Something Borrowed (47 page)

just didn't understand why people, particularly Rachel, insisted on

making things so much more difficult than they had to be. She

may have followed all the rules, but there she was, single and

thirty, pulling all-nighters at a law firm she despised.

Meanwhile,

I was the happy one, just as I had been throughout our whole

childhood. I remember trying to coach her, telling her to inject a

little fun into her glum, disciplined life. I would say things like,

"For starters, you should give your bland shoes to Goodwill and

buy a few pairs of Blahniks. You'll feel better, for sure."

I know now how shallow that sounds. I realize that I made

everything about appearances. But at the time, I honestly didn't

think I was hurting anyone, not even myself. I didn't think much

at all, in fact. Yes, I was gorgeous and lucky-in-love, but I truly

believed that I was also a decent person who deserved her good

fortune. And I saw no reason why the rest of my life should be any

less charmed than my first three decades.

Then, something happened that made me question everything I

thought I knew about the world: Rachel, my plain, do-gooding

maid of honor with frizzy hair the color of wheat germ, swooped

in and stole my fiance.

Suckerpunch.

It was one of my little brother Jeremy's pet expressions when we

were kids. He used it when regaling the scuffles that would break

out at the bus stop or in the halls of our junior high, his voice high

and excited, his lips shiny with spittle: WHAM!' POW!

Total

suckerpunch, man!'He'd then eagerly sock one fist into his other

cupped palm, exceedingly pleased with himself. But that was

years ago. Jeremy was a dentist now, in practice with my father,

and I'm sure he hadn't witnessed, received, or rehashed a sucker

punch in over a decade.

I hadn't thought of those words in just as long until that memorable drive back to my apartment on the Upper West Side. I

had just left Rachel's place and was telling my cab driver about my

horrifying discovery.

"Wow," he said in a heavy Queens accent. "Your girl really suckerpunched

you good, huh?"

"Yes," I cried, all but licking my wounds. "She certainly did."

Loyal, reliable Rachel, my best friend of twenty-five years who

always had my interest ahead of, or at least tied with her own, had

WHAM! POW! sucker-punched me. Blindsided me.

The surprise

element of her betrayal is what burned me the most.

The fact that

I never saw it coming. It was as unexpected as a seeing-eye dog

willfully leading his blind, trusting owner into the path of a Mack

truck.

Truth be told, things weren't quite as simple as I made them out

to be to my cab driver. But I didn't want him to lose sight of the

main issue the issue of what Rachel had done to me. I had made

some mistakes, but I hadn't betrayed our friendship.

It was the week before what would have been my wedding day,

and I had gone over to Rachel's to tell her that my wedding was

called off. My fiance, Dex, had been the first to say the difficult

words that perhaps we shouldn't get married but I had quickly

agreed because I'd had an affair with Marcus, one of Dexter's

friends. One thing had led to another, and after one particular

steamy night, I had become pregnant. It was all hugely difficult to

absorb, and I knew the hardest part would be confessing

everything to Rachel, who, at the start of the summer, had been

mildly interested in Marcus. The two had gone on a few dates, but

the romance had petered out when, unbeknownst to her, my

relationship with Marcus began. I felt terrible the entire time for

cheating on Dex, but even more for lying to Rachel.

Still, I was

ready to come clean to my best friend. I was sure that that she

would understand. She always did.

So I stoically arrived at Rachel's apartment on the Upper East

Side.

"What's the matter?" she asked as she answered the door.

I felt a wave of comfort as I thought to myself how soothing and

familiar those words were. Rachel was a maternal best friend,

more maternal than my own mother. I thought of all the times my

friend had asked me this question over the years: like the time I

left my father's sunroof down during a thunderstorm or the day I

got my period all over my white Guess jeans. She was always there

with her "What's the matter?" followed by her "It's going to be all

right" in her competent tone that made me feel sure that she was

right. Rachel could fix anything. Make me feel better when

nobody else could. Even at that moment, when she might feel

disappointed that Marcus had chosen me over her, I was sure

she'd rise to the occasion and reassure me that I had chosen the

right path, that things happened for a reason, that I wasn't a

villain, that I was right to follow my heart, that she completely

understood, and that eventually Dex would, too.

I took a deep breath and glided into her orderly studio apartment

as she rattled on about the wedding, how she was at my service,

ready to help with any last-minute details.

"There isn't going to be a wedding," I blurted out.

"What?" she asked. Her lips blended right in with the rest of her

pale face. I watched her turn and sit on her bed. Then she asked

me who called it off.

I had a flashback to high school. After a breakup, which was

always a very public happening in high school, guys and girls alike

would ask, "Who did it?" Everyone wanted to know who was the

dumper and who the dumpee so that they could properly assign

blame and dole out pity.

I said what I could never say in high school because, to be frank, I

was never the dumpee. "It was mutual Well, technically Dexter

was the one. He told me this morning that he couldn't go through

with it. He doesn't think that he loves me." I rolled my eyes. At

that point, I didn't believe that such a thing was possible. I

thought the only reason Dex wanted out was because he could

sense my growing indifference. The drifting that comes when you

fall for someone else.

"You're kidding me? This is crazy. How do you feel?"

I studied my Prada pink-striped jeweled sandals and matching

pink toenail polish and took a deep breath. Then I confessed that I

had been having an affair with Marcus, dismissing a pang of guilt.

Sure Rachel had had a small summer crush on Marcus, but she

had never slept with him, and it had been weeks since she had

even kissed Marcus. She just couldn't be that upset by the news.

