Something Borrowed (7 page)

back of your closet, figuring that it doesn't hurt to save them. Just

in case you want to open that box and remember some of the good

times.

We are days away from the official start of summer and all Darcy

can talk about is the Hamptons. She calls and e-mails me

constantly, forwarding information about Memorial Day parties,

restaurant reservations, and sample sales where we are guaranteed to find the cutest summer clothes. Of course, I am

absolutely dreading all of it. Like the four previous summers, I am

in a house with Darcy and Dex. This year we are also sharing with

Marcus, Claire, and Hillary.

"You think we should've gotten a full share?" Darcy asks for at

least the twentieth time. I have never known such a second-,

third-, fourth-guesser. She has buyer's remorse when she leaves

Baskin-Robbins.

"No, a half share is enough. You never end up using the full

share," I say, the phone tucked under my ear as I continue to

revise my memo summarizing the difference between Florida and

New York excess insurance law.

"Are you typing?" Darcy demands, always expecting my full

attention.

"No," I lie, typing more quietly.

"You better not be"

"I'm not."

"Well, I guess you're right, a half share is better And we have a

lot of wedding stuff to do in the city anyway."

The wedding is the only topic I wish to avoid more than the

Hamptons. "Uh-huh."

"So are you going to drive out with us or take the train?"

"Train. I don't know if I can get out of here at a decent hour," I

say, thinking that I do not want to be stuck in a car with her and

Dex. I have not seen Dex since he left my apartment.

Have not

seen Darcy since the betrayal.

"Really? 'Cause I was thinking that we should definitely, definitely

drive Wouldn't you rather have a car the first weekend out? You

know, especially because it's going to be a long weekend. We don't

want to be stuck with cabs and stuff C'mon, ride with us!"

"We'll see," I say, as a mother tells a child so that the child will

drop the topic.

"Not 'we'll see.' You're comin' with us."

I sigh and tell her that I really should get back to work.

"Okay. Sheesh. I'll let you go work at your oh-so-important job

So we still on for tonight?"

"What's tonight?"

"Hello? Ms. Forgetful. Don't even tell me you have to work

late you promised. Bikinis? Ring a bell?"

"Oh, right," I say. I had completely forgotten my promise to go

bathing-suit shopping with her. One of the least pleasant tasks in

the world. Right up there with scrubbing toilets and getting a root

canal. "Yeah. Sure. I can still do it."

"Great. I'll meet you at the yogurt counter in the basement of

Bloomie's. You know, next to the fat-women's clothes.

At seven

sharp."

I arrive at the Fifty-ninth Street station fifteen minutes after our

designated meeting time and run into the basement of Bloomingdale's, nervous that Darcy will be pouting. I do not feel

up to cajoling her out of one of her moods. But she looks content,

sitting at the counter with a cup of strawberry frozen yogurt. She

smiles and waves. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that

there is no scarlet letter on my chest.

"Hi, Darce."

"Hey, there! Omigod. I'm going to be so bloated trying on suits!"

She points at her stomach with her plastic spoon. "But whatever.

I'm used to being a fatty."

I roll my eyes. "You're not fat."

We go through it every year during bathing-suit weather. Hell, we

go through it virtually every day. Darcy's weight is a constant

source of energy and discussion. She tells me what she is weighing

in at always hovering around the mid-to-high-onetwenties always

too fat by her rigorous standards. Her goal is one-twenty which I maintain is way too thin for five nine. She emails

me as she eats a bag of chips: "Make me stop! Help!

Call me

ASAP!" If I call her back, she'll ask, "Is fifteen fat grams a lot?" Or

"How many fat grams equal a pound?" The thing that irritates me,

though, is that she is three inches taller than I am but five pounds

lighter. When I point this out, she says, "Yes, but your boobs are

bigger." "Not five pounds bigger," I say. "Still," she'll say, "you

look perfect the way you are." Back to me.

I'm far from fat, but her using me as a sounding board on this

topic is like me complaining to a blind woman that I have to wear

contacts.

"I am so fat. I totally am! And I chowed at lunch. But whatever. As

long as I'm not a fat cow in my wedding dress" she says,

finishing her last spoonful of yogurt and tossing the cup into the

trash. "Just tell me I have plenty of time to lose weight before the

wedding."

"You have plenty of time," I say.

And I have plenty of time before the wedding to stop thinking

about the fact that I had sex with your husband-to-be.

"I better rein it in, you know, or else I'm gonna have to shop here."

Darcy points at the plus-size section without checking to see if any

larger women are within earshot.

I tell her not to be ridiculous.

"So anyway," she says, as we ride the escalator up to the second

floor,

"Claire was saying that we're getting too old for bikinis. That onepieces

are classier. What do you think of that?" Her expression

and tone make it clear what she thinks of Claire's view on

swimwear.

"I don't think there are precise age limits on bikinis," I say. Claire

is full of exhausting rules; she once told me that black ink should

only be used for sympathy notes.

"Ex-act-ly! That's what I told her Besides, she's probably just

saying that because she looks kind of bad in a bikini, don't you

think?"

