Something Borrowed

  “Rachel?” Claire bellows into the phone.

  I roll my eyes. “Hello, Claire.”

  “What in the world is going on?” she asks, pretending to be foggy on the exact details. I know that Darcy has put her up to this call. Maybe she is even listening to me now. It is pure, classic Darcy. I think of all the times in high school when she cajoled Annalise and me to undertake such assignments.

  I do not take the bait. I briskly tell Claire that I have to be in court in thirty minutes, and don’t have time to discuss the situation with her.

  “Okay…” Her disappointment at the lack of juice is palpable. “Call me back when you can…”

  Don’t hold your breath.

  “I just feel terrible for both of you. You’ve been friends for too long…” Her voice is dripping with false empathy. She is relishing her new position as Darcy’s best friend. I picture them wearing the “best friend” necklaces. If anyone could bring them back into fashion, it is Darcy and Claire.

  “Uh-huh.” I give nothing away. Claire will be the one worthwhile casualty of my split with Darcy. I don’t have to pretend to like her anymore.

  It is Wednesday night. Three days after the confrontation. Dex and I are curled up in bed when the phone rings. This will be Darcy, I think. I both crave and fear her call, a call that might never come.

  I answer nervously. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Rachel.”

  It is Annalise. She sounds tired, and for a second I think it’s because Darcy has dragged her into our saga. I prepare myself for a tentative, mousy, Annalise-style lecture. Instead I hear a baby unleash a wail in the background.

  “It’s a girl,” Annalise says. “We had a girl!”

  Darcy was right, is my first thought, before I become weepy. I am overcome by the news. My friend is a mother. “Congratulations! When?”

  “Two hours ago. Eight-forty-two. She’s six pounds, four ounces.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Hannah Jane…Jane after you and Darcy.”

  Our friendship with Annalise and the middle name Jane are two of the only things that Darcy and I still share.

  “Annalise, I am so touched,” I say. “You never told me you were considering Jane.”

  “It was a surprise.”

  “Hannah Jane. It’s a beautiful name.”

  “She is beautiful.”

  “Does she look like you?”

  “I don’t know. My mom says so. But I think she has Greg’s nose and feet.”

  “I can’t wait to see her.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “Soon. I promise.”

  For a moment I think that Darcy actually refrained from dragging Annalise into our scandal. But then she says, “Rachel, you and Darcy have to make up. She called me last night. I was going to call you but my water broke right afterward.”

  Leave it to Darcy to induce labor.

  “Whatever happened—it can be fixed, right?” she asks.

  I want to ask her what she knows, what Darcy reported. But obviously I am not going to pull a Darcy. This is not the time to delve into our soap opera. “Right,” I say. “Don’t worry about that…This is much more important. You have a baby!”

  “I have a baby!”

  “You’re somebody’s mother!”

  “I know. It feels so nice.”

  “Did you tell Darcy yet?”

  “Not yet. I’m calling her now…”

  I think to myself that if Darcy discovers that Annalise called me first, she’d be even more enraged. “Yeah, I know you have a lot of calls to make. Tell Greg I said congratulations. And your parents…I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thank you, Rachel.”

  “I love you, Annalise.” I feel the tears welling up.

  “I love you too.”

  I hang up, overcome with emotion that I don’t fully understand. I knew the baby would be here sooner or later. Yet I am still blown away by the reality of what has just happened. Annalise is a mother. She has a daughter. It is a moment that she, Darcy, and I talked about as little girls. Now Darcy is having a baby too, and I won’t even get a phone call from her when it happens. I will hear about it secondhand. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Annalise’s baby makes the rift all the more tragic. Never has good news seemed so bittersweet.

  “Annalise had her baby?” Dex asks, as I get back into bed.

