“Rachel?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think I’m a terrible person? Please don’t think I’m a terrible person. I have never cheated on him before. I’m not going to do it again. I really do love Dex.”
“Okay,” I say, wondering if she will do it again.
“Do you think I’m awful?”
“No, Darcy,” I say. “People make mistakes.”
“I know, that’s what it was. A total mistake. I really, really regret it.”
“You did use a condom?” I ask her.
I picture the chart in health class explaining that for every sexual partner you have, there are essentially dozens of others that you don’t even know about: everyone he slept with, and so on and so on…
“Of course!”
“Good.” I nod. “Call me later if you need me.”
“Thanks,” she says. “Thank you so much for being here for me.”
“No problem.”
“Oh, and this goes without saying…don’t tell anyone. I mean, anyone. Ethan, Hillary…”
But what about Dex? Can I tell Dex?
“Of course. I won’t tell anyone.”
She hugs me, patting my back. “Thanks, Rachel. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
When Darcy leaves, I formulate my answer to the obvious dilemma—to tell or not to tell. I approach it as I would an exam question, keeping emotion to the side:
At first blush, the answer seems clear: tell Dexter. I have three major reasons motivating this decision. First, I want him to know. It is in my best interest for him to know. If he has not already decided to call off his wedding, having this piece of knowledge likely will sway him against marrying Darcy. Second, I love Dexter, which means that I should make decisions with his best interest at heart. Thus, I want him to have a full set of facts when making a pivotal life decision. Third, morality dictates that Dex be told; I have a moral obligation to tell Dexter the truth about Darcy’s actions. (This should be distinguished from a retributive point of view, although certainly Darcy deserves a sound snitching.) As a corollary, I value and respect the institution of marriage, and Darcy’s infidelity certainly doesn’t bode well for a long and lasting union. This third point has nothing to do with my self-interest, as the same reasoning would apply even if I weren’t in love with Dex.
The logic of point three, however, seems to indicate that Darcy should also know that Dex has been unfaithful, and that I should not be hiding my actions from Darcy (because she is my friend and trusts me, and because it is wrong to be deceitful). Thus, one might argue that thinking that Dex should know the truth about Darcy is fundamentally at odds with intentionally leaving Darcy in the dark about my own misdeeds. However, this reasoning ignores an essential distinction and one that my final analysis is dependent upon: there is a difference between thinking a person should know/be told and being that messenger. Yes, I think Dex should know what Darcy has done, and (perhaps? likely?) will continue to do. But is it my place to tell? I would argue that it is not.
Furthermore, although Dex should not marry Darcy, it is not because he cheated or because she cheated. And it is not because he loves me and I love him. These things are all true but are mere symptoms of the larger problem, i.e., their flawed relationship. Darcy and Dex are wrong for each other. The fact that both of them have cheated, although driven to do so by separate motivations (love versus a self-serving mixture of fear of commitment and lust) is just one indicator. But even if neither had cheated, the relationship would still be wrong. And if Darcy and Dex can’t determine this essential truth based on their interactions, their feelings, and their years together, then it is their mistake to make and not my place to play informant.
And I might also drop a footnote, maybe under the morality discussion, where I would address the betrayal of Darcy:
Yes, telling Darcy’s secret would be wrong, but in light of my far greater betrayal, telling a secret seems hardly worth discussing. On the other hand, however, one could argue that telling the secret is worse. Sleeping with Dex has nothing to do with Darcy per se, but telling Darcy’s secret has everything to do with Darcy. Yet considering that the ultimate decision is not to tell, this point becomes moot.
So there’s my answer. I think my reasoning might be a little shaky, particularly at the end, where I sort of fall apart and essentially say, “So there.” I can just see the red marks in the margin of the blue book. “Unclear!” and “Why is it their mistake to make? Are you punishing them for their stupidity or for their infidelity? Explain!”
But regardless of my flawed rationale and the knowledge that Ethan and Hillary would accuse me of being my usual passive self, I’m not saying a word about this to Dex.
Nineteen
The next day I return home from work, pick up my dry cleaning from José, and check my mailbox to find my Time Warner cable bill, the new issue of In Style magazine, and a large ivory envelope addressed in ornate calligraphy affixed with two heart stamps. I know what it is even before I flip it over and find a return address from Indianapolis.
I tell myself that a wedding can still be called off after invitations go out. This is just one more obstacle. Yes, it makes things stickier, but it is only a formality, a technicality. Still, I am dizzy and nauseated as I open the envelope and find another inner envelope. This one has my name and the two humiliating words “and Guest.” I cast aside the RSVP card and its matching envelope and a sheet of silver tissue paper floats to the floor, sliding under my couch. I don’t have the energy to retrieve it. Instead, I sit down and take a deep breath, mustering the courage to read the engraved script, as if the wording can somehow make things better or worse:
OUR JOY WILL BE MORE COMPLETE
IF YOU SHARE IN THE MARRIAGE OF OUR DAUGHTER
DARCY JANE
TO
MR. DEXTER THALER
I blink back tears and exhale slowly, skipping to the bottom of the invitation:
WE INVITE YOU TO WORSHIP WITH US,
WITNESS THEIR VOWS, AND JOIN US
FOR A RECEPTION AT THE CARLYLE FOLLOWING THE CEREMONY.
