Something Borrowed (46 page)

"Not one bit." He kisses the side of my head. "I'm a lot of things

right now. But sad isn't one of them."

"Good," I say. "I'm glad."

"How do you feel? Do you miss her?" he asks.

I consider his questions. I am mostly happy, but with a soupcon of

nostalgia, thinking of all that I have shared with Darcy.

Until now,

our lives have been so intertwined she has been my frame of

reference for so many events. Beating drums in the bicentennial

parade. Tying yellow ribbons around the tree in my backyard

during the hostage crisis. Watching the Challenger fall from the

sky, the wall come down in Germany, the Soviet Union dissolve.

Learning of Princess Diana's death, of John F. Kennedy Jr.'s fate.

Grieving after September 11. All of it was with Darcy by my side.

And then there is our personal history. Memories only we share.

Things not another soul would ever understand.

Dex watches me intently, waiting for my answer.

"Yes," I finally say, somewhat apologetically. "I miss her. I can't

help it."

He nods as though he understands. I wonder why I miss her and

Dex does not. Perhaps it is because I've known her so much

longer. Or maybe it's the very nature of a friendship versus an

intimate relationship. When you are in a relationship, you are

aware that it might end. You might grow apart, find someone else,

simply fall out of love. But a friendship isn't a zero-sum game, and

as such, you assume that it will last forever, especially an old

friendship. You take its permanence for granted, which might be

the very thing so dear about it. Even as Dex rolled those double

sixes, I never imagined the end of Darcy and me.

I picture her now, wondering what she is feeling at this very

moment. Is she as melancholy as I am? Or just angry?

Is she with

Marcus or Claire? Or is she alone, flipping sorrowfully through

our high school yearbook and old pictures of Dex?

Does she miss

me too? Will we ever be friends again, tentatively agreeing to meet

for lunch or coffee, rebuilding one small step at a time?

Maybe she

and I will laugh about that crazy summer when one of us was still

twenty-something. But I doubt it. This one can't be bridged,

particularly if Dex and I stay together. Our friendship is likely

over forever, and maybe that is for the best. Maybe Ethan was

right, and the time has come to stop using Darcy as a measuring

stick for my own life.

I run my hands along my glass, marveling at how much has

changed in such a short time. How much I have changed. I was a

parent-pleaser, a dutiful friend. I made safe, careful choices and

hoped that things would fall into place for me. Then I fell in love

with Dex and still viewed it as something happening to me. I

hoped that he would make things right, or that fate would

intervene. But I have learned that you make your own happiness,

that part of going for what you want means losing something else.

And when the stakes are high, the losses can be that much greater.

Dex and I talk for a long time, covering virtually every moment of

our summer, chronicling it all the good and the gory.

Mostly we

laugh, and only once do I get teary, when we get to the part where

he told me he was going to marry Darcy. I tell him how I rolled

our dice after he left my apartment. He says he is sorry.

I say that

he has no reason to be sorry, that he didn't at the time, and

certainly doesn't now.

And then, just before midnight, comes that sweet sound of the

harmonica, playing slowly at first and then building momentum

before Bruce sings, The screen door slams, Mary's dress waves,

A smile spreads across Dex's face, his eyes are bright and

especially green. He pulls me against his chest and says into my

ear, "I'm glad we're not eating cake right now."

"Me too," I whisper.

Dex holds me as we listen to Bruce, the words rich with our

meaning:

Hey what else can we do now

Except roll down the windows and let the wind blow back your

hair

Well the night's busting open

These two lanes will take us anywhere

It occurs to me that tonight is an ending and a beginning. But for

once, I embrace both. The last line of "Thunder Road"

fills the

bar: And I'm pulling out of here to win.

"You want to go now?" I ask Dex.

He nods. "I do."

We stand and walk through the smoky bar, leaving 7B

before the

next song begins to play. It is a beautiful, clear night with a faint

chill in the air. Fall is coming. I take Dexter's hand as we stroll up

Avenue B, looking for a yellow cab headed in the right direction.

Reading Group Guide

. What do you think was the real impetus behind Rachel's decision

to sleep with Dex after her birthday party? Was it about her desire

to break out of her good girl persona? Was it about a longstanding

resentment toward Darcy? Or was it both?

. How do you view Dex? How would you describe Dex and

Rachel's relationship? What drew them together? Did you root for

them to be together? Do you think they have true love?

. Is anything about Rachel and Darcy's friendship genuine? Do

you believe it has changed over time? Why does Rachel defend

Darcy against attacks from Ethan and Hillary?

Compare and

contrast Rachel's friendship with Hillary and Ethan to her

friendship with Darcy.

. Do you think Dex and Darcy would have married if it weren't for

Dex's affair with Rachel? Why did he stay with Darcy for so long?

. How did Rachel's flawed self-image contribute to the dilemma

that she faces? What do you see as her greatest weakness?

. Was Rachel's moral dilemma made easier because of Darcy's

personality? Would she have acted on her attraction to Dex if

Darcy were a different kind of person and friend? If Rachel had

fallen in love with Julian, would she have pursued the same

course of action? How does Rachel rationalize her affair with Dex?

. What risks does Rachel take when she pursues her relationship

with Dex? What is the biggest moment of risk for her?

How does

Rachel grow and change in the novel?

. Disloyalty is a major theme in this novel. How differently do men

and women view cheating on a friend? Why is Darcy so indignant

when she catches Dex and Rachel together when she has been

having an affair of her own?