  “Yes. A girl…Hannah Jane,” I say, and then proceed to burst into tears. It is my first hard cry in front of Dex. The kind where your face gets all puffy and ugly and wet, and you can’t breathe through your nose, and you feel the pressure building in your head. I know that I am going to have a migraine in the morning if I don’t stop. But I can’t. I turn away from Dex and sob. Dex keeps his arms tightly wrapped around me and makes consoling sounds, but he doesn’t ask me why, exactly, I am crying. Maybe because he understands. Maybe because he knows that it’s not the time for questions. Whatever his reason, I have never loved him more. I let him kiss me. I kiss him back. We make love for the first time post-Darcy.

  Twenty-Five

  The following day Darcy finally contacts Dex. He calls me straightaway with the update.

  My heart jumps. I haven’t let go of the fear that Darcy will somehow get Dex back, undo her pregnancy, change her mind, rewrite history. “Tell me everything,” I say.

  Dex summarizes their conversation, or rather, Darcy’s demands: he is to get the remainder of his stuff out in seven days—during business hours—or it will be put out with the trash. He must leave the keys. The furniture will stay, except for the table that he “bullied” her into buying, the dresser he “brought into the joke of a union,” and the “ugly lamps” from Dexter’s mother. He must pay her parents back for her gown and the nonrefundable wedding deposits, which include just about everything, in excess of fifty thousand dollars. She will handle return of the wedding gifts. She is keeping the diamond ring he replaced only days before their breakup.

  I wait for him to finish, and then say, “Pretty skewed terms, don’t you think?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You guys should split the wedding costs,” I say. “She’s pregnant with someone else’s child!”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And technically, the ring is yours,” I say. “Under New York law. You weren’t married. She only gets the ring if you’re married.”

  “I don’t care,” he says. “It’s not worth fighting about.”

  “And what about the apartment? It was your apartment first.”

  “I know…but I don’t even want it now. Or the furniture,” he says.

  I am glad that he feels this way. I can’t imagine ever visiting him in Darcy’s old apartment.

  “Where do you think you’ll move?”

  “I’m just going to live with you.”

  “Really?”

  “It was a joke, Rach…We’ll hold off on that for a little while.”

  I laugh. “Oh…yeah. Right.”

  I am a little disappointed, but mostly relieved. I feel as if I could live with Dex immediately, but I want it to work, to be right, and I see no reason to rush things.

  “I called a few places this morning…I found a one-bedroom on East End. I might just hit the bid.”

  Hit the bid. Just as you did with me.

  “How is Darcy going to pay the rent alone?” I ask, more curious than concerned, although there is a part of me that is worried about her well-being, how she will manage, what will happen to her and her baby. I can’t turn off the caring-about-Darcy switch after a lifetime of looking out for her.

  “Maybe Marcus is moving in with her,” Dex says.

  “Do you think?”

  “They are having a baby together.”

  “I guess so. But do you really think they’re going to get married?” I ask.

  “I have no idea. I don’t care,” he says.

  “You haven’t heard from Marcus, have you?”

  “Nop
e…Have you?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think we will.”

  “Are you going to call him?”

  “Maybe someday. Not now.”

  “Hmm,” I say, thinking that maybe I will someday call Darcy too. Although I can’t imagine it happening for a very long time. “So was that it? Did she mention me?”

  “No. I was shocked. Tremendous restraint for her. She must be getting some big-time coaching.”

  “No kidding. Restraint is not Darcy’s style.”

  “But enough about her,” Dex says. “Let’s forget about her for a while.”

  “I will if you will,” I say.

  “So what do you want to do tonight?” Dex asks. “I think I’ll be able to get out of here at a decent hour. What’s your schedule?”

  It is five now, and I have at least four hours of work remaining, but I tell him that I can leave whenever.

  “Should we meet at eight?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Let’s make dinner together at your place. We’ve never done that.”

  “Okay, but…I can’t cook,” I confess.

  “Yeah you can.”

  “No, I really can’t. Truly.”

  “Cooking is easy,” he says. “You just sort of figure it out as you go along.”