IF YOU ARE UNABLE TO ATTEND, WE ASK FOR YOUR
PRESENCE IN THOUGHT AND PRAYER.
DR. AND MRS. HUGO RHONE
RSVP
Yes, the wording can indeed make things worse. I put the invitation on my coffee table and stare at it. I picture Mrs. Rhone dropping the envelopes off at the post office on Jefferson Street, her long red nails patting the stack with motherly smugness. I hear her nasal voice saying, “Our joy will be more complete” and “We ask for your presence in thought and prayer.”
I’ll give her a prayer—a prayer that the marriage never happens. A prayer for a follow-up mailing to arrive at my apartment:
DR. AND MRS. HUGO RHONE
ANNOUNCE THAT THE MARRIAGE OF
THEIR DAUGHTER DARCY TO
MR. DEXTER THALER
WILL NOT TAKE PLACE
Now that is some wording that I can appreciate. Short, sweet, to the point. “Will not take place.” The Rhones will be forced to abandon their usual flamboyant style. I mean, they can’t very well say, “We regret to inform you that the groom is in love with another” or “We are saddened to announce that Dexter has broken our dear daughter’s heart.” No, this mailing will be all business—cheap paper, boxy font, and typed computer labels. Mrs. Rhone will not want to spend the money on Crane’s stationery and calligraphy after already wasting so much. I see her at the post office, triumphant no more, telling the mailman that no, she will not be needing the heart stamps this time. Two hundred flag stamps will do just fine.
I am in bed when Dex calls and asks if he can come over.
On the day I receive his wedding invitation, I still say yes, come right on over. I am ashamed for being so weak, but then think of all the people in the world who have done more pathetic things in the name of love. And the bottom line is: I love Dex. Even though he is the last person on earth I should feel this way about, I
truly do love him. And I have not given up on him quite yet.
As I wait for his arrival, I debate whether to put the invitation away or leave it on my coffee table in plain view. I decide to tuck it between the pages of my In Style magazine. A few minutes later, I answer the door in my white cotton nightgown.
“Were you in bed?” Dex asks.
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, let me take you back there.”
We get in bed. He pulls the covers over us.
“You feel so good,” he says, caressing my side and moving his hand under my nightgown. I start to block him, but then acquiesce. Our eyes meet before he kisses me slowly. No matter how disappointed I am in him, I can’t imagine stopping this tide. I am almost motionless as he makes love to me. He talks the whole time, which he doesn’t usually do. I can’t make out exactly what he is saying, but I hear the word “forever.” He wants to be with me forever, I think. He won’t marry Darcy. He can’t. She cheated on him. They aren’t in love. He loves me.
Dex spoons me as tears seep onto my pillow.
“You’re so quiet tonight,” Dex says.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my voice steady. I don’t want him to know that I’m crying. The last thing I want is Dexter’s pity. I am passive and weak, but I have some—albeit limited—pride.
“Talk to me,” he says. “What’s on your mind?”
I come close to asking him about the invitation, his plans, us, but instead I make my voice nonchalant. “Nothing really…I was just wondering if you’re going to the Hamptons this weekend.”
“I sort of promised Marcus that I would. He wants to golf again.”
“Oh.”
“I guess you wouldn’t consider coming?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Please?”
“I don’t think so.”
He kisses the back of my head. “Please. Please come.”
Three little “please”s is all it takes.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll go.”
I fall asleep hating myself.
The next day Hillary bursts into my office. “Guess what I got in the mail.” Her tone is accusatory, not at all sympathetic.
I completely overlooked the fact that Hillary would be receiving an invitation too. I have no response prepared for her. “I know,” I say.
“So you have your answer.”
“He could still cancel,” I say.
“Rachel!”
“There’s still time. You gave him two weeks, remember? He still has a few more days.”
Hillary raises her eyebrows and coughs disdainfully. “Have you seen him recently?”
I start to lie, but don’t have the energy. “Last night.”
She gives me a wide-eyed look of disbelief. “Did you tell him you got the invitation?”
“No.”
“Rachel!”
“I know,” I say, feeling ashamed.
“Please tell me you aren’t one of those women.”
I know the type she is talking about. The woman who carries on a relationship with a married man for years, hoping, even believing, that he will one day come to his senses and leave his wife. The moment is just around the corner—if she only hangs in there, she won’t be sorry in the end. But time passes, and the years only create fresh excuses. The kids are still in school, the wife is sick, a wedding is being planned, a grandchild is on the way. There is always something, a reason to keep the status quo. But then the excuses run out, and ultimately she accepts that there will be no leaving, that she will always be the second-place finisher. She decides that second place is better than nothing. She surrenders to her fate. I have new empathy for these women, although I do not believe that I have yet joined their ranks.
“That’s not a fair characterization,” I say.
She gives me an “Oh, really?” look.
“Dexter’s not married.”
