Something Borrowed (16 page)

But that tactic will not be possible this afternoon. And I'm afraid

that spending time with her will force me to end things with Dex,

something I desperately don't want to do.

A moment later, Darcy barges in carrying her big black Kate

Spade bag, the one she uses for heavy errand-running, specifically

the wedding variety. Sure enough, I see her familiar orange folder

poking out of the top of the bag, stuffed with tear-outs from bridal

magazines. My stomach drops. I had just about prepared myself

for Darcy but not for the wedding.

She gives me the two-cheek Euro kiss hello as I smile, try to act

natural. She launches into a tale about Claire's blind date from the

night before with a surgeon named Skip. She says it did not go

well, that Skip wasn't tall enough for Claire and failed to ask if she

wanted dessert, thus setting off her cheapskate radar. I am

thinking that perhaps the only radar that had gone off was Skip's

"tiresome snob" radar. Maybe he just wanted to go home and get

away from her. I don't offer this suggestion, however, as Darcy

doesn't like it when I criticize Claire unless she does so first.

"She is just way too picky," Darcy says as we are led to our booth.

"It's like she looks for things not to like, you know?"

"It's okay to be picky," I say. "But she has a pretty screwed-up set

of criteria."

"How do you figure?"

"She can be a little shallow."

Darcy gives me a blank stare.

"I'm just saying she cares too much about money, appearances,

and how connected the guy is. She's just narrowing her pool a

bit and her chances of finding someone."

"I don't think she's that picky," Darcy says. "She'd have gone out

with Marcus and he's not well connected. He's from some dumpy

town in Wyoming. And his hair is sort of thinning."

"Montana," I say, marveling at how superficial Darcy sounds. I

guess she's been like this since her arrival to Manhattan, maybe

even our whole lives, but sometimes when you know someone

well, you don't see them as they really are. So I honestly think I've

managed to ignore this fundamental part of her personality,

perhaps not wanting to see my closest friend in this light. But ever

since my conversation with Ethan, her pushy, shallow tendencies

seem magnified, impossible to overlook.

"Montana, Wyoming. Whatever," she says, waving her hand in the

air as if she herself doesn't hail from the Midwest. It bothers me

the way Darcy downplays our roots, even occasionally bagging on

Indiana, calling it backward and ugly.

"And I like his hair," I say.

She smirks. "I see you're defending him. Interesting."

I ignore her.

"Have you heard from him lately?"

"A few times. E-mails mostly."

"Any calls?"

"A few."

"Have you seen him?"

"Not yet."

"Damn, Rachel. Don't lose momentum." She removes her gum

and wraps it in a napkin. "I mean, don't blow this one.

You're not

going to do better."

I study my menu and feel anger and indignation swell inside of

me. What a rude thing to say! Not that I think there is anything

wrong with Marcus, but why can't I do better? What is that

supposed to mean, anyway? For our entire friendship, it has been

silently understood that Darcy is the pretty one, the lucky one, the

charmed one. But an implicit understanding is one thing. To say it

just like that you can't do better is quite another. Her nerve is

truly breathtaking. I formulate possible retorts, but then swallow

them. She doesn't know how bitchy her remark is; it only springs

from her innate thoughtlessness. And besides, I really have no

right to be mad at her, considering.

I look up from my menu and glance at Darcy, worried that she will

be able to see everything on my face. But she is oblivious. My

mom always says that I wear my emotions on my sleeve, but

unless Darcy wants to borrow the outfit, she doesn't see a thing.

Our waiter comes by and takes our orders without a notepad,

something that always impresses me. Darcy asks for dry toast and

a cappuccino, and I order a Greek omelet, substituting cheddar

cheese for feta, and fries. Let her be the thin one.

Darcy whips out her orange folder and starts to tick through

various lists. "Okay. We have so much more to do than I thought.

My mom called last night and was all 'Have you done this? Have

you done that?' and I started freaking out."

I tell her that we have plenty of time. I am wishing we had more.

"It's, like, three months away, Rach. It's going to be here before we

know it."

My stomach drops as I wonder how many more times I will see

Dexter in the three months. At what point will we stop?

It should

be sooner rather than later. It should be now.

I watch Darcy as she continues to go through her folder, making

little notes in the margins until the waiter brings our food. I check

the inside of my omelet cheddar cheese. He got it right.

I begin to

eat as Darcy yaps about her tiara.

I nod, only half listening, still feeling stung by her rude words.

"Are you listening to me?" she finally asks. Yes.

"Well then, what did I just say?"

"You said you had no idea where to find a tiara."

She takes a bite of toast, still looking doubtful. "Okay.

So you did

hear me."

"Told ya," I say, shaking salt onto my fries.

"Do you know where to get one?"

"Well, we saw some at Vera Wang, in that glass case on the first

floor, didn't we? And I'm pretty sure Bergdorf has them."

I think back to the early days of Darcy's engagement, when my

heart had been at least somewhat in it. Although I was envious

that her life was coming together so neatly, I was genuinely happy

for her and was a diligent maid of honor. I recall our long search

for her gown. We must have seen every dress in New York. We

made the trek to Kleinfeld in Brooklyn. We did the department

stores and the little boutiques in the Village. We hit the big

designers on Madison Avenue Vera Wang, Carolina Herrera,

Yumi Katsura, Amsale.

But Darcy never got that feeling that you're supposed to get, that

feeling where you are overcome with emotion and start weeping

all over the dressing room. I finally targeted the problem. It was

the same problem that Darcy has trying on bathing suits. She

looked stunning in everything. The body-hugging sheaths showed

off her slender hips and height. The big princess ball gowns

emphasized her minuscule waist. The more dresses she tried on,

the more confused we became. So finally, at the end of one long,

weary Saturday, when we arrived at our last appointment, at

Wearkstatt in Soho, I decided that this would be our final stop.

