Something Borrowed (31 page)

"But I wanted to talk about this weekend," he says.

"What about it?" I ask, avoiding his gaze as I button my shirt.

"Well, it's just that I'm really sorry about this bachelorette party

and everything "

I interrupt him. "I know, Dex."

"Something has to be done soon. I just haven't had a free moment.

I haven't had a chance But I want you to know that I think about

it and you all the time. I mean, all the time" His expression is

sincere, tortured. He waits for me to speak.

This is my opening. Words form in my head; they are right on my

tongue, but I say none of them, reasoning that this is not the

moment to delve. We don't have enough time for a real conversation. I reassure myself that I'm not a coward, I'm just

being patient. I want to wait for the right moment to discuss the

destruction of my best friend. So I give him and myself an out. "I

know, Dex," I say again. "Let's talk next week, okay?"

He nods somberly and hugs me hard.

After he leaves, I call Claire and tell her that I got stuck on a work

call but will be right over. I finish dressing, down my Snapple, and

put my egg-salad sandwich in the refrigerator. I walk to the door

as I eye the folded note. I can't help myself. I go back, unfold it,

read it:

DARCY,

JUST WANTED YOU TO HAVE A LITTLE

SOMETHING FROM

ME BEFORE

YOUR BIG NIGHT OUT. I HOPE YOU HAVE A

GREAT TIME

WITH YOUR

FRIENDS.

LOVE, DEXTER

Why did he have to insert the word "love"? I comfort myself by

thinking that he didn't just make love to her, and we will talk next

week, still within Hillary's deadline. Then I scurry off to meet

Claire, to help her prepare for Darcy's big weekend.

The whole situation is completely out of control, the stuff that

happens to other people. Not to people like me.

The shower/bachelorette party is agony from start to finish, for

obvious reasons, and also because I have nothing in common with

Darcy's PR friends, all of whom are materialistic, shallow, bitchy

egomaniacs. Claire is the best of the lot, which is scary.

I tell

myself to smile and suck it up. It is only one evening.

We meet at Claire's first to give Darcy her lingerie, an arsenal of

black lace and red silk that I simply cannot compete against. If

Darcy decides to wear any of this stuff before the wedding particularly a La

Perla garter with fishnet stockings I am dead. Unless she only

debuts my gift, a long ivory nightgown with a high neckline,

something that Caroline Ingalls might have worn on Little House

on the Prairie. It screams sweet and wholesome, in contrast to the

other sultry, skimpy gifts that scream, "Bend me over a chair and

bust out the whipped cream." Darcy pretends to like my gift, as I

catch a knowing glance between Claire and Jocelyn, an Uma

Thurman look-alike. For one paranoid second, I believe that

Claire suspects the truth after our chance meeting yesterday and

has shared her suspicions with Jocelyn. But then I just chalk it up

to this sentiment: Darcy's dowdy friend Rachel strikes again. How

can she be the maid of honor when she doesn't even know how to

give a proper piece of lingerie?

After the shower segment of the evening, we cab it to Churrascaria

Plataforma, an all-you-can-eat Brazilian rotisserie in the Theater

District, where waiters bring you endless servings of skewered

meat. It is an amusing choice for a bunch of paper-thin women,

half of whom are vegetarians and subsist on celery and cigarettes.

Our group parades proudly into the restaurant, fetching plenty of

stares from a predominantly male patronage. After a painful

round of overpriced cocktails (put on my credit card) we are

seated at a long table in the center of the restaurant where the PR

girls continue to work the room, pretending to be oblivious to the

attention they are garnering from all angles.