"So you slept with him?" Rachel asked again in a loud, strange

voice. Her cheeks blushed pink a sign that she was angry but I

plowed on, divulging full details, telling her how our affair had

begun, how we tried e in i 1 y g i f f i n to stop but couldn't

overcome the crazy pull toward one another. Then I took a deep

breath and told her that I was pregnant with Marcus's baby and

that we planned on getting married. I braced myself for a few

tears, but Rachel remained composed. She asked a few questions

that I answered honestly. Then I thanked her for not hating me,

feeling incredible relief that despite the upheaval in my life, I still

had my anchor, my best friend.

"Yeah I don't hate you," Rachel said, sweeping a strand of hair

behind her ear.

"I hope Dex takes it as well. At least as far as Marcus goes. He's

going to hate him for a while. But Dex is rational.

Nobody did this

on purpose to hurt him. It just happened."

And then, just as I was about to ask her if she would still be my

maid of honor when I married Marcus, my whole world collapsed

around me. I knew that nothing would ever be the same again, nor

had it ever been as I thought. That was the moment I saw Dexter's

watch on my best friend's nightstand. An unmistakable vintage

Rolex.

"Why is Dexter's watch on your nightstand?" I asked, silently

praying that she would offer a logical and benign explanation.

But instead, she shrugged and stammered that she didn't know.

Then she said that it was actually her watch, that she had one just

like his. Which was not plausible on account of the fact that I had

searched for months to find that watch and then bought a new

crocodile band for it, making it a true original. Besides, even had

it been a predictable, spanking new Rolex Oyster Perpetual, her

voice was shaking, her face even paler than usual.

Rachel can do

many things well, but lying isn't one of them. So I knew. I knew

that my best friend in the world had committed an unspeakable

act of betrayal.

The rest was like slow motion. I could practically hear the sound

effects that accompanied The Bionic Woman, one of my favorite

shows. One of our favorite shows I had watched everything with

Rachel. I stood up, grabbed the watch from her nightstand,

flipped it over and read the inscription aloud. "All my love,

Darcy." My words felt thick and heavy in my throat as I

remembered the day I had his watch engraved. I had called Rachel

on my cell and asked her about the wording. "All my love" had

been her suggestion.

I stared at her, waiting, but she still said nothing. Just stared at

me with those big, brown eyes, her always ungroomed brow

furrowed above them.

"What the fuck?" I said evenly. Then I screamed the question

again as I realized that Dex was likely lurking in the apartment,

hiding somewhere. I shoved past her into the bathroom, whipping

open the shower curtain. Nothing. I darted forward to check the

closet.

"Darcy, don't," she said, blocking the door with her back.

"Move!" I screamed. "I know he's in there!"

So she moved and I opened the door. And sure enough, there he

was, crouched in the corner in his striped navy boxers.

Another

gift from me.

"You liar!" I shouted at him, feeling myself begin to hyperventilate. I was accustomed to drama. I thrived on drama.

But not this kind. Not the kind of drama that I didn't control from

the outset.

Dex stood and dressed calmly, putting one foot and then the other

into his jeans, zipping defiantly. There wasn't a trace of guilt on

his face. It was as if I had only accused him of stealing the covers

or eating my Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream.

"You lied to me!" I shouted again, louder this time.

"You have got to be kidding me," he said, his voice low. "Fuck you,

Darcy."

In all my years with Dex, he had never said this to me.

Those were

my words of last resort. Not his.

I tried again. "You said there was nobody else in the picture! And

you''re fucking my best friend!" I shouted, unsure of who to

confront first. Overwhelmed by the double betrayal.

I wanted him to say, yes, this looks bad, but there had been no

fornicating. But no denial came my way. Instead he said, "Isn't

that a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, Darce? You and

Marcus, huh? Having a baby? I guess congratulations are in

order."

I had nothing to say to that, so I just turned the tables right back

on him and said, "I knew it all along."

This was a total lie. I never in a million years could have foreseen

that moment. The shock was too much to bear. But that's the

thing about the sucker punch; the sucker element hurts worse

than the punch. They had socked it to me, but I wasn't going to be

their fool, too.

"I hate you both. I always will," I said, realizing that my words

sounded weak and juvenile, like the time when I was five years old

and told my father that I loved the devil more than I loved him. I

wanted to shock and horrify, but he had only chuckled at my

creative put-down. Dex, too, seemed merely amused by my

proclamation, which enraged me to the brink of tears. I told

myself that I had to escape Rachel's apartment before I started

bawling. On my way to the door, I heard Dex say, "Oh, Darcy?"

I turned to face him again. "What?" I spit out, praying that he was

going to say it was all a joke, a big mix-up. Maybe they were going

to laugh and ask how I could think such a thing. Maybe we'd even

share a group hug.

But all he said was, "May I have my watch back, please?"

I swallowed hard and then hurled the watch at him, aiming for his

face. Instead it hit a wall, skittered across her hardwood floor, and

stopped just short of Dexter's bare feet. My eyes lifted from the

watch to Rachel's face. "And you," I said to her. "I never want to

see you again. You are dead to me."

Somehow I managed to make it downstairs (where I gave Rachel's

doorman the gruesome highlights), into a cab (where I again

shared the tale), and over to Marcus's place. I burst into his sloppy

studio, where he sat cross-legged on the floor, playing a melody

on his guitar that sounded vaguely like the refrain in

"Fire and

Rain."

He looked up at me, his expression a blend of annoyance and