Something Borrowed (35 page)

It is in my best interest for him to know. If he has not already

decided to call off his wedding, having this piece of knowledge

likely will sway him against marrying Darcy. Second, I love

Dexter, which means that I should make decisions with his best

interest at heart. Thus, I want him to have a full set of facts when

making a pivotal life decision. Third, morality dictates that Dex be

told; I have a moral obligation to tell Dexter the truth about

Darcy's actions. (This should be distinguished from a retributive

point of view, although certainly Darcy deserves a sound

snitching.) As a corollary, I value and respect the institution of

marriage, and Darcy's infidelity certainly doesn't bode well for a

long and lasting union. This third point has nothing to do with my

self-interest, as the same reasoning would apply even if I weren't

in love with Dex.

The logic of point three, however, seems to indicate that Darcy

should also know that Dex has been unfaithful, and that I should

not be hiding my actions from Darcy (because she is my friend

and trusts me, and because it is wrong to be deceitful).

Thus, one

might argue that thinking that Dex should know the truth about

Darcy is fundamentally at odds with intentionally leaving Darcy in

the dark about my own misdeeds. However, this reasoning

ignores an essential distinction and one that my final analysis is

dependent upon: there is a difference between thinking a person

should know/be told and being that messenger. Yes, I think Dex

should know what Darcy has done, and (perhaps?

likely?) will

continue to do. But is it my place to tell? I would argue that it is

not.

Furthermore, although Dex should not marry Darcy, it is not

because he cheated or because she cheated. And it is not because

he loves me and I love him. These things are all true but are mere

symptoms of the larger problem, i.e., their flawed relationship.

Darcy and Dex are wrong for each other. The fact that both of

them have cheated, although driven to do so by separate

motivations (love versus a self-serving mixture of fear of

commitment and lust) is just one indicator. But even if neither

had cheated, the relationship would still be wrong. And if Darcy

and Dex can't determine this essential truth based on their

interactions, their feelings, and their years together, then it is

their mistake to make and not my place to play informant.

And I might also drop a footnote, maybe under the morality

discussion, where I would address the betrayal of Darcy:

Yes, telling Darcy's secret would be wrong, but in light of my far

greater betrayal, telling a secret seems hardly worth discussing.

On the other hand, however, one could argue that telling the

secret is worse. Sleeping with Dex has nothing to do with Darcy

per se, but telling Darcy's secret has everything to do with Darcy.

Yet considering that the ultimate decision is not to tell, this point

becomes moot.

So there's my answer. I think my reasoning might be a little shaky,

particularly at the end, where I sort of fall apart and essentially

say, "So there." I can just see the red marks in the margin of the

blue book. "Unclear!" and "Why is it their mistake to make? Are

you punishing them for their stupidity or for their infidelity?

Explain!"

But regardless of my flawed rationale and the knowledge that

Ethan and Hillary would accuse me of being my usual passive self,

I'm not saying a word about this to Dex.

The next day I return home from work, pick up my dry cleaning

from Jose, and check my mailbox to find my Time Warner cable

bill, the new issue of In Style magazine, and a large ivory envelope

addressed in ornate calligraphy affixed with two heart stamps. I

know what it is even before I flip it over and find a return address

from Indianapolis.

I tell myself that a wedding can still be called off after invitations

go out. This is just one more obstacle. Yes, it makes things

stickier, but it is only a formality, a technicality. Still, I am dizzy

and nauseated as I open the envelope and find another inner

envelope. This one has my name and the two humiliating words

"and Guest." I cast aside the RSVP card and its matching envelope

and a sheet of silver tissue paper floats to the floor, sliding under

my couch. I don't have the energy to retrieve it.

Instead, I sit down

and take a deep breath, mustering the courage to read the

engraved script, as if the wording can somehow make things

better or worse:

I blink back tears and exhale slowly, skipping to the bottom of the

invitation:

Yes, the wording can indeed make things worse. I put the

invitation on my coffee table and stare at it. I picture Mrs. Rhone

dropping the envelopes off at the post office on Jefferson Street,

her long red nails patting the stack with motherly smugness. I

hear her nasal voice saying, "Our joy will be more complete" and

"We ask for your presence in thought and prayer."

I'll give her a prayer a prayer that the marriage never happens. A

prayer for a follow-up mailing to arrive at my apartment:

Now that is some wording that I can appreciate. Short, sweet, to

the point. "Will not take place." The Rhones will be forced to

abandon their usual flamboyant style. I mean, they can't very well

say, "We regret to inform you that the groom is in love with

another" or "We are saddened to announce that Dexter has

broken our dear daughter's heart." No, this mailing will be all

business cheap paper, boxy font, and typed computer labels. Mrs.

Rhone will not want to spend the money on Crane's stationery and

calligraphy after already wasting so much. I see her at the post

office, triumphant no more, telling the mailman that no, she will

not be needing the heart stamps this time. Two hundred flag

stamps will do just fine.

I am in bed when Dex calls and asks if he can come over.

On the day I receive his wedding invitation, I still say yes, come

right on over. I am ashamed for being so weak, but then think of

all the people in the world who have done more pathetic things in

the name of love. And the bottom line is: I love Dex.