I nod. Claire works out religiously and hasn't touched fried food in

years, but she is destined to be lumpy. She is redeemed, however,

by impeccable grooming and expensive clothing. She'll show up at

the beach in a three-hundred-dollar one-piece with a matching

sarong, a fancy hat, and designer glasses and it will go a long way

toward disguising an extra roll around her waist.

We make our way around the floor, searching the racks for

acceptable suits. At one point, I notice that we have both selected

a basic black Anne Klein bikini. If we both end up wanting it,

Darcy will either insist that she found it first or she'll say that we

can get the same one. Then she will proceed to look better in it all

summer. No, thanks.

I am reminded of the time that she, Annalise, and I went shopping

for backpacks the week before we started the fourth grade. We all

spotted the same bag right away. It was purple with silver stars on

the outside pocket way cooler than the other bags.

Annalise

suggested that we get the same one and Darcy said no, that it was

way too babyish to match. Matching was for third-graders.

So we rock-paper-scissored for it. I went with the rock (which I

have found to be a winner more than its share of the time). I

pounded my jubilant fist over their extended scissor fingers and

swept my purple book bag into our shared cart.

Annalise balked,

whining that we knew purple was her favorite color. "I thought

you liked red better, Rachel!"

Annalise was no match for me. I simply told her yes, I did prefer

red, but as she could plainly see, there were no red bags. So

Annalise settled for a yellow one with a smiley face on the pocket.

Darcy agonized over the remaining choices and finally told us that

she was going to sleep on the decision and come back with her

mom the next day. I forgot about Darcy's bag choice until the first

day of school. When I got to the bus stop, there stood Darcy with a

purple bag just like mine.

I pointed at it, incredulous. "You got my bag."

"I know," Darcy said. "I decided I wanted it. Who cares if we

match?"

Hadn't she been the one to say that matching was babyish?

"I care," I said, feeling the rage grow inside me.

Darcy rolled her eyes and smacked her gum. "Oh, Rachel, like it

matters. It's just a bag after all."

Annalise was upset too, for her own reasons. "How come you two

get to be twins and I'm left out? My bag is gay."

Darcy and I ignored her.

"But you said we shouldn't match," I accused Darcy, as the bus

pulled around the corner and screeched to a stop in front of us.

"Did I?" she said, fingering her stiff, feathered hair, freshly

sprayed with several layers of Breck. "Well, who cares?"

Darcy used "who cares" (later replaced by "whatever") as the

ultimate passive-aggressive response. I didn't recognize her tactic

as such at the time; I only knew that she always managed to get

her way and make me feel stupid if I fought back.

We boarded the bus, Darcy first. She sat down and I sat behind

her, still furious. I watched Annalise hesitate and then sit with me,

recognizing that I had right on my side. The whole purple

backpack issue could have escalated into a full-fledged fight, but I

refused to let Darcy's betrayal ruin the first day of school. It wasn't

worth going to battle with her. The end result was seldom

satisfying.

I covertly replace the Anne Klein suit on the rack as we make our

way to the long line for the dressing rooms. When one becomes

available, Darcy decides that we should share a room to save time.

She strips down to her black thong and matching lace bra,

contemplating which suit she should try on first. I steal a look at

her in the mirror. Her body is even better than it was last summer.

Her long limbs are perfectly toned from her wedding workout

regimen, her skin already bronzed by routine applications of

tanning cream and an occasional trip to the tanning beds.

I think of Dex. Surely he compared our bodies after (or even

during, since he "wasn't that drunk") our night together.

Mine

isn't nearly as good. I am shorter, softer, whiter. And even though

my boobs are bigger, hers are better. They are perkier, with the

ideal nipple-to-areola-to-breast ratio.

"Stop looking at my fat!" Darcy squeals, catching my glance in the

mirror.

Now I am forced to compliment her. "You're not fat, Darce. You

look great. I can tell you've been working out."

"You can? What body part has improved?" Darcy likes her praise

to be specific.

"Just everywhere. Your legs look thin good." That is all she is

getting from me.

She studies her legs, frowning at the reflection.

I undress, noting my own cotton underwear and nonmatching,

slightly dingier cotton bra. I quickly try on my first suit, a navyand-white tankini, revealing two inches of midriff. It is a compromise between Claire's one-piece edict and Darcy's

preference for bikinis.

"Omigod! That looks so awesome on you! You gotta get it!" Darcy

says. "Are you getting it?"

"I guess so," I say. It doesn't look awesome, but it's not bad. I have

studied enough magazine articles about suits and body flaws over

the years to know which suits will look decent on me.

This one

passes.

Darcy puts on a tiny black bikini with a triangular top and bare

coverage in the bottom. She looks straight-up hot. "You like?"

"It's good," I say, thinking that Dex will love it.

"Should I get it?"

I tell her to try the others on before making a decision.

She obeys,

taking the next one off the hanger. Of course, every suit looks

amazing on her. She falls into none of those categories of body

flaws in the magazines. After much discussion, I settle on the

tankini and Darcy decides on three tiny bikinis one red, one

black, and one nude-colored number that is going to make her

look naked from any kind of distance.

As we go to pay for our suits, Darcy grabs my arm.

"Oh! Shit! