it?”
She doesn’t answer me, just keeps crying.
I repeat the question.
“I don’t know.”
“Where did you see it last?” I ask. “Did you have it at work today? Did you take it off to wash your hands?”
“No, I never take it off to wash my hands! What kind of dumbass would do that?”
I want to tell her not to snap at me, that she is the dumbass who lost her engagement ring. But I stay sympathetic, tell her that I’m sure it will turn up.
“No, it won’t turn up.” More loud sobs.
“How do you know?”
“’Cause I just know.”
I have run out of suggestions.
“Can I come over? I really have to talk to you,” she says.
“Yes, come right over,” I say, wondering if there is more to this than a missing ring. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” she says. “Can you order some wonton soup for me?”
“Sure.”
“And an egg roll?”
“Yes. Come over now.”
I call Tang Tang and order two wonton soups, two egg rolls, two Sprites, and one beef and broccoli. Darcy arrives at my door fifteen minutes later. She is disheveled, wearing a pair of Levi’s that I recognize from high school—they still fit her perfectly—and a white tank top. She is wearing no makeup, her eyes are bloodshot, and her hair is thrown up in a sloppy ponytail, but she still manages to look pretty. I tell her to sit down and tell me everything.
“It’s gone.” She shakes her head, holding up her bare left hand.
“Where do you think you lost it?” I ask calmly, recalling that I have gone through this exercise a hundred times with Darcy. I am always helping her, cleaning up her messes, trailing loyally after her in her wake of turmoil and angst.
“I didn’t lose it. Somebody stole it.”
“Who stole it?”
“Someone.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s gone!”
We are getting nowhere. I sigh and tell Darcy again to give me all of the facts.
She looks at me, her eyes filling with tears and her lips quivering slightly. “Rachel…”
“Yes?”
“You’re my best friend.” She starts to cry again, tears streaming gracefully down her glistening cheeks and falling onto her lap. She has always been a pretty crier.
I nod. “Yes.”
“My best friend in the world. And I have to tell you something.”
“You can tell me anything,” I say, feeling overcome with worry, suddenly sure that Dex has laid the preliminary breaking-up groundwork.
She looks at me and makes a whimpering sound. As confident as Darcy is, she can seem so pitiful and defenseless when she is down. And my instinct has always been—still is—to help her. “Tell me, Darce,” I say gently.
“Rachel—I—I took off my ring in somebody’s apartment.”
“Okay.”
“A guy’s apartment.”
I feel as though I’m looking through a camera, trying to focus. Is she saying what I think she’s saying?
“Rachel,” Darcy says again, this time in a whisper. “I cheated on Dexter.”
I stare at her, unable to mask my shock.
Yes, Darcy is a flirt. Yes, she lives life on the edge. Yes, she is selfish. And yes, she loves male attention. The attributes add up and it makes sense. I should not be surprised that she would cheat. I mean, Dex is none of the above, and he is doing it. Still, I am floored. She is getting married in less than two months. She is a glowing bride-to-be with a stunning gown, the kind that you dream about when you’re a little girl. And she is with Dexter. How in the world could anyone cheat on Dexter?
The five w’s and one h of journalism pop into my head. I am in high school reporter mode, interviewing for the North Star. “Who with?”
She sniffs. Her head is down. “This guy at work.”
“When?”
“A couple of times. Today.” She rubs her eyes with her fists and looks at me sideways.
I don’t know what my face is giving away. And I’m not even sure exactly how I feel. Relieved? Outraged? Disgusted? Hopeful? I haven’t had time to consider the implications for Dex and me.
“And that’s how you lost your ring?”
She nods. “I went over there today after I left my apartment, on the way to work.” She swallows and then lets out a small sob. “We hung out, you know, fooled around—”
“Did you sleep with him?”
Her ponytail jerks up and down.
“I took my ring off because…well, I felt too guilty wearing it while I had sex with someone else.” She blows her nose into an already soggy tissue.
“You want a fresh one?”
She nods again. I jog the few steps to the bathroom to retrieve my Kleenex box.
“Here,” I say, handing her the box.
She takes a tissue and blows her nose again loudly. “So anyway, I took off the ring and put it on his windowsill, next to his bed.” She points to my bed in its alcove. “He has a studio sort of like yours.”
> A studio. So he’s probably not an executive, which surprises me. I would have guessed that Darcy would go for the power type. An older man. I had been picturing Richard Gere in Pretty Woman. I change my mental image to Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting.
“So we hang out, you know.” She waves her hand in the air. “Then we get dressed and walk to the subway. Go to work.”
“Uh-huh…”
“So when I get to work, I realize that I forgot to put on my ring. So I call him and tell him I need to go back and get the ring. He says no problem, but that he has a meeting at three that is going to last a couple of hours. Can we meet there at seven? I tell him sure…So we meet back at his place at seven. And when we go in, the place is, like, totally clean. And when we left, it was a total dump. And he goes, ‘Shit. The cleaning lady was here.’ And we go over to the windowsill and the ring is gone!” She is crying harder now. “The bitch took it.”
“Are you sure? I can’t believe someone would do that…”
She gives me a “Don’t be such a Pollyanna” look. “The ring is gone, Rachel. Gone. Gone. Gone!”
“Well, can’t he just call his cleaning lady and tell her that he knows she took it?”
“We tried that. She doesn’t speak English very well. She just kept saying that she ‘didn’t see no ring.’” Darcy imitates the maid’s accent. “I even took the phone. I told her I would give her a big, big reward if she finds it. The bitch isn’t stupid. She knows that two carats are worth about twenty million dirty toilets.”
“Okay,” I say. “But it’s insured, right?”
“Yeah, it’s insured. But what the hell am I going to tell Dexter?”
“I don’t know. Tell him that it fell down the drain at work…Tell him that you took it off at the gym and somebody broke into your locker.”
She gives me a half-smile. “I like the gym one. That’s believable, right?”
“Totally.”
“I just can’t believe this happened.”
That makes two of us. I can’t believe that Darcy cheated on Dex with some random guy. I can’t believe that I am helping Darcy cover up her affair. Does everyone cheat when they’re engaged?
“Is this a full-fledged affair?” I ask.
“Not really. Just a couple of times.”
“So it’s not serious?”
“I don’t know. Not really. I don’t know.” She shakes her head and then rests her forehead in her hands.
I wonder if Darcy’s recent moodiness has anything to do with this guy. “Are you in love with him?”
“God, no,” she says. “It’s just fun. It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure you should be getting married?” I ask.
“I knew you would say something like that!” Darcy starts to cry again. “Can’t you just help me without being all pious?”
Trust me, I’m not being pious.
“I’m sorry, Darce. I’m not trying to be pious…I was just offering you an out if you wanted one.”
“I don’t want an out. I want to get married. I just—I don’t know—I just panic sometimes that this is it. That I will never be with anyone else ever again. And so I just had this little fling. It was nothing.”
“Okay,” I say. “All I meant was that if you are unsure of this whole marriage thing…I just want you to know that I fully support whatever decision—”
She interrupts me. “There’s no decision to make! I’m getting married. I love Dex.”
“Sorry,” I say. And I am sorry. I’m sorry that I love Dex too.
“No. I’m sorry, Rachel,” she says, touching my leg. “It’s been a horrible day.”
“I understand.”
“I mean, do you understand? Can you imagine what it is like to be weeks away from a promise that is supposed to last forever?”
Oh, poor you. Does she have any idea how many girls would kill to make a promise like that to someone like Dexter? She is looking at one of them.
“‘Forever is a mighty long time,’” I say, with a hint of sarcasm.
“Are you quoting a Prince song? You better not be quoting a Prince song in my time of need!”
I tell her no, although that was precisely what I had been doing.
“It is a long time,” she says. “And sometimes I don’t know if I can do it. I mean, I know I want to get married, but sometimes I don’t know if I can go forty more years or however long it is and never feel that thrill of kissing someone new. I mean, look at Hillary. She is on cloud nine, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s not like that with Dexter anymore. Ever. It’s all just the daily grind—him going to work all the time, leaving me with all the wedding plans. We’re not even married and the fun part is already so far gone.”
