“Do mine, Dex,” Darcy says cheerfully, shedding her white shorts and squatting in front of Dex in her black bikini. “Here. Use the coconut oil, please.”
Claire bemoans the lack of SPF in the oil, says we are too old to keep tanning and that Darcy will be sorry when the wrinkles set in. Darcy rolls her eyes and says she doesn’t care about wrinkles, she lives in the moment. I know I will get an earful later, that Darcy will tell me that Claire is just jealous because her fair skin goes straight from white to bright pink. “You’ll regret it when you’re forty,” Claire says, her face shaded by a huge straw hat.
“No I won’t. I’ll just get laser resurfacing.” Darcy adjusts her bikini top and then coats more oil on her calves, using quick, efficient strokes. I have watched her grease up for more than fifteen years now. Every summer her goal was to have a savage tan. Often we would lie out in her backyard with a big tub of Crisco, a bottle of Sun-In, and a garden hose for periodic relief. It was absolute torture. But I suffered through it believing that dark pigmentation was a virtue of sorts. My skin is pale like Claire’s, so every day Darcy would surge further ahead.
Claire remarks that cosmetic surgery won’t cure skin cancer.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Darcy says. “Stay under your damn hat then!”
Claire opens her mouth and then closes it quickly, looking injured. “Sorry. I was just trying to help.”
Darcy shoots her a conciliatory smile. “I know, hon. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Dex looks at me and makes a face, as if to say that he wishes both of them would shut up. It is the first direct communication we have had all day. I allow myself to smile back at him. His face breaks into a glorious grin. He is so handsome that it hurts. Like looking at the sun. He stands for a moment to adjust his towel, which has folded over in the wind. I look at his back and then down at his calves, feeling a surge of remembrance. He was in my bed. Not that I want a repeat performance. But oh, he has a nice body—lean but broad. I am not a body person, but I still appreciate a perfect one. He sits back down just as I look away.
Marcus asks if anybody wants to play Frisbee. I say no, that I am too tired, but what I am thinking is that the last thing I want to do is run around with my soft, white stomach poking out of my tankini. But Hillary is a taker and off they go, the portrait of two well-adjusted beach-goers leaving the rest of us to our trifling.
“Hand me my shirt,” Darcy says to Dex.
“Please?”
“The ‘please’ is a given,” Darcy says.
“Say it,” he says, popping a cinnamon Altoid into his mouth.
Darcy hits him hard in the stomach.
“Ouch,” he says in a monotone, to indicate that it didn’t hurt in the slightest.
She winds up to hit him again, but he grabs her wrist.
“Try to behave. You’re such a child,” he says fondly. His edginess of this morning is gone.
“I am not,” she says, sidling over to his towel. She presses her fingers into his chest, poised for a kiss.
I put on my sunglasses and look away. To say that what I am feeling is not jealousy is a stretch.
That night we all go to a party in Bridgehampton. The house is huge with a beautiful L-shaped pool surrounded by gorgeous landscaping and at least twenty tiki torches. I scan the guests in the backyard, noticing all of the purple, hot pink, and orange dresses and skirts. It seems that every woman read the same “bright colors are in, black is out” article that I read. I followed the advice and bought a lime green sundress that is too vivid and memorable to wear again before August, which means it will cost me about one hundred and fifty dollars per wear. But I am pleased with my choice until I see the same dress, about two sizes smaller, on a slender blonde. She is much taller than I am, so the dress is shorter on her, exposing an endless stretch of bronzed thigh. I make a conscious effort to stay on the opposite side of the pool from her.
I go to the bathroom, and on my way back to find Hillary, I get stuck talking to Hollis and Dewey Malone. Hollis used to work at my firm but quit the day after she got engaged to Dewey. Dewey is unattractive and humorless, but he has a huge trust fund. Hence Hollis’s interest. It was amusing to hear Hollis explain to us that Dewey has such a “big heart,” blah blah blah, trying in vain to disguise her true intentions. I am envious of Hollis’s escape from firm hell, but I would rather be stuck billing than married to Dewey.