  I smile. “I can do that.”

  After all, that is pretty much what I have been doing lately.

  An hour later, I leave my office for home, not caring if I run into Les. I take the elevator down to the lobby, then two escalators down to Grand Central Station. I pause to admire the gorgeous main terminal, so familiar and so associated with work that I somehow miss its beauty on a daily basis. I study the marble staircases at either end of the concourse, the arched windows, the dramatic white columns, and the soaring turquoise ceiling painted with constellations. I watch the people, mostly in business attire, moving in every direction toward trains bound for the suburbs, subways reaching every corner of New York, and a multitude of exits to the busy city streets. I glance at the clock in the center of the terminal, take in its intricate face. Six o’clock exactly. Early.

  I walk slowly toward Grand Central Market, a food hall comprised of individual stalls selling gourmet treats, located on the east end of the concourse. I have often passed through this corridor with Hillary, buying the occasional chocolate truffle to go with our Starbucks coffee. But this evening, I am on a greater mission. I move from stall to stall, filling my arms with delicacies: hard and soft cheeses, freshly baked breads, Sicilian green olives, Italian parsley, fresh oregano, a perfect Vidalia onion, garlic, oils and spices, pasta, red, green, and yellow produce, an expensive chardonnay, and two exquisite, restaurant-perfect pastries. I exit the corridor on Lexington, passing by a makeshift cab line and throngs of harried Midtown commuters. I decide to walk home. My bags are heavy, but I don’t mind. I’m not carrying a briefcase full of law books and cases; I’m carrying dinner for Dex and me.

  When I get back to my apartment, I tell José to let Dex up when he arrives. “No need to buzz for him anymore.”

  He winks and hits the elevator door for me. “Aww. So it’s serious! That’s good stuff.”

  “Good stuff,” I echo, smiling.

  A moment later, I am arranging groceries on my counter—more food than my apartment has ever seen at one time. I put the chardonnay in the refrigerator, play some classical music, and search for the recipe book that my mother gave me at least four Christmases ago, a book I have never before used. I flip through the glossy, pristine pages, finding a salad and pasta recipe that contains my approximate ingredients. Then I find an apron—another virginal gift—and set about peeling, chopping, and sautéing. I glance at the book for guidance, but I do not follow every instruction precisely. I substitute parsley for basil, skip the drained capers. Dinner will not be perfect, but I am learning that perfection isn’t what matters. In fact, it’s the very thing that can destroy you if you let it.

  I change my clothes, selecting a white sundress with pink embroidered flowers. Then I set the table, begin to boil water for our pasta, light candles, and open the bottle of chardonnay, filling two glasses, sipping mine. I glance at my watch. Ten minutes to spare. Ten minutes to sit and reflect on my new life, on how it feels to be Dex’s legitimate, only love. I settle into my couch, close my eyes, inhale deeply. Good smells and beautiful, clear notes fill my apartment. Peace and calm rush over me as I process the lack of any bad feelings: I’m not jealous, I’m not worried, I’m not scared, I’m not lonely.

  Only then do I acknowledge that what I am feeling might actually be true happiness. Even joy. Over the past several days, when I have felt the beginning of this emotion tugging at my heart, it has crossed my mind that the key to happiness should not be found in a man. That an independent, strong woman should feel fulfilled and whole on her own. Those things might be true. And without Dex in my life, I like to think I could have somehow found contentment. But the truth is, I feel freer with Dex than I ever did when I was single. I feel more myself with him than without. Maybe true love does that.

  And I do love Dex. I have loved him from the very beginning, back in law school, when I pretended to myself that he wasn’t my type. I love him for his intelligence, his sensitivity, his courage. I love him wholly and unconditionally and without reservation. I love him enough to take risks. I love him enough to sacrifice a friendship. I love him enough to accept my own happiness and use it, in turn, to make him happy back.

  There is a knock at my door. I stand to open it. I am ready.