“You’re right. He’s not married. But he is engaged. Which might be worse. He can change his situation like that.” She snaps her fingers. “But he’s not doing a damn thing.”
“Look, Hillary, we are talking about a finite timetable…I can only be one of those women for a month more.”
“A month? You’re going to let this thing go down to the wire?”
I look away, out my window.
“Rachel, why are you waiting?”
“I want it to be his decision. I don’t want to be responsible…”
“Why not?”
I shrug. If she knew about Darcy’s infidelity, she’d be over the edge.
She sighs. “You want my advice?”
I do not, but nod anyway.
“You should dump him. Now. Do something while you still have a choice. The longer this goes on, the worse you are going to feel when you’re standing in front of that church, watching them seal their vows with a kiss that Darcy will drag on for longer than is tasteful…Then watching them cut the cake and feed one another while she smears icing on his face. Then watching them dance the night away…and then—”
“I know. I know.”
Hillary isn’t finished. “And then darting into the night on their getaway to frickin’ Hawaii!”
I wince and tell her that I get the picture.
“I just don’t understand why you won’t do something, force his hand. Something.”
I tell her again that I don’t want to be responsible for their breakup, that I want it to be Dexter’s decision.
“It will be his decision. You won’t be brainwashing him. You’ll simply be going for what you want. Why aren’t you being more assertive about something so significant and important?”
I have no explanation for her. At least none that she would find acceptable. My phone rings, interrupting our awkward silence.
I glance at the screen on my phone. “It’s Les. I better take it,” I say, feeling relief that the inquisition is over. It is a sad day when I am grateful to hear from Les.
Later that afternoon, I take a break from my research and roll my chair over to my window. I peer down on Park Avenue, watching people move about their daily lives. How many of them feel desperate, euphoric, or simply dead inside? I wonder if any of them are on the verge of losing something huge. If they already have. I close my eyes and picture the wedding scenes that Hillary painted for me. I then add my own honeymoon reel—Darcy clad in her new lingerie, posing seductively on their bed. I can see it all so perfectly.
And suddenly, all at once, it is clear to me why I won’t force Dex’s hand. Why I said nothing over July Fourth, nothing in the time since, nothing last night. It all comes down to expectations. In my heart, I don’t actually believe that Dex is going to call off the wedding and be with me, no matter what I do or say. I believe that those Dex and Darcy wedding and honeymoon scenes will unfold while I am left on the sidelines, alone. I can already feel my grief, can envision my final time with Dex, if it hasn’t happened already. Sure, I have occasionally scripted a different ending, one in which Dex and I are together, but those images are always short-lived, never escaping the realm of “what if.” In short, I have no real faith in my own happiness. And then there is Darcy. She is a woman who believes that things should fall into her lap, and consequently, they do. They always have. She wins because she expects to win. I do not expect to get what I want, so I don’t. And I don’t even try.
It is Saturday afternoon, and we’re in the Hamptons. I took the train out this morning, and now our whole group is reunited in the backyard. The togetherness is a recipe for disaster. Julian and Hillary are playing badminton. They ask if anyone wants to challenge them in a doubles match. Dex says sure, he will. Hillary glares at him. “Who do you want to be your partner, Dexter?”
Until this point, Dexter did not know that I told Hillary anything about us. I had two reasons for keeping him in the dark on this: I didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable around her, and I didn’t want him to have free license to tell a friend.
But Hillary ma
kes her snide remark in a way that you simply cannot miss if you are aware of the situation. Which apparently Julian is, because he gives her a look of warning. It has become clear that he will be the steadying force in their duo.
She does not stop there. “Well, Dex, who is it going to be?” She rests her hand on her hip and points at him with her racquet.
Dex stares back at Hillary. His jaw clenches. He is pissed.
“What if two people both want to be your partner, then what?” Hillary’s voice is dripping with innuendo.
Darcy seems oblivious to the tension. So do Marcus and Claire. Perhaps everyone is used to Hillary’s occasional confrontational tone. Maybe they just chalk it up to the lawyer in her.
Dex turns around and looks at us. “Any of you guys wanna play?”
Marcus waves his hand dismissively. “Naw, man. No, thanks. That’s a girly game.”
Darcy giggles. “Yeah, Dex. You’re a girly man.”
Claire says no, she hates sports.
“Badminton is hardly a sport,” Marcus says, opening a can of Budweiser. “It’s like calling tic-tac-toe a sport.”
“Looks like it’s between Darcy and Rachel. Doesn’t it?” Hillary says. “You want in, Rach?”
I am frozen at my post at the picnic table, flanked by Darcy and Claire.
“No, thanks,” I say softly.
“You want me to be your partner, honey?” Darcy asks. She looks across the yard at Dex as she shades her eyes with her hand.
“Sure,” he says. “C’mon then.”
Hillary snorts as Darcy hops up from the table with a warning that she sucks at badminton.
Dex looks down at the grass, waiting for Darcy to take the fourth racquet and join him in the plot of grass outlined by various flip-flops and sneakers.
“We play to ten,” Hillary says, tossing the bird up for her first serve.
“Why do you get to serve first?” Dex asks.