James and I finish our dinner, decide to skip dessert, and go back to his place. He has a nice flat—larger than Ethan’s—full of plants and cozy, upholstered furniture. I can tell that a woman recently moved out. To this point, half of the bookshelf is bare. The whole left side. Unless they kept their books segregated all along, which is doubtful, he has pushed all of his to one side. Maybe he wanted an exact percentage of how much more empty his life is without her.
“What was her name? Your ex?” I ask gingerly. Maybe I shouldn’t be bringing her up, but I’m sure he assumes that Phoebe told me his situation. I’m sure she filled him in on mine as well.
“Katherine. Kate.”
“How are you doing?”
“A bit sad. More relieved than anything. Sometimes downright euphoric. It’s been over a long time.”
I nod, as if I understand, although my situation could not be more different. Maybe Dex and I saved ourselves years of effort and pain if we were only going to end up like James and Kate anyway.
“And you?” he asks.
“Phoebe told you?”
I can tell that he is considering a fib, and then he says, “More or less…yes…How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “It was a short-lived situation. Nothing like your breakup.”
But I don’t believe my words. I have a flashback to July Fourth and feel a wave of pure, intense grief that catches me off guard with its intensity. I panic, thinking I’m going to cry. If James asks another thing about Dex, I will. Luckily, serious conversations seem not to be James’s thing. He asks if he can get me something to drink. “Tea? Coffee? Wine? Beer?”
“A beer would be great,” I say.
As he leaves for the kitchen, I breathe deeply and force Dex from my mind. I stand and survey the room. There is only one photograph in view. It is of James with an attractive, older woman who appears to be his mother. I wonder how many photographs of Kate and James were uprooted with the breakup. I wonder if he threw them away or saved them. That fact can tell you a lot about someone. I wish that I had a few photos of Dex. I have none of us together, only a few of him with Darcy. I’m sure I’ll have a lot more after the wedding. Darcy will force me to order some, maybe even give me one in a frame, as a wedding keepsake. How will I ever get through it?
James returns with linen cocktail napkins, two beers poured into mugs, and a small glass bowl of mixed nuts. All nestled neatly on a square pewter tray. Well trained by Kate.
“Thanks,” I say, sipping one of the beers.
We sit close to each other on the couch and talk about my job, his writing. It’s not perfectly comfortable, but not horrible. Probably because we are in a dead-end situation. There will be no second date, so there is no pressure to perform. No expectations. We will never have to deal with that awkward period after all the getting-to-know-you topics are covered, the lulls in conversation that usually come on the second date, at which point both people must decide whether to fight their way through to the comfort zone or throw in the towel. Of course, Dex and I didn’t have to deal with that. Another great thing about Dex. We were friends first. Don’t think about Dex. Think about now, being here with James!
James leans in and kisses me. He uses a little too much tongue—working it in frantic circular motions—and his breath smells vaguely of cigarettes, which is odd because he didn’t smoke this evening. Maybe he had one in the kitchen. I kiss him back anyway, faking enthusiasm. I even moan softly at one point. I don’t know why.
How many times will I have to endure kissing someone for the first time? Although Darcy says she will miss this element of single life, I have no fondness for it. Except for my first real kiss with Dex, which was absolute magic. I wonder if James is thinking about Kate as much as I am thinking about Dex. After a reasonably long time, James’s hand drifts up my shirt. I do not object. His touch is not altogether unpleasant, and I think, why not? Let him sample an American breast.
After a half hour of minor-to-significant groping, James asks me to spend the night, says that he doesn’t want to sleep with me—well, he does, he says, but he won’t try. And I almost agree, but then I learn that James has no saline solution. I can’t sleep in my contact lenses, and I left my glasses at home. So that is that. It seems amusing that James’s 20/20 vision prevents me from a potentially promiscuous move.
We kiss for a bit longer, listening to his Barenaked Ladies CD. The songs remind me of graduating from law school, dating Nate, being dumped by Nate. I hear the lyrics and remember the sadness.