The fresh-faced girl, who was not yet jaded by life and love, asked

Darcy what she envisioned for her special day. Darcy shrugged

helplessly and looked at me to answer.

"She's having a city wedding," I started.

"I just love Manhattan weddings."

"Right. And it's in early September. So we're counting on warm

weather And I think Darcy prefers simple gowns without too

many frills."

"But not too boring," Darcy chimed in.

"Right. Nothing too plain-Jane," I said. God forbid.

The girl pressed a finger to her temple, scurried off, and returned

with four virtually indistinguishable A-lines. And that's when I

made a decision that I was going to pick one of the dresses to be

the one. When Darcy tried on the second dress, a silk satin A-line

in soft white with a dropped waist and beading on the bodice, I

gasped. "Oh, Darcy. It's gorgeous on you," I said. (It was, of

course.) "This is it!"

"Do you think?" Her voice quivered. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," I said. "You need to buy this one."

Moments later, we were placing an order for the dress, talking

about fittings. Darcy and I had been friends forever, but I think it

was the first time that I realized the influence I have over her. I

picked her wedding dress, the most important garment that she

will ever wear.

"So you won't mind running some errands with me today?" she

asks me now. "The only thing I really want to accomplish is shoes.

I need my shoes for the next fitting. I figure we'll look at Stuart

Weitzman and then zip up to Barney's. You can come with me,

can't you?"

I plow a forkful of my omelet through ketchup. "Sure But I do

have to go in to work today," I lie.

"You always have to work! I don't know who has it worse you or

Dex," she says. "He's been working on this big project lately. He's

never home."

I keep my eyes down, searching my plate for the best remaining

fry. "Really?" I say, thinking of the recent nights Dex and I have

stayed at work late, talking on the phone. "That sucks."

"Tell me about it. He's never available to help with this wedding.

It's really starting to piss me off."

After lunch and a lot more wedding conversation, we walk over to

Madison, turning left toward Stuart Weitzman. As we enter the

store, Darcy admires a dozen sandals, telling me that the cut of

the shoes is perfect for her narrow, small-heeled feet.

We finally

make our way to the satin wedding shoes in the back.

She

scrutinizes each one, choosing four pairs to try on. I watch as she

prances around the store, runway style, before settling on the pair

with the highest heels. I almost ask her if she is sure they are

comfortable, but stop myself. The sooner she makes a decision,

the sooner I will be dismissed for the day.

But Darcy isn't finished with me. "While we're over here, can we

go to Elizabeth Arden to look at lipsticks?" she asks as she pays for

her shoes.

I reluctantly agree. We walk over to Fifth, while I tolerate her

yammering about waterproof mascara and how I have to remind

her to buy some for the wedding day because there was no way

that she was going to make it through the ceremony without

crying.

"Sure," I say. "I'll remind you."

I tell myself to view these tasks with an objective eye, as detached

as a wedding coordinator who barely knows the bride, rather than

the bride's oldest but most disloyal friend. After all, if I am

especially helpful to Darcy, it might diminish my guilt.

I imagine

Darcy discovering my misdeeds and me saying, "Yes, all of that is

true. You got me. But may I

remind you that I NEVER ONCE ABANDONED MY

MAID OF

HONOR DUTIES!"

"May I help you, ladies?" the woman behind the counter at

Elizabeth Arden asks us.

"Yes. We are looking for a pink lipstick. A vivid yet soft and

innocent bridal pink," Darcy says.

"And you are the bride?"

"I am. Yes." Darcy flashes one of her fake PR smiles.

The woman beams back and makes her decisive recommendations, swiftly pulling out five tubes and setting them

on the counter in front of us. "Here you are. Perfect."

Darcy tells her that I will need a complementary shade, that I am

the maid of honor.

"How nice. Sisters?" The woman smiles. Her big square teeth

remind me of Chiclets.

"No," I say.

"But she's like my sister," Darcy says, simply and sincerely.

I feel low. I picture myself on Ricki Lake, the title of the show "My

Best Friend Tried to Steal My Groom." The audience boos and

hisses as I babble my apologies and excuses. I explain that I didn't

mean to cause any harm, I just couldn't help myself. I used to

wonder how they found people who had committed such acts of

despicable disloyalty (never mind how they got these people to

fess up on national television). Now I was joining the low-life

ranks. Giving Brandi with an i a run for her money.

This has to stop. Right now. Right at this second. I haven't yet

slept with Dex consciously, soberly. So we kissed again? It was

only a kiss. The turning point will be the selection of the bridal

lipstick. Right now. One, two, three, go!

Then I think of Dexter's soft hair and cinnamon lips and his

words I like literally everything about you. I still can't believe that

Dex has those feelings for me. And the fact that I feel the same

way about him is too much to ignore. Maybe it is meant to be.

Words like "fate" and "soul mates" swirl around in my head,

words that made me scoff in my twenties. I note the irony aren't

you supposed to get more cynical with age?

"You like this one?" Darcy turns to me with her full lips in a pout.

"It's nice," I say.

"Is it too bright?"

"I don't think so. No. It's pretty."

"I think it may be too bright. Remember, I'm going to be in white.

It'll make a difference. Remember Kim Frisby's wedding makeup,

how she looked like a total tart? I want to look hot, but sweet too.

You know, like a virgin. But still hot."

I am suddenly and unexpectedly on the verge of tears I just can't

stand the wedding talk another second. "Darce, I really have to get

to work. I'm truly sorry."

Her lower lip protrudes. "C'mon, just a little longer. I can't do this