Something Borrowed (24 page)

going to be the most wonderful mother and that I can't wait to

watch it all. She waves me over to her, as she did with the other

girls, and gives me a big hug. "Thank you, honey," she whispers.

"That was so nice."

Then she opens my present, an off-white cashmere blanket with a

teddy bear border. I spent a fortune on it, but I am glad that I

splurged as I watch Annalise's expression. She gasps as she

unfolds it, presses it to her cheek, and tells me it is perfect, that

she will use it to bring the baby home from the hospital.

"I want to fly back when she's born!" Darcy says. "I better not be

on my honeymoon!"

Whether she does it on purpose or it is simply the way she is

wired, something she can't help, Darcy inserts herself into every

moment. Usually I don't mind, but after spending ages finding the

perfect gift for my second-oldest friend, I wish she would pipe

down and stop overshadowing Annalise and me for a nanosecond.

Always the diplomat, Annalise smiles quickly at Darcy before

returning her focus to me and the blanket. She passes it around as

everyone agrees that it is the ideal receiving blanket, so adorable,

so soft. That's what they're saying, anyway. But something tells

me that they are all thinking, Not a bad choice from a litigator

with questionable maternal instincts.

When I return home from the shower, my mother follows me into

the family room and bombards me with questions. I give her the

highlights, but she is insatiable. She wants to know every detail

about every guest, gift, conversation. I have a flashback to high

school, when I'd come home, exhausted from a day of academic

and social pressure, and she would inquire about Ethan's debateteam

performance or Darcy's cheerleading tryout or what we talked about in English class. If I wasn't forthcoming enough, she

would fill in the gaps, rambling about her part-time job at the

orthodontist's office or what rude thing Bryant Gumble said on

the Today show or how she ran into my third-grade teacher in the

grocery store. My mother is an open-book chatterbox and she

expects everyone to be just like her, particularly her only child.

She finishes her inquisition on the shower and moves on to what

else? the wedding.

"So has Darcy decided on a veil?" She straightens a pile of

Newsweeks on our coffee table, waiting for an in-depth answer.

"Yes."

She moves closer on our couch. "Long?"

"Fingertip."

She claps excitedly. "Oh. That will be beautiful on her."

My mother is, and has always been, a big Darcy fan. It didn't make

sense back in high school given the fact that Darcy never put a

premium on studying and promoted a certain unwholesome boy

craziness. Yet my mother just plain old loved Darcy, perhaps

because Darcy supplied her with the details of our life that she so

craved. Even past the perfunctory parental pleasantries, Darcy

would talk to my mother as a peer. She would come over to my

house after school, lean against our kitchen counter, eating the

Oreos my mother had set out for us while she talked and talked.

Darcy would tell my mom about the boys she liked and the pros

and cons of each. She'd say things like, "His lips are too thin; I bet

he can't kiss," and my mom would become delighted and elicit

more, and Darcy would give it, and I would end up leaving the

room to start my geometry homework. Now what's wrong with

that picture?

I remember once in the seventh grade, I refused to participate in

the annual talent show, though Darcy incessantly heckled me to

be one of her two backup dancers in her outlandish rendition of

"Material Girl." Despite her own shyness, Annalise folded quickly,

but I refused to succumb, didn't care that Darcy's choreography

called for a three-girl act, didn't care that she said I was ruining

her chances of a blue ribbon. Often I would let Darcy talk me into

things, but not that one. I told her not to waste her breath, I had

no intention of ever setting foot on a stage. After Darcy finally

gave up and invited Brit to take my place, my mother lectured me

on becoming more involved in fun activities. "Aren't straight As

enough for you?" I asked her. "I just want you to have fun, honey,"

she said. I lashed out, saying, "You just want me to be her!"

She told me not to be ridiculous, but part of me believed it. I feel

the same way now. "Mom, no offense to you or the second

daughter you never had, but "

"Oh, don't start with that nonsense!" She pats her ash-blond hair

which she has been coloring with the same Clairol hue for the past

twenty years.

"All right," I say. "But truly, I have had it up to here with Darcy's

wedding." I hold my hand four inches above my head and then

raise it even higher.

"That's no attitude for a maid of honor." She purses her lips and

scrapes one index finger across the other.

I shrug.

My mom laughs, the good-natured parent, refusing to take her

only daughter too seriously. "Well, I should have known Darcy

would be a handful as a bride. I'm sure she wants everything to be

perfect"

"Yeah, she deserves it," I say sarcastically.

"Well, she does deserve it," my mom says. "And so do you your

time will come."

"Uh-huh."

"Is that why you're sick of this?" she asks, with the accomplished

air of a woman who has watched far too many talk shows on

confronting your feelings and nurturing your relationships.

"Not exactly," I say.

"Then why, exactly? Is she being a pain in the you-know-what?

What am I asking of course she is! That's Darcy!"

Another fond

chuckle.

"Yeah."

"Yes, what, sweetie? What's on your mind?"

"Yes, she's being a pain in the ass," I say, reaching for the remote

control to unmute the television.

"What is she doing?" my mom persists calmly.

"She's being Darcy," I say. "Everything is about her."

My mom gives me a sympathetic look. "I know, honey."

Then I blurt out that she doesn't deserve Dexter, that he is too

good for her. My mother looks at me circumspectly. Oh shit, I

think. Does she know? Ethan and Hillary are one thing my

mother's quite another. I

was unwilling to tell her which boys I thought were cute in high

school, so this one is certainly off the table. I can't stand the

thought of letting her down. I am thirty, but still very much a

parent-pleaser. And my mother, a woman who finds the keys to

life in cross-stitched blurbs, would never understand this breach

of friendship.