“My life is so much better now,” she chirps tonight. “That firm was poison! It was so stifling! I thought I might miss the intellectual stimulation…but I don’t. Now I have time to read the classics and think. It’s great. So liberating.”
“Uh-huh…That’s nice,” I say, taking mental notes to share with Hillary later.
Hollis goes on to tell me about their penthouse on the park and how she’s been working so hard on decorating it and has had to fire three designers for not adhering to her vision. Dewey contributes nothing to the conversation, just crunches his ice and looks bored. Once I catch him staring at Darcy’s butt, packed neatly into a pair of tight magenta Capri pants.
Marcus is suddenly beside me. I introduce him to Dewey and Hollis. Dewey shakes his hand and then continues to mouth-breathe and look distracted. Hollis promptly asks Marcus where he lives and what he does for a living. Apparently his Murray Hill address and his marketing job don’t quite measure up because they find an excuse to move on to more worthy guests.
Marcus raises his eyebrows. “Dewey, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Dooo heee have a stick up his ass or what?”
I laugh.
He looks proud of his joke, pleased to make me laugh.
“So, are you having fun?”
“I guess so. You?”
He shrugs. “The people here kind of take themselves seriously, don’t they?”
“That’s the Hamptons.”
I survey the party. It is a far cry from neighborhood barbecues back in Indiana. Part of me feels satisfied that I have expanded my horizons. But a larger part of me feels uncomfortable every time I come to a party like this one. I am a poser, attempting to mingle with people who consider Indiana to be mere flyover country—necessary terrain to cross on their trips to Aspen or Los Angeles. I watch Darcy making her rounds with Dex at her side. There is no trace of Indy left in her; to watch her you would guess that she grew up on Park Avenue. Her kids will grow up in Manhattan, for sure. When I have kids, if I ever have kids, I intend to move to the suburbs. I look at Marcus, trying to imagine him dragging our son’s Big Wheel out of the street. He looks down at our little boy, whose face is streaked with dried Popsicle, and instructs him to stay on the sidewalk. The boy has Marcus’s short eyebrows pointing up toward each other like an upside-down V.
“C’mon,” Marcus says. “Let’s get another drink.”
“All right,” I say, keeping my eye on the blonde in my dress.
As we walk toward the poolside bar, I think of Indiana again, picturing Annalise and Greg with their neighbors, all spilled out on the freshly cut Midwestern lawn. If somebody wore her same pair of khaki shorts from the Gap, nobody would care.
After the party, we find another party, and then do our usual finale at the Talkhouse, where I dance with Marcus again. Around three o’clock, we all pile into the car and go home. Hillary and Claire head straight for bed while the two couples remain in the den. Darcy and Dex hold hands on one love seat; Marcus and I sit next to each other, but not touching, on the adjacent couch.
“All right, kids. It’s past my bedtime,” Darcy says, standing suddenly. She glances at Dexter. “You coming?”
My eyes meet Dexter’s. We look away simultaneously. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
The three of us talk for a few more minutes until we hear Darcy calling Dex from the top of the stairs. “Come on, Dex! They want to be alone!”
Marcus smirks while I study a freckle on my arm.
Dex clears his throat, coughs. His face is all business.
“Okay then. Guess I’ll head up. Good night.”
“All right, man. See you tomorrow,” Marcus says.
I just mumble good night, too uncomfortable to look up as Dex leaves the room.
“Finally,” Marcus says. “Alone at last.”
I feel an unexpected pang for Dex that is somehow reminiscent of Hunter leaving Joey and me alone in the lounge at Duke, but I push it away and smile at Marcus.
He moves closer and kisses me without asking first this time. It is a nice enough kiss, maybe even nicer than our first one. For some reason, I think of the Brady Bunch episode when Bobby saw skyrockets after kissing Millicent (who, unbeknownst to Bobby, had the mumps). When I first saw that episode I was about Bobby’s age, so that kiss seemed like serious stuff. Someday I will see skyrockets like that, I remember thinking. To date, I have not seen skyrockets. But Marcus comes just as close as anyone before him.
