Something Borrowed (13 page)

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 socialbutterfly

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 Jose, 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 Jose. 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.

We kiss for a long, long time. Not breaking away once.

Not even

shifting positions on my couch even though we are at an

unnatural distance for such an intense kiss. I can't speak for him,

but I know why I don't move. I don't want it to end, don't want the

next awkward stage to come, where we might ask the questions

about what we are doing. I don't want to talk about Darcy, to even

hear her name. She has nothing to do with this moment. Nothing.

This kiss stands on its own. It is removed from time or circumstance or their September wedding. That is what I try to

tell myself. When Dex finally breaks away, it is only to move closer

to me and put his arms around me and whisper into my ear, "I

can't stop thinking about you."

I can't stop either.

But I can control what I'm doing. There is emotion, and then there

is what you do about it. I pull away, but not too far away, and

shake my head.

"What?" he asks gently, his arm partially around me.

"We shouldn't be doing this," I say. It is a watereddown protest,

but at least it is something.

Darcy can be annoying, controlling, and exasperating, but she is

my friend. I am a good friend. A good person. This isn't who I am.

I must stop. I won't know myself if I don't stop.

Yet I don't move away. Instead, I wait to be convinced otherwise,

hoping he will talk me into it. And sure enough: "Yes.

We should,"

he says. Dex's words are sure. No second-guessing, doubts, worry.

He holds my face in his hands and stares intently into my eyes.

"We have to."

There is nothing slick in his words, only sincerity. He is my friend,

the friend I knew and cared for before Darcy ever met him. Why

didn't I recognize my feelings sooner? Why had I put Darcy's

interests ahead of my own? Dex leans in and kisses me again,

softly but with a sense of absolute certainty.

But it's wrong, I silently protest, knowing that I am too late, that I