“Darce,” I say. “Your relationship has evolved. It’s not about the initial frenzy, the lust, the newness.”
She looks at me as if she’s really paying attention, taking mental notes. I can’t believe what I’m saying. I’m convincing her that her relationship is this great, special thing. I don’t know why I’m doing it. Probably just nerves. I keep going. “The thrill of the chase is always exciting. But that’s not what a real, lasting, loving relationship is all about. And the initial infatuation, the ‘I can’t keep my hands off you’ routine, it fades for everyone.”
Except for Dex and me, I think. It would always be special with Dex and me.
“I know you’re right,” she says. “And I do love him.”
I know she believes what she’s saying, but I’m not sure she does love him. I’m not sure she’s capable of truly loving anyone but herself.
José buzzes my intercom to tell me that my food has arrived.
“Thanks. You can send him up,” I say into the speaker.
As I step into the hall to pay the delivery guy, my home phone rings. I panic. What if it is Dex? I thrust my bills at the guy and dash back inside, throw the bag on my coffee table, and lift up the phone right as the answering machine is about to click on. Sure enough, it’s Dex.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m so sorry I haven’t called you today. It’s been a nightmare of a day. Roger had me—”
“It’s okay,” I say, interrupting him.
“Can I come over? I wanna see you.”
“Um, no,” I say.
“I can’t?”
“No…”
“Okay…Why?…Do you have company?” He lowers his voice.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to monitor my tone of voice for both listening parties. “Actually I do.”
I look at Darcy. She mouths, “Who is it?”
I ignore her.
“Okay…All right then…It’s not Marcus, is it?” Dex asks.
“No…Darcy’s here,” I say.
“Ohhh. Shit. Good thing I called first,” he whispers.
“So we’ll talk tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Definitely.”
“Sounds good.”
“Who was that?” Darcy asks, as I hang up the phone.
“It was Ethan.”
“C’mon, was it Marcus?” she asks. “You can tell me.”
“No, it really was Ethan.”
“Maybe he’s calling to tell you that he’s gay.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, opening our cartons of food.
As we eat our Chinese food, I ask about Dex, how he is doing.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, does he suspect that anything is going on?”
She rolls her eyes. “No. He works too much.”
I note that she does not change my word choice of “is going on” to “was going on.”
“No?”
“No. He’s just the same, normal old Dex.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Why?” She opens her Sprite, sips from the can.
“I just wondered,” I say. “I’ve read that when someone is cheating, the other person usually knows it on some deep, inner level.”
She slurps wonto
n soup from her plastic spoon and looks at me blankly. “I don’t believe that,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I don’t either.”
After we finish our dinner, I hold up two fortune cookies. “Which one do you want?”
She points to my left hand. “That one,” she says. “And it better be good. I can’t take more bad luck.”
I feel like telling her that choosing to sleep with a coworker and carelessly leaving your ring behind in his apartment has nothing to do with luck. I pull the plastic wrapper off the stale cookie, crack it open, and silently read my sliver of paper. You have much to be thankful for.
“What’s it say?” Darcy wants to know.
I tell her.
“That’s a good one.”
“Yeah, but it’s not a fortune. It’s a statement. I hate when they pass statements off as fortunes.”
“Then pretend it says, ‘You will have much to be thankful for,’” she says, opening her wrapper. “Mine better say, ‘You will get your ring back from the Puerto Rican bitch.’”
She silently reads her fortune and then laughs.
“What?”
“It says, ‘You have much to be thankful for.’…That’s bullshit. Mass-produced fortunes!”
Yeah, and only one of us will have much to be thankful for.
Darcy tells me that she better get going, that she has to go face the music. She tears up again as she reaches for her purse. “Will you tell Dex for me?”
“Absolutely not. I’m not getting involved,” I say, amusing myself with the absurdity of the statement.
“What do I say again?”
“That you lost it at the gym.”
“Is there time to get a new one before the wedding?”
I tell her yes, realizing that she has not once expressed any sentimentality over the ring that Dexter picked for her.