Even though

he is the last person on earth I should feel this way about, I truly

do love him. And I have not given up on him quite yet.

As I wait for his arrival, I debate whether to put the invitation

away or leave it on my coffee table in plain view. I decide to tuck it

between the pages of my In Style magazine. A few minutes later, I

answer the door in my white cotton nightgown.

"Were you in bed?" Dex asks.

"Uh-huh."

"Well, let me take you back there."

We get in bed. He pulls the covers over us.

"You feel so good," he says, caressing my side and moving his

hand under my nightgown. I start to block him, but then

acquiesce. Our eyes meet before he kisses me slowly.

No matter

how disappointed I am in him, I can't imagine stopping this tide. I

am almost motionless as he makes love to me. He talks the whole

time, which he doesn't usually do. I can't make out exactly what

he is saying, but I hear the word "forever." He wants to be with me

forever, I think. He won't marry Darcy. He can't. She cheated on

him. They aren't in love. He loves me.

Dex spoons me as tears seep onto my pillow.

"You're so quiet tonight," Dex says.

"Yeah," I say, keeping my voice steady. I don't want him to know

that I'm crying. The last thing I want is Dexter's pity. I am passive

and weak, but I have some albeit limited pride.

"Talk to me," he says. "What's on your mind?"

I come close to asking him about the invitation, his plans, us, but

instead I make my voice nonchalant. "Nothing really I was just

wondering if you're going to the Hamptons this weekend."

"I sort of promised Marcus that I would. He wants to golf again."

"Oh."

"I guess you wouldn't consider coming?"

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"Please?"

"I don't think so."

He kisses the back of my head. "Please. Please come."

Three little "please"s is all it takes.

"Okay," I whisper. "I'll go."

I fall asleep hating myself.

The next day Hillary bursts into my office. "Guess what I got in

the mail." Her tone is accusatory, not at all sympathetic.

I completely overlooked the fact that Hillary would be receiving

an invitation too. I have no response prepared for her.

"I know," I

say.

"So you have your answer."

"He could still cancel," I say.

"Rachel!"

"There's still time. You gave him two weeks, remember? He still

has a few more days."

Hillary raises her eyebrows and coughs disdainfully.

"Have you

seen him recently?"

I start to lie, but don't have the energy. "Last night."

She gives me a wide-eyed look of disbelief. "Did you tell him you

got the invitation?"

"No."

"Rachel!"

"I know," I say, feeling ashamed.

"Please tell me you aren't one of those women."

I know the type she is talking about. The woman who carries on a

relationship with a married man for years, hoping, even believing,

that he will one day come to his senses and leave his wife. The

moment is just around the corner if she only hangs in there, she

won't be sorry in the end. But time passes, and the years only

create fresh excuses. The kids are still in school, the wife is sick, a

wedding is being planned, a grandchild is on the way.

There is

always something, a reason to keep the status quo. But then the

excuses run out, and ultimately she accepts that there will be no

leaving, that she will always be the second-place finisher. She

decides that second place is better than nothing. She surrenders

to her fate. I have new empathy for these women, although I do

not believe that I have yet joined their ranks.

"That's not a fair characterization," I say.

She gives me an "Oh, really?" look.

"Dexter's not married."

"You're right. He's not married. But he is engaged.

Which might

be worse. He can change his situation like that." She snaps her

fingers. "But he's not doing a damn thing."

"Look, Hillary, we are talking about a finite timetable I can only

be one of those women for a month more."

"A month? You're going to let this thing go down to the wire?"

I look away, out my window.

"Rachel, why are you waiting?"

"I want it to be his decision. I don't want to be responsible"

"Why not?"

I shrug. If she knew about Darcy's infidelity, she'd be over the

edge.

She sighs. "You want my advice?"

I do not, but nod anyway.

"You should dump him. Now. Do something while you still have a

choice. The longer this goes on, the worse you are going to feel

when you're standing in front of that church, watching them seal

their vows with a kiss that Darcy will drag on for longer than is

tasteful Then watching them cut the cake and feed one another

while she smears icing on his face. Then watching them dance the

night away and then "

"I know. I know."

Hillary isn't finished. "And then darting into the night on their

getaway to frickin' Hawaii!"

I wince and tell her that I get the picture.

"I just don't understand why you won't do something, force his

hand. Something."

I tell her again that I don't want to be responsible for their

breakup, that I want it to be Dexter's decision.

"It will be his decision. You won't be brainwashing him. You'll

simply be going for what you want. Why aren't you being more

assertive about something so significant and important?"

I have no explanation for her. At least none that she would find

acceptable. My phone rings, interrupting our awkward silence.

I glance at the screen on my phone. "It's Les. I better take it," I

say, feeling relief that the inquisition is over. It is a sad day when I

am grateful to hear from Les.

Later that afternoon, I take a break from my research and roll my

chair over to my window. I peer down on Park Avenue, watching

people move about their daily lives. How many of them feel

desperate, euphoric, or simply dead inside? I wonder if any of

them are on the verge of losing something huge. If they already