"She's driving him crazy too. I'm sure of it," I say, trying to cover.

"Did Dexter tell you this?"

"No, I haven't discussed this with Dex." Technically this statement

is true. "You can just tell."

"Well, be patient with her. You'll never regret being a good

friend."

I consider this gemstone from my mother. One would be hardpressed

to disagree with it. In fact, it is the way I have lived my entire life. Avoiding regret at any cost. Being good no matter what.

Good student. Good daughter. Good friend. And yet I am struck

by the sudden realization that regret cuts two ways. I might also

regret sacrificing myself, my own desires, for Darcy's sake, in the

name of friendship, in the name of being a good person. Why

should I be the martyr here? I imagine myself alone at thirty-five,

alone at forty. Or even worse, settling down with a dull, watereddown

version of Dex. Dex with a weaker chin and twenty fewer IQ

points. I would be forced to live with "What if" forever.

"Yeah, Mom. I know. Do unto others. Blah blah blah.

I'll be a good

friend to precious Darcy."

My mom looks down at her lap, smoothes her skirt. I hurt her

feelings. I tell myself that I must be nice for one more evening. It

is the least I can do. I don't have a sibling to pick up the slack and

be the good child when I am off my game. I smile and change the

subject. "Where's Dad?"

"He went to the hardware store. Again."

"For what this time?" I ask, indulging her in the "Dad can't get

enough of hardware stores and car dealerships" joke.

"Who knows? Who ever knows?" She shakes her head, happy

again.

I am half asleep, thinking about Dex, when my cell phone rings. I

have it next to my bed, the battery fully charged and the ringer on

high, hoping Dex will call. His number lights up my phone screen.

I press it to my ear.

"Hi, Dex."

"Hi, there," he says, his voice low. "Did I wake you up?"

"Urn, sort of. But that's okay."

He doesn't apologize, which I like.

"God, I miss you," he says. "When are you coming home?"

He knows when I'm coming home, knows that his fiancee has the

identical itinerary. But I don't mind him asking. This question is

for me. He wants me not Darcy back in his time zone.

"Tomorrow afternoon. We land at four."

"I'm coming over to see you," he says.

"Good," I say.

Silence.

I ask him where he is now.

"On the couch."

I picture him in my apartment, on my couch, although I know he

is on their Pottery Barn pullout, the one that Darcy plans to

replace with "a more high-end piece" as soon as they are married.

"Oh," I say. I don't want to hang up, but in my sleepy state, can

think of nothing to say.

"How was the shower?"

"You didn't get a report?"

"Yeah. Darcy called."

I am glad he told me that she called him, wonder if he added this

detail on purpose.

"But I was asking you how the shower was," he says.

"It was great to see Annalise But it was miserable."

"Why's that?"

"Showers are just that way."

Then I tell him that I wish he were next to me. It is the kind of

thing I don't usually say, unless he says something like it first. But

the dark and the distance make me bold.

"You do?" he asks in the tone I use when I want more.

Guys aren't

so different from us, I think, which no matter how many times I

think it will always seem like a remarkable revelation.

"Yeah. I wish you were right here with me."

"In your bed at home, right there with your parents in the next

room?"

I laugh. "They're open-minded."

"Wish I were there, then."

"Although I have a twin bed," I say. "Not a lot of room."

"A twin bed with you is not a bad thing." His voice is low and sexy.

I know we are both thinking the same thing. I can hear him

breathing. I say nothing, just touch myself and think of him. I

want him to do the same. He does. My phone is hot against my

face and, as usual when I'm on my cell, I wonder about the

radiation I could be getting. But tonight, I don't care about a little

radiation.

The next day Darcy and I share a cab home from LaGuardia. I am

dropped off first. I phone Dex the second I hit the pavement,

finding him at the office, working, waiting for my call.

I am ready

for you whenever, I say, happy that I already shaved my legs back

in Indiana. He says he'll be right up as soon as she calls his office.

You know, he says, sounding embarrassed by his newly acquired

tactics. I understand. For a second, I feel bad that my life consists

of these sleazy, adulterous strategies. But only for a second. Then

I tell myself that Dex and I aren't in that camp. That in Hillary's

words, life's not black-and-white. That sometimes the end justifies

the means.

That evening, after Dex and I have been together for several

hours, I realize that our visits are starting to run together in one

delicious blur of talking, touching, dozing, and simply existing

together in a warm, easy silence. Like the perfect beach vacation,

where the routine is so blissfully uneventful that when you return

home and friends ask how your trip was, you can't really recall

what exactly you did to fill up so many hours. That is what being

with Dex is like.

I have stopped counting our lovemaking but know that we are well

past twenty. I wonder how many times he's been with Darcy.

These are the things I think about now. So to say that she has

nothing to do with us is not true. To say that it's not a contest is

ludicrous. She is the measuring stick; I hold myself up against her.

When we are in bed, I wonder, does she do it like this?

Is she

better? Do they follow a script by now or does she keep things

fresh? (My vote, sadly, is fresh. And even more sadly, when your

body is a ten, does it really matter if the sex is stale missionary?) I

think of her afterward, too, when I often feel selfconscious about

my body. I suck in my stomach, arrange my breasts when his back

is turned, and never saunter around my apartment naked. I

wonder how many times we'd have to be together before I would

give up the pretty lingerie routine in favor of my gray sweats or

flannel Gap pajama bottoms that I wear when I am alone. We

probably don't have time for that stage to develop. At least not