Songs and smells will bring you back to a moment in time more than anything else. It’s amazing how much can be conjured with a few notes of a song or a solitary whiff of a room. A song you didn’t even pay attention to at the time, a place that you didn’t even know had a particular smell. I wonder what will someday bring back Dex and our few months together. Maybe the sound of Dido’s voice. Maybe the scent of the Aveda shampoo that I’ve been using all summer.
Someday being with Dex will be a distant memory. This fact makes me sad too. It’s like when someone dies, the initial stages of grief seem to be the worst. But in some ways, it’s sadder as time goes by and you consider how much they’ve missed in your life. In the world.
As James walks me back to Ethan’s flat, he turns to me and says, “Do you want to go to Leeds Castle with me tomorrow? Ethan too?”
“What’s Leeds Castle?” I ask, realizing that it’s probably like asking what the Empire State Building is.
“It’s a castle that was a Norman stronghold and a royal residence for six medieval queens. It’s really quite lovely. There’s an open-air theater nearby. It is a bit touristy, but you are a tourist after all, aren’t you?”
I am beginning to notice that Brits put a little question tag at the end of every statement, looking for affirmation.
I give it to him. “I am a tourist, yes.”
Then I tell him that Leeds Castle sounds perfect. Because it does sound nice. And because everything I do, every person I meet, puts a certain distance between Dex and me. Time heals all wounds, particularly if you pack a bunch of stuff into that time.
“Ask Ethan what he thinks about it. And call me.” He writes his phone number on the back of a gum wrapper I find in my purse. “I’ll be around.”
I thank him for a nice night. He kisses me again, his hand on the back of my neck.
“Snogging someone new right after a big breakup. Love it or hate it?” he asks.
I laugh. “Love it.”
James smirks. “I concur.”
I unlock Ethan’s door, wondering if James is lying too.
The next morning Ethan stumbles bleary-eyed into the kitchen, where I am pouring myself a glass of pulp-free orange juice.
“So? You in love with James?”
“Madly.”
He scratches his head. “Seriously?”
“No. But it was fun.”
I realize that I can’t even recall exactly what James looks like. I keep picturing this guy from my Federal Income Tax class in law school instead. “He wants to meet up with us today. Go to some palace or castle together.”
“Hmmm. A palace or castle in England. That narrows it down.”
“Leeds or something?”
Ethan nods. “Yeah, Leeds Castle is nice. Is that what you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Why not?” I say.
It seems like a waste of time and a lot of effort to make more conversation with James, but I call him anyway, and we all end up going to Leeds Castle for the day. Phoebe and Martin come too. Apparently all of Ethan’s friends make their own work schedules because none of them seem to think twice about taking off on a random Wednesday. I think of how different my life is back in New York, with Les looming over me, even on the weekends.
It is a warm day, nearly hot by London standards. We explore the castle and grounds, have a picnic lunch in the grass. At one point, Phoebe asks me, loud enough for everyone to hear, if I’ve taken a shine to James. I
look at James, who rolls his eyes at Phoebe. Then I smile and tell her, in the same volume, that he is quite nice, if only he lived in New York. I figure, what does it hurt to compliment him? If he genuinely likes me, he’ll be happy to hear it. And if he doesn’t, he will feel safe because of the distance.
“So why don’t you move to London?” she asks. “Ethan says you positively despise your job. Why not move here and find something? It would be a nice change of scenery, wouldn’t it?”
I laugh and tell her that I can’t do that. But it occurs to me, as we sit by a peaceful lake and admire the fairy-tale castle in the English countryside, that I could, in fact, do exactly that. Maybe the thing to do after you roll the dice—and lose—is simply pick them up and roll them again. I imagine handing Les my letter of resignation. It would be incredibly satisfying. And I wouldn’t have to deal with seeing Dex and Darcy on a regular basis. I wonder how a good therapist would characterize the move—as running away or creating a fresh, healthy start?
