Something Borrowed (19 page)

only seen him once since our date and that was just for a quick

weekday lunch at a deli near my office, but we have talked several

times, and one conversation lasted over an hour. The only

apparent reason why date number two has not happened, at least

as far as he knows, is mere circumstance. He's busy, I'm busy.

Work has been crazy. That whole routine. So the door is still wide

open, which I am very glad about. I need to focus more on him.

Feelings for him might emerge once I put Dex behind me. I smile

and say, "Tracy Chapman. It's a good CD. Wanna listen?"

I hand him my headphones as Dex and Darcy walk toward us.

Marcus listens for a few seconds. "That's nice." He gives my

headphones back to me and fishes a Coke out of our cooler. "Want

a sip?" he asks just as Darcy and Dex are standing over us.

I tell him sure, take the can, and wipe the lid with the edge of my

towel after I swallow.

He says with a knowing, goofy look, "I don't mind your germs. If

you catch my drift."

I laugh and shake my head, as if to say, Marcus, you crazy nut,

you.

Marcus winks. I laugh again.

Perfect timing. Dex catches the whole exchange. I do not look at

him. I will not. "Is anybody else getting in?" he asks.

Claire gives him the standard response. "Not yet. I'm not hot

enough."

Marcus says he hates to swim, particularly in freezing water.

"Please make me see how that is fun."

Darcy giggles. "It's not fun. It's torture!"

I say nothing, hit the play button on my Discman.

"What about you, Rachel?" Dex asks, still hovering over me.

I ignore him, pretending that the volume is too high to hear him.

He and Darcy return to their towels on the other side of Claire.

Darcy brushes sand from her feet and ankles, while Dex sits crosslegged,

looking at the ocean. I can see his shoulder and back out of

the corner of my eye. I try not to think about his smooth skin and

how he feels against me. I won't be feeling it again. I tell myself it's

not the end of the world. It is for the best.

Before dinner that night, as I am dressing, Darcy comes to my

room to ask me if I brought an eyelash curler. I tell her no, that I

don't own an eyelash curler. Maybe Hillary does, but she is

showering. She sits on my bed and sighs, her features rearranging

in a dreamy expression.

"I just had the best sex," she says.

I struggle to keep my composure. "Oh, really?" I know I am

opening the door for more sharing, but I don't know what else to

say. My face is on fire. I hope Darcy won't notice.

"Yeah, it was phenomenal. Did you hear us?" It is like Darcy to

share such details. She has always been explicit in her sexual

reports. She will tell you what words were exchanged at the

moment of orgasm. I have always listened, usually laughed,

occasionally even enjoyed her stories. But those days are long

over.

"No. I must have been in the shower," I say.

"Yeah, we were in the shower too." She finger-combs her wet hair,

then shakes her head from side to side. "Wow. Haven't had sex

like that in months."

I think of their wet bodies pressed together and can't decide who I

hate more.

It is late, after two a.m. I have avoided Dex all night, at the house

and then at dinner. Now we are at the Talkhouse. I have just

ordered two beers, one for me and one for Hillary, when Dex finds

me at the bar.

"Hi, Rach," he says.

I am buzzed and brazen. The alcohol has dried up my hurt,

leaving only resentment and anger. They are easier emotions to

manage, more straightforward. "Yes?"

"What's going on?" he asks casually.

"Nothing," I snap, turning to leave.

"Wait a sec. Where are you going?"

"To take Hillary her beer."

"I want to talk to you."

"What about?" I make my voice icy.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I say, wishing I could think of something

pointed and vengeful. I have not had much practice being mean,

but my tone of voice must do the trick because Dex looks hurt.

Not as hurt as I was today on the beach or during Darcy's sex

report. Not hurt enough. I raise my eyebrows, looking at him with

a slight look of disgust, as if to say, Yes? Is there something I can

do for you?

"Are you are you mad at me?" he asks.

I laugh no, it is more of a snort.

"'Are you?" he asks again.

"No, Dex, I'm not mad at you," I say. "I really am not concerned

with you at all. Or what you do with Darcy."

Now he knows that I know. "Rachel" he starts, flustered. Then

he tries to tell me it was her doing, that she initiated it.

"She said it was the best sex of her life," I say as I walk away,

leaving him standing alone at the bar. "Good job.

Congrats."

Even in the fog of my buzz, I know that I have no right to confront

Dex like this. All he did was have sex with his fiancee.

He has

promised me nothing we were not supposed to even discuss

anything until the Fourth of July. No material misrepresentation

has been made. In fact, no misrepresentation has been made at

all, material or otherwise. I am in this situation of my own accord,

have not been duped. But I still hate him.

I scan the crowd, trying to find Hillary. Dex follows me and grabs

my arm right below my elbow. I drop one of the beers.

The bottle

breaks.

"Nice. Look what you did," I say, looking down at the mess.

"I'll get you another one."

"Don't bother."

"Rachel, please I couldn't help that. It was Darcy, I swear."

Hillary suddenly appears beside us. "What's up?"

I am not sure if she heard any of our conversation.

"Nothing," Dex answers quickly. "Rachel's just mad at me for

dropping her beer."

"You can have mine," Hillary says.

"No, take this one," I say, handing her the other beer.

She reluctantly takes it and asks where Darcy is.

"We were just looking for her," I say.

I glance at Dex. He is trying to cover up in front of Hillary, but he

is not doing the best job of it. His eyes are wide with worry, his

mouth stretched into an uneasy smile. I bet he didn't have that

look on his face in the shower.

It is over, I say in my head, with the dramatic flourish of a woman

wronged. Then I turn around to find Marcus. Sweet Marcus, who

offered me his Coke on the beach and is not engaged to anyone.

Ahh. The bunny-in-the-pot routine," Ethan says when I give him

the update on Monday morning.