Our kissing escalates to the next level and then I say, “Well, I think we should go to bed.”
“Together?” he asks. I can tell he is joking.
“Very funny,” I answer. “Good night, Marcus.”
I kiss him one more time before going to my room, passing Dex and Darcy’s closed door on the way.
The next morning I check my voice mail. Les has left me three messages. He might as well be a Jehovah’s Witness, for as much attention as he pays to the holidays. He says that he wants “to go over a few things tomorrow, early afternoon.” I know he is vague on purpose, not leaving a specific time or instructions to meet him at the office or call in. This way he can be sure that my Memorial Day is slashed in half. Hillary tells me to ignore him, pretend that I didn’t get the message. Marcus says to jam him with a message back, telling him to “jack off—it’s a national holiday.” But of course I dutifully check the train and jitney schedule and decide I will leave this afternoon to avoid the traffic. Deep down, I know work is only an excuse to go—I have had enough of this whole bizarre dynamic. I like Marcus, but it is exhausting being around a guy who, as Hillary would say, “is potential.” And it is even more exhausting avoiding Dex. I avoid him when he is alone, avoid him when he is with Darcy. Avoid dwelling on him and the Incident.
“I really need to get back,” I sigh, as if it is the last thing I want to do.
“You can’t leave!” Darcy says.
“I have to.”
As she sulks I want to point out that ninety percent of the time we are in the Hamptons, she is completely distracted, in social-butterfly mode. But I just say again that I have to.
“You’re such a buzz kill.”
“She can’t help having to work, Darcy,” Dex says. Maybe he says it because she often calls him a buzz kill too. Then again, maybe he just wants me to leave for the same reasons I want to go.
After lunch I pack up my things and go into the den, where everyone is lazing around, watching television.
“Can someone give me a lift to the jitney?” I ask, expecting Darcy, Hillary, or Marcus to volunteer.
But Dex reacts first. “I’ll take you,” he says. “I want to go to the store anyway.”
I say good-bye to everyone, and Marcus squeezes my shoulder and says he’ll give me a call next week.
Then Dex and I are off. Alone for four miles.
“Did you have a nice weekend?” he asks me as we are backing out of the driveway. Gone is any trace of the banter that surfaced right after the Incident. And he, like Darcy, has stopped inquiring about Marcus, perhaps because it is fairly evident that we have become some kind of item.
“Yeah, it was nice,” I say. “Did you?”
“Sure,” he says. “Very nice.”
After a brief silence, we talk about work and mutual friends from law school, stuff we talked about before the Incident. Things seem normal again, or as normal as they can be after a mistake like ours.
We arrive at the jitney stop early. Dex pulls into the parking lot, turns in his seat, and studies me with his green eyes in a way that makes me look away. He asks what I am doing on Tuesday night.
I think I know what he’s asking, but am not sure, so I babble. “Work. The usual. I have a deposition on Friday and haven’t even started preparing for it. The only thing I have on my outline is ‘Can you spell your last name for the court reporter?’ and ‘Are you on any medications that might impede your ability to answer questions at this deposition?’” I laugh nervously.
His face stays serious. He clearly has no interest in my deposition. “Look, I want to see you, Rachel. I’m coming over at eight. On Tuesday.”
And the way he says it—as a statement rather than a question—makes my stomach hurt. It isn’t really the stomach pain I have before a blind date. It isn’t the nervousness before a final exam. It isn’t the “I’m going to get busted for doing something” feeling. And it isn’t the dizzy sensation that accompanies a crush on a guy when he just acknowledged your presence with a smile or casual hello. It is something else. It is a familiar ache, but I can’t quite place it.
My smile fades to match his serious face. I would like to say that his request surprised me, caught me off guard, but I think part of me expected this, even hoped for it, when Dex offered to drive me. I don’t ask why he wants to see me or what he wants to talk about. I don’t say that I have to work or that it’s not a good idea. I just nod. “Okay.”
I tell myself that the only reason I agree to see him is that we have to finish sorting out what happened between us. And therefore, I am not committing a further wrong against Darcy; I’m simply trying to fix the damage already done. And I tell myself that if I do, in fact, actually want to see Dex for other reasons, it’s only because I miss my friend. I think back to my birthday, our time in 7B before we hooked up, remembering how much I enjoyed his solo company, how much I enjoyed Dex removed from Darcy’s demands. I miss his friendship. I only want to talk to him. That is all.
The bus arrives and people start to file onto it. I slide out of the car without another word between us.
As I settle down in a window seat behind a perky blonde talking way too loudly on her cell phone, I suddenly know what it is in my stomach. It is the same way I felt after sex with Nate in those final days before he dumped me for the tree-hugging guitar player. It is a mixture of genuine emotion for another person and fear. Fear of losing something. I know at this moment that by allowing Dex to come over, I am risking something. Risking friendship, risking my heart.
The girl keeps talking, overusing the words “incredible” and “amazing” to describe her “woefully abbreviated” weekend. She reports that she has a “vicious migraine” from “bingeing big time” at the “fab party.” I want to tell her that if she takes her volume down a notch, her headache might subside. I close my eyes, hoping that her phone battery is low. But I know that even if she stops her high-pitched chatter, there is no way I am going to be able to sleep with this feeling growing inside me. It is good and bad at the same time, like drinking too much Starbucks coffee. It is both exciting and scary, like waiting for a wave to crash over your head.
Something is coming, and I am doing nothing to stop it.
It is Tuesday night, twenty minutes before eight. I am home. I have not heard from Dex all day so I assume we are still on. I floss and brush my teeth. I light a candle in the kitchen in case there is a lingering aroma of the Thai food I ordered the evening before for my solo Memorial Day dinner. I change out of my suit, put on black lacy underwear—even though I know, know, know that nothing is going to happen—jeans, and a T-shirt. I apply a touch of blush and some lip gloss. I look casual and comfortable, the opposite of how I feel.
At exactly eight, Eddie, who is subbing for José, rings my buzzer. “You have company,” he bellows.
“Thanks, Eddie. Send him up.”
Seconds later Dex appears in my doorway in a dark suit with faint gray pinstripes, a blue shirt, and a red tie.
“Your doorman was smirking at me,” he says, as he steps into my apartment and tentatively
looks around as if this were his first visit.
“Impossible,” I say. “That’s in your head.”
“It’s not in my head. I know a smirk when I see one.”
“That’s not José. Wrong doorman. Eddie’s on tonight. You have a guilty conscience.”
“I told you already. I don’t feel that guilty about what we did.” He looks steadily into my eyes.
I feel myself being sucked into his gaze, losing my resolve to be a good person, a good friend. I look away nervously, ask if he wants something to drink. He says a glass of water would be fine. No ice. I am out of bottled water so I run the tap until the water comes out cool. I fill a glass for each of us and join him on my couch.
He takes several big gulps and then puts his glass down on a coaster on my coffee table. I sip from my glass. I can feel him staring at me, but I don’t look back. I keep my eyes straight ahead, where my bed is situated—the scene of the Incident. I need to get a proper one-bedroom or at least a screen to separate my sleeping alcove from the rest of the apartment.
“Rachel,” he says. “Look at me.”
I glance at him and then down at my coffee table.
He puts his hand on my chin and turns my face toward his.
I feel myself blush but don’t move away. “What?” I release a nervous laugh. He doesn’t change expression.
“Rachel.”
“What?”
“We have a problem.”
“We do?”
“A major problem.”
He leans forward, his left arm draped along the back of the sofa. He kisses me softly and then more urgently. I taste cinnamon. I think of the tin of cinnamon Altoids that he had with him all weekend. I kiss him back.
And if I thought Marcus was a good kisser, or Nate before him, or anyone else for that matter, I thought wrong. In comparison, everyone else was merely competent. This kiss from Dex makes the room spin. And this time, it’s not from booze. This kiss is like the kiss I have read about a million times, seen in the movies. The one I wasn’t sure existed in real life. I have never felt this way before. Fireworks and all. Just like Bobby Brady and Millicent.