. Under what circumstances is it justified to choose love over

friendship? How important is it for women to stick together?

Have you ever been in a friendship like Darcy and Rachel's?

io. This novel is told from Rachel's perspective. How do you think

Darcy would tell the same story? How do you think she would

describe Rachel? How do you think she views their friendship?

(Turn the page for a sneak preview of Something Blue.)

For more reading group suggestions visit

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snip/rgg.html

Read on for an excerpt of

Something Blue by Emily Giffin

Coming from St. Martin's Press June prologue was born beautiful.

A C-section baby, I started life out right by avoiding the

misshapen head and battle scars that come with being forced

through a birth canal. Instead I emerged with a dainty nose, bowshaped

lips, and distinctive eyebrows. I had just the right amount

of fuzz covering my crown in exactly the right places, promising a

fine crop of hair and an exceptional hairline.

Sure enough, my hair grew in thick and silky, the color of coffee

beans. Every morning I would sit cooperatively while my mother

wrapped my hair around fat, hot rollers or twisted it into intricate

braids. When I went to nursery school, the other little girls many

with unsightly bowl-cuts clamored to put their mat near mine

during nap time, their fingers darting over to touch my ponytail.

They happily shared their Play-Doh or surrendered their turn on

the slide. Anything to be my friend. It was then that I discovered

there is a pecking order in life, and appearances play a role in that

hierarchy. In other words, I understood at the tender age of three

that with beauty come perks and power.

This lesson was only reinforced as I grew older and continued my

reign as the prettiest girl in increasingly larger pools of competition. The cream of the crop in junior high and then high

school. But unlike the characters in my favorite John Hughes

films, my popularity and beauty never made me mean.

I ruled as a

benevolent dictator, playing watchdog over other popular girls

who tried to abuse their power. I defied cliques, remaining true to

my brainy best friend Rachel. I was popular enough to make my

own rules.

Of course I had my moments of uncertainty. I remember one such

occasion in the sixth grade when Rachel and I were playing

"psychiatrist," one of our favorite games. I'd usually play the role

of patient, saying things like, "I am so scared of spiders, doctor,

that I can't leave my house all summer long."

"Well," Rachel would respond, pushing her glasses up on the

bridge of her nose and scribbling notes on a tablet, "I recommend

that you watch Charlotte's Web Or move to Siberia where there

are no spiders. And take these." She'd hand me two Flintstones

vitamins and nod encouragingly.

That was the way it usually went. But on this particular afternoon,

Rachel suggested that instead of being a pretend patient, I should

be myself, come up with a problem of my own. So I thought of

how my little brother Jeremy hogged the dinner conversation

every night, spouting off original knock-knock jokes and obscure

animal kingdom facts. I confided that my parents seemed to favor

Jeremy or at least they listened to him more than they listened to

me.

Rachel cleared her throat, thought for a second, and then shared

some theory about how little boys are encouraged to be smart and

funny while little girls are praised for being cute. She called this a

"dangerous trap" for girls and said it can lead to "empty women."

"Where'd you hear that?" I asked her, wondering exactly what she

meant by "empty."

"Nowhere. It's just what I think," Rachel said, proving that she

was in no danger of falling into the pretty-little-girl trap. In fact,

her theory applied perfectly to us. I was the beautiful one with

average grades,

Rachel was the smart one with average looks. I suddenly felt a

surge of envy, wishing that I, too, were full of big ideas and

important words.

But I quickly assessed the haphazard wave in Rachel's mousy

brown hair and reassured myself that I had been dealt a good

hand. I couldn't find countries like Pakistan or Peru on a map or

convert fractions into percentages, but my beauty was going to

catapult me into a world of Jaguars, and big houses, and dinners

with three forks to the left of my bone china plate. All I had to do

was marry well, as my mother had. She was no genius and hadn't

finished more than three semesters at a community college, but

her pretty face, petite frame, and impeccable taste had won over

my smart father, a dentist, and now she had the good life. I

thought her life was an excellent blueprint for my own.

So I cruised through my teenage years and entered Indiana

University with a "just get by" mentality. I pledged the best

sorority, dated the hottest guys, and was featured in the Hoosier

Dream Girls calendar four years straight. After graduating with a

2.9, I followed Rachel, who was still my best friend, to New York

City where she was attending law school. While she slogged it out

in the library and then went to work for a big firm, I continued my

pursuit of glamour and good times, quickly learning that the finer

things were even finer in Manhattan. I discovered the city's

hippest clubs, best restaurants, and most eligible men.

And I still

had the best hair in town.

Throughout our twenties, as Rachel and I continued along our

different paths, she would often pose the judgmental question,

"Aren't you worried about karma?" (Incidentally, she first

mentioned karma in junior high after I had cheated on a math

test. I remember trying to decipher the word's meaning using the

song "Karma Chameleon," which, of course, didn't work). Later, I

understood her point that hard work, honesty, and integrity

always paid off in the end while skating by on your looks was

somehow an offense. And like that day playing psychiatrist, I

occasionally worried that she was right.

But I told myself that I didn't have to be a nose-at-the-grindstone,

soup-kitchen volunteer to have good karma. I might not have

followed a traditional route to success, but I had earned my

glamorous PR job, my fabulous crowd of friends, and my amazing

fiance Dex Thaler. I deserved my apartment with a terrace on

Central Park West and the substantial, colorless diamond on my

left hand.

That was back in the days when I thought I had it all figured out. I