On my last night in London, Ethan and I are back at his favorite pub, which is starting to feel like my local. I ask Ethan what he thinks of the idea of my moving to London. Within fifteen minutes he has me all moved into his neighborhood. He knows of a flat, a job, and several guys, if James isn’t ideal, all of whom have straight, white teeth (because I have commented on the Brits’ poor dental work). He says do it. Just do it. He makes it sound so simple. It is simple. The seed is more than just planted. It is growing and sprouting a tiny bud.
Ethan continues. “You should get away from Darcy. That toxic friendship…It’s unhealthy. And it’s only going to be more destructive when you have to see them after the wedding.”
“I know,” I say, pushing a fry through mushy peas.
“And even if you stay in New York, I think it’s essential that you pare back that friendship. It’s not even a real friendship if she only wants to beat you.”
“It’s not as malicious as you make it sound,” I say, wondering why I am defending her.
“You’re right. It’s not just for the sake of defeating you. I think she just respects you so much that she wants to beat you to win your respect…You’ll note that she’s not going out of her way to show up Annalise. It’s just you. But sometimes I think you get sucked into it, and your whole dynamic becomes more about competing than true friendship.” He gives me a knowing, parental look.
“You think that I like Dex for the same reason—to compete with Darcy. Don’t you?”
He clears his throat and dabs his napkin to his lips, replaces it to his lap. “Well? Is it possible?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No way. You can’t trick yourself into the feelings I have. Had,” I say.
“Okay. It was just a theory.”
“Absolutely not. It was the real deal.”
But as I fall asleep that night in Ethan’s bed (he insisted on taking the couch all week), I wonder about this theory of his. Is it possible that the thrill I felt when I kissed Dex had more to do with the titillation of being bad, breaking rules, having something that belonged to Darcy? Maybe my affair with Dex was about rebelling against my own safe choices, against Darcy and years of feeling deficient. I am disturbed by the idea, because you never like to think that you are a slave to these sorts of subliminal pulls. But at the same time, the idea consoles me. If I liked Dex for these reasons, then I don’t love him after all. And it should be a whole lot easier for me to move on.
But the next day, as Ethan takes the tube with me to Paddington Station, I know, again, that I really do love Dex, and probably will for a very long time. I buy my ticket for the Heathrow Express. The board tells us that the next train will depart in three minutes, so we walk to the designated platform. “You know what you’re doing, right?” he asks protectively.
For a second, I think he is asking me about my life, then I realize he is only inquiring about travel logistics. “Yes. This goes straight to Heathrow, right?”
“Yeah. Just get out at Terminal Three. It’s easy.”
I hug Ethan and thank him for everything. I tell him that I had a wonderful time. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Then move here…I really think you should do it. You have nothing to lose.”
He is right; I do have nothing to lose. I’d be leaving nothing. A depressing thought. “I’ll think about it,” I say and promise myself I will keep thinking about it once I get home, rather than falling blindly into my old routine.
We hug one last time, and then I board my train and watch Ethan wave at me through the tinted train window. I wave back, thinking that there is nothing like old friends.
I arrive at Terminal Three and go through the motions of checking in, going through security, and waiting to board. The flight feels endless, and although I try, I can’t sleep at all. Despite my week of distraction, I don’t feel much better than I did on the flight over. Even the aerial views of New York City, which usually charge me with anticipation and excitement, don’t do a thing for me. Dex is amid those buildings. I liked it better when the Atlantic Ocean separated us.
When the plane lands, I make my way through passport control, baggage, and customs to find a long cab line. It is meltingly hot outside, and as I get in my cab, I discover that the air-conditioning is barely blowing through the vent into the backseat.
“Could you make it cooler back here, please?” I ask my driver, who is smoking a cigarette, an offense which could fetch him a $150 ticket.
He ignores me and lurches us sickeningly sideways. He is switching lanes every ten seconds.