I watch a nearby table of women in conservative, Ann Taylor attire

eye our group with a strange mix of envy and condescension. I

make a bet with myself that before the evening is over, the Ann

Taylor women will complain to their waiter that our table is being

too loud. Our waiter will give us a saccharine suggestion that we

bring the volume down just a tad. Then our table will get all huffy

and declare the Ann Taylor women a bunch of fat losers. / am

seated at the wrong table, I think, as Claire and I flank Darcy upon

her command. She is still wearing a little veil constructed out of

the ribbons and bows from her gifts, happy to be conspicuous, the

hottest girl at a table full of gorgeous women. Except for me, that

is. I pretend to care about the flimsy conversation swirling about

me as I sip my sangria and smile, smile.

After dinner, we make our way to Float, a Midtown dance club

complete with velvet ropes and self-important bouncers. Of

course we are on a VIP list compliments of Claire and are able to

power our way past the long line of nobodies (Darcy's description). The evening follows the stale, silly script for the

typical twenty-something bachelorette party. Which would be

okay, I guess, except for the fact that most of us are no longer

twenty-somethings. We are too old for the shrieking and the shots

and the wild dancing with any guy self-confident (or selfdestructive)

enough to penetrate our group of nine women. And Darcy is too old for the scavenger list that Claire has prepared:

find red-haired boy to buy her a sex-on-the-beach, dance with a

man over fifty (imagine this species who still frequents dance

clubs), kiss a guy with a tattoo or body piercing.

The whole event is overplayed and unsophisticated, but Darcy

shines. She is on the dance floor, glistening, her hair curling

slightly from perspiration. Her tanned, flat stomach shows

between her low-slung pants and halter top. Her cheeks are rosy,

dewy. Everyone wants to talk to the bride-to-be. Single girls ask

wistfully what her dress looks like and more than one guy tells her

she should reconsider the marriage, or at the very least, have one

final fling. I dance on the outskirts of the group, biding my time.

When the night is finally over, I am exhausted, sober, and five

hundred bucks poorer. We file out of the club as Darcy turns to

me and says that she wants to sleep over at my place, just the two

of us, like old times. She is so thrilled with the idea that I cannot

refuse. I smile. She whispers in my ear that she wants to shake

Claire, that it won't be the same if she comes along. It reminds me

of high school and how Darcy would decide who she wanted to

include and exclude. Annalise and I seldom had a say and often

could not figure out why someone failed to make the cut.

We hail a cab as Darcy thanks Claire, tells her the evening was a

blast, and says to me loudly, with a nudge, "Why don't we share a

cab back uptown? I'll drop you off first."

I say sure, and we head up to my apartment.

Jose is on duty. He is happy to see Darcy, who always flirts with

him. "Where you been, girl?" he asks. "You don't visit me no

more."

"Planning my wedding," she says in her beguiling way.

She points

to her now-crumpled veil that she is clutching like a precious

souvenir.

"Aww. Say it ain't so! You gettin' maah-ried?"

I clench my teeth and hit the up button on the elevator.

"Yeah," she says, cocking her head to the side. "Why, do you think

I shouldn't?"

Jose laughs, showing all his teeth. "Hell, no. Don't do it!" Even my

doorman wants her. "Blow that guy off," he says.

Clearly he hasn't put the pieces of this puzzle together.

Darcy takes his hand in hers and twirls herself around.

She

finishes the move with a hip-to-hip bump.

"C'mon, Darce," I say, already in the elevator, holding the dooropen

button with my thumb. "I'm tired."

She twirls one last time and then joins me in the elevator.

On the ride up, she waves and blows kisses into the security

camera, just in case Jose is watching.

When we get into my apartment, I immediately turn down the

volume on my answering machine and switch off my cell phone in

case Dex calls. Then I change into shorts and a T-shirt and give

Darcy clothes to wear.

"Can I have your Naperville High shirt instead? So it will feel like

old times."

I tell her that it is in the wash, and she will have to make do with

my "1989 Indy 500" T-shirt. She says it is good enough, as it

reminds her of home too.