"It was not a bunny-in-the-pot routine!" I protest, remembering

that I saw Fatal Attraction with Darcy and Ethan.

Darcy had

major issues with the whole premise. She kept saying how

unrealistic it was no man would cheat on his wife with a muchless-attractive woman. I guess I am disproving her theory.

"Oh no?" Ethan deadpans. "Well, perhaps a variation on that

theme. More subtle though. You just exerted slight pressure and

let him know that it is unacceptable to continue relations with his

fiancee."

"Well, anyway it's over," I say, realizing that those two words

lump me right in with a hoard of naive women who say it's over

while praying it's not, looking for any shred of hope, insisting that

they only want closure when what they really want is that one last

conversation disguised as seeking closure while they work to keep

the door open for more. And the pathetic truth is I do want more.

I wish I could undo the confrontation at the Talkhouse.

I should

not have said a word to Dex. I feel an ache of worry that he is

going to stop seeing me altogether. He will probably decide that

it's not worth it, the situation is just way too complicated.

"It's over, huh?" Ethan asks dubiously.

"Yes."

"Bravo," Ethan says in his finest English accent. "Way to take a

stand."

"So, anyway," I say, as if it is easy for me to transition away from

Dex.

"Yeah. So anyway. Are you coming to London the week of the

Fourth?" he asks.

I had mentioned it as a possibility in a recent e-mail, before Dex

and I had established our date. Now I don't want to leave. Just in

case things aren't completely over. "Um, I doubt it. I already

committed to the Hamptons," I say.

"Won't Dex be there?"

"Yes, but I still want to get my money's worth out of the share."

"Right. Uh-huh."

"Don't say it like that."

"Okay," he says, changing his tone. "But are you ever going to visit

me? You blew me off after your bar exam too. Because of that

Nate guy."

"I willVisit. I promise. Maybe in September."

"Okay But the Fourth would have been fun."

"It's not even a holiday there," I say.

"Yeah. It's funny the way the Brits don't celebrate our independence from them But it's a holiday in my heart, Rachel."

I laugh and tell him that I'll look into flights for the fall.

"All right. I'll e-mail you my free weekends all my deets."

He knows I hate the word "deets." Just as I hate people who make

a "rez" for dinner. Or ask you to get back to them

"ASAP." And

Ethan's favorite, designed especially to annoy me

"YOYO," i.e.,

"you're on your own."

I smile. "Sounds fab."

"Super then."

My phone rings as soon as I hang up with Ethan. Les's name

shows up on my screen. I consider not picking up but have

learned that avoidance techniques don't work well at a law firm. It

only makes partners more irritable when you finally do talk.

"How did you serve the IXP papers?" he barks into the phone as

soon as I say hello. Les always skips the pleasantries.

"What do you mean?"

"Your mode of service. By mail? By hand?"

I nailed it to his cottage door, jackass, I think, remembering the

antiquated mode of service tested by the New York bar.

"By mail," I say, glancing down at my well-worn copy of the New

York Rules of Civil Procedure.

"Great. Fucking great," he says in his normal snide tone.

"What?"

"What? What?" he shouts into the phone. I pull the receiver away

from my ear but now I hear his voice in stereo, filling the hall.

"You fucked up! That's what! The papers needed to go by hand!

Didn't you bother to read the Court's order?"

I scan the letter from the judge. Damn, he is right.

"You're right," I say solemnly. He hates excuses and I have none

anyway. "I screwed up."

"What are you, a goddamn first-year associate?"

I stare at my desk. He knows full well that I'm a fifth-year.

"I mean, Christ, Rachel, this is malpractice," he growls.

"You're

gonna get this firm sued and yourself fired if you don't get your

head out of your ass."

"I'm sorry," I say, just as I remember that he hates you that much

more when you're sorry.

"Don't be sorry! Fix the shit!" He hangs up on me. I don't believe

Les has ever finished a conversation with a proper good-bye, even

when he's in a decent mood.

No, I'm not a first-year, asshole. Thus your tirade has no effect. Go

ahead, fire me. Who cares? I think back to when I first started

working at the firm. A partner would raise his eyebrows, and it

would send me back to my office with tears welling, panic

mounting over my job security or at the very least my yearly

evaluation. Over the years my skin has thickened somewhat, and

at this moment, I don't care at all. I have bigger issues than this

firm and my career as a lawyer. No, scratch the word

"career."

Careers are for people who wish to advance. I only want to

survive, draw a paycheck. This is merely a job. I can take or leave

this place. I start to imagine quitting and following my yet-to-bedetermined

passion. I could tell myself that although I lacked a meaningful, intense relationship, I had my work.

I call opposing counsel, a reasonable midfortyish associate with a

minor speech impediment who must have been passed over for

partner at his firm. I tell him that our papers were served

incorrectly, that I would re-serve them by hand but they would

arrive a day late. He interrupts me with a pleasant chuckle and

says with a lisp that it is not a problem, that of course he wouldn't

challenge service. I bet he hates his job as much as I do. If he liked

it, he'd be all over this lapse like white on rice. Les would have a

field day if the other side served a day late.

I send Les an e-mail message, one brief sentence:

"Opposing

counsel says they're fine with receiving papers by hand today."

That will show him. I can be as curt and surly as the next guy.

Around one-thirty, after I have printed a new set of papers and

turned them over to our courier for delivery, Hillary comes to my

office and asks if I have lunch plans.

"No plans. You want to go?"

"Yeah. Can we go somewhere nice? Get a good meal?

Steak or

Italian?"

I smile and nod, retrieving my purse from under my desk. Hillary

could eat a big lunch every day, but I get too sleepy in the

afternoon. Once, after ordering a hot open-face turkey sandwich