I ask him again if he will please turn the air up. Nothing. Maybe he doesn’t hear me over his radio. Or maybe he doesn’t speak English. I glance at my Passenger Bill of Rights. I am entitled to: a courteous, English-speaking driver who knows and obeys all traffic laws…air-conditioning on demand…a radio-free (silent) trip…smoke-and incense-free air…a clean trunk.
Maybe the trunk is clean.
See? It’s all about low expectations.
The backseat keeps getting hotter, so I roll down the window and endure the dirty wind whipping my hair around my face. Finally I am home again. I pay my not-so-courteous cabbie the flat rate from JFK, plus toll and tip (even though the placard also states that I may refuse to tip if my rights weren’t complied with). I heave my roller bag out of the backseat.
It is five-thirty. By this time on Saturday, Darcy and Dex will be married. I will have already helped Darcy into her gown and wrapped the stems of her calla lilies with my lace handkerchief, her something borrowed. I will have already assured her a thousand times that she has never looked so beautiful, that everything is just right. I will have already walked down the aisle toward Dexter without looking at him. Well, trying not to look at him, but maybe catching a fleeting look in his eyes, a mixture of guilt and pity. I will have endured that painful thirty seconds of watching Darcy, in all of her glory, walk toward the altar, as I hold Dexter’s platinum band in my sweaty palm. In six days, the worst will be over.
“Hello there, Ms. Rachel!” José says as I close the cab door. Then he says to someone in the lobby, “She’s back!”
I stiffen, expecting to see Darcy with her wedding folder, ready to bark demands my way. But it is not Darcy waiting for me in my lobby, in the lone leather wing chair.
Twenty-Three
It is Dex. He stands as I stare at him. He is wearing jeans and a gray “Hoyas” T-shirt. He is tanner than when I left. I resent his healthy glow and his placid expression.
“Hi,” he says, taking a step toward me.
“Hi.” I freeze, feeling my posture become perfect. “How did you know when I was getting home?”
“Ethan gave me your flight details. I found his number in Darcy’s address book.”
“Oh…What do you want? What are you doing here?” I ask. I don’t mean to sound bitter, but I know that I do.
“Let me come up. I have to talk to you,” he says quietly, but urgently. José is still beaming, perfectly clueles
s.
I shrug and push the arrow for the elevator. The ride up is endless, quiet. I look at him as he waits for me to exit first. I can tell by his expression that he is here to reapologize. He can’t stand being the bad guy. Well, I will not give him the satisfaction. And I will not be patronized. If he goes down that road of telling me again how sorry he is, I will cut him off. Maybe even tell him about James. I will say that I am fine, that I will be at the wedding, but after that, I want minimal contact with him, and that I expect him to cooperate. Make no mistake about it, I will say, our friendship is over.
I turn the key in my lock and open the door. Entering my apartment is like opening a hot oven, even though I remembered to put my shades down. My plants have all wilted. I should have asked Hillary to water them. I turn on my air conditioner and notice that it won’t operate on high. Whenever it gets above ninety-five, there is a deliberate citywide brownout. I miss London, where it’s not even necessary to own an air conditioner.
“Brownout,” Dex says.
“I can see that,” I say.
I breeze by him and sit on my couch, cross my arms, try to raise one eyebrow as Phoebe did. Both rise together.
Dex sits beside me without asking first. He tries to take my hand, but I pull it away.
“Why are you here, Dex?”
“I just called it off.”
“What?” I ask. Surely I heard him wrong.
“The wedding is off. I—I’m not getting married.”
I am stunned, remembering the first time I heard that people pinch themselves when they think they’re dreaming. I was four years old and took the concept literally, pinching my arm hard, as if maybe I was still two years old and had dreamed up the second half of my life. I remember feeling relieved that my skin hurt.
Dex continues, his voice steady and quiet. He stares at his balled fists in his lap as he talks, only glancing at me between sentences. “The whole time you were gone, I was going crazy. I missed you so much. I missed your face, your scent, even your apartment. I kept replaying everything in my head. All of our time together, all of our talks. Law school. Your birthday. July Fourth. Everything. And I just can’t imagine never being with you again. It’s that simple.”