I brush my teeth, floss, and wash my face as she sits on the edge of

my tub and talks to me about the party, how much fun it was. We

trade places. Darcy washes her face and then asks if she can use

my toothbrush. I say yes even though I think it's disgusting to

share with anyone. Even Dex. Okay, maybe not Dex, but anyone

else. Through a mouthful of toothpaste, she remarks that she is

not drunk, or even very buzzed, which is surprising considering

the amount of alcohol we consumed. I tell her it must be all the

meat we ate.

She spits into the sink. "Ugh. Don't remind me. I probably gained

five pounds tonight."

"No way. Think of how much you burned off dancing and

sweating."

"Good point!" She rinses her mouth, splashing water everywhere,

before she leaves the bathroom.

"Are you all ready for bed?" I ask, wiping up her mess with a

towel.

She turns and watches me, unapologetic. "No. I want to stay up

and talk."

"Can we at least get in bed and talk?"

"If we keep the light on. Otherwise you'll fall asleep."

"All right," I say.

We get in bed. Darcy is closer to the window, on Dexter's side of

the bed. Thank goodness I changed my sheets this morning.

We are facing each other, our bent knees touching.

"What should we discuss first?" she asks.

"You choose."

I brace myself for wedding talk, but instead she starts a long

gossip session about the girls at the parry, what everyone wore,

Tracy's new short haircut, Jocelyn's struggle with bulimia, Claire's

incessant name-dropping.

We talk about Hillary not showing up for her party. Of course,

Darcy is red-hot mad about that. "Even if she is in love, she should

have blown off Julian for one night."

Of course, I can't tell her that the real reason for Hillary's boycott

has nothing to do with a new boyfriend.

Then we are on to Ethan. She wants to know if he's gay. She is

always speculating about this, proffering flimsy bits of evidence:

he played four square with the girls in grade school, he took home

ec in high school instead of industrial arts, he has a lot of women

friends, he dresses well, and he hasn't dated anyone since Brandi.

I tell her no, that I am almost completely certain that he's not gay.

"How do you know?"

"I just don't think he is."

"There's nothing wrong with it if he is," Darcy says.

"I know that, Darce. I just don't think he is gay."

"Bisexual?"

"No."

"So you really don't think he's ever made out with another guy?"

"No!" I say.

"I have trouble picturing Ethan touching some guy's penis too."

"Enough," I say.

"Okay. Fine. What is your latest analysis on Marcus?"

"He's growing on me," I say, for added insurance just in case she

has the slightest intuition about my feelings for Dex.

"He is? Since when?"

"I kissed him on Saturday night," I say, and instantly regret it. She

will tell Dex.

"You did? I thought you went out with Hillary and Julian on

Saturday night."

"I did. But I met up with Marcus afterward for a few drinks. It

was no big deal, really."

"Did you go back to his place?"

"No. Nothing like that."

"So where did you kiss him?"

"At Aubette."

"And that was it? You only kissed?"

"Yeah. What do you think, we had sex at Aubette?

Jeez."

"Well, this is noteworthy I thought things had sort of tapered off

with you two. So can you see yourself marrying him?"

I laugh. This is classic Darcy taking a little bit of information and

running like crazy with it.

"Why are you laughing? Is he not marriage material?"

"I don't know. Maybe Now can we please turn out the light? My

eyes hurt."

She says okay, but gives me a look of warning to say it's not yet

time for sleep.

I turn off my bedside lamp, and as soon as we are in the dark, she

brings up Dex and his note. She had been fairly dismissive of it

when I gave it to her at the start of her party, but now she calls

him thoughtful.

"Hmm-mmm," I say.

A long silence follows. Then she says, "Things have been sort of

weird with us lately."

My pulse quickens. "Really?"

"We haven't had sex in a long time."

"How long?" I ask, crossing my fingers under the sheets.

She tells me the answer I want. Since before the Fourth.

"Really?" My palms are sweaty.

"Yeah. Is that a bad sign?"

"I don't know How often did you have sex before?" I ask,