  Twenty-Six

  It is Saturday, what would have been Darcy and Dexter’s wedding night. I am with Dex at 7B, the bar where it all began, back on the eve of my thirtieth birthday. We are sitting in our same booth. It was my idea to come back here. I suggested it in a playful way, but in truth I felt a strong need to return and revisit the way I felt before it all began. I want to ask Dex if he feels at all wistful on this night, but instead I tell him a Les story—how he blasted me in the hall for not using jump cites in a draft brief.

  “That guy sounds like a miserable human being…Can’t you work with someone else?”

  “No. I’m his personal slave. He monopolizes my time, and now other partners won’t ask me to work on their matters because Les inevitably pulls rank and leaves them high and dry. I’m trapped.”

  “Do you ever think about changing firms?”

  “Sometimes. I just started revising my résumé today, in fact. Maybe I’ll leave the law altogether, although I have no idea what I would do.”

  “You’d be good at so many things,” Dex says, with a loyal nod.

  I add “supportive” to the growing list of things I love about him.

  I consider telling him about my idea of temporarily moving to London, wondering if he’d come with me. But tonight isn’t the time for that conversation. We have enough going on right below the surface. He has to be thinking about her, thinking, What if? How could he not be?

  “I’m going to play some songs on the jukebox,” I say.

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “No. I’ll be right back.”

  “Pick some good ones, all right?”

  I give him a “have some faith in me” look. I walk over to the jukebox, past a couple smoking in silence. I slip a nappy five into the slot. The machine spits the bill back out at me three times, but I am patient, smoothing out the edges on my thigh before it finally takes. I flip through the songs, considering each one carefully. I choose songs that Dex likes, and songs that remind me of our first summer together. And of course I play “Thunder Road.” I glance over at Dex, who appears to be deep in thought. He suddenly looks over at me and waves, a silly smile on his face. I go sit back down, sliding in beside him. As he drapes his arm around me, a wave of emotion leaves me breathless.

  “Hi there,” he says, in a way that tells me he knows exactly how I’m feeling.

  “Hi,” I say back, in the same tone.

&nbsp
; We are one of those couples I used to watch, thinking to myself that I’d never be on the inside of something so special. I remember reassuring myself that it probably looked nicer than it actually was. I am happy to be wrong about that.

  I smile up at Dex, my gaze resting on a tiny patch in his left eyebrow, a blank space where perhaps three or four hairs should be.

  “What happened there?” I ask, reaching to touch his brow. My fingertips rest lightly on the spot.

  “Oh, that. It’s a scar. I fell playing hockey when I was a kid. Hair never grew back there.”

  I wonder why I never noticed it before and realize that I never knew he played hockey. There is so much that I still don’t know about Dex. But now we have time. Endless time stretches before us. I study his face for other discoveries until he laughs self-consciously. I laugh too, and then our smiles fade away in unison. We drink our Newcastles in easy silence.

  “Dex?” I say, after a long while.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “No,” he says firmly. His breath is warm in my ear. “I’m with you. No.”

  I can tell that it is the truth.

  “You aren’t at all sad tonight?”

  “Not one bit.” He kisses the side of my head. “I’m a lot of things right now. But sad isn’t one of them.”

  “Good,” I say. “I’m glad.”

  “How do you feel? Do you miss her?” he asks.

  I consider his questions. I am mostly happy, but with a soupçon of nostalgia, thinking of all that I have shared with Darcy. Until now, our lives have been so intertwined—she has been my frame of reference for so many events. Beating drums in the bicentennial parade. Tying yellow ribbons around the tree in my backyard during the hostage crisis. Watching the Challenger fall from the sky, the wall come down in Germany, the Soviet Union dissolve. Learning of Princess Diana’s death, of John F. Kennedy Jr.’s fate. Grieving after September 11. All of it was with Darcy by my side. And then there is our personal history. Memories only we share. Things not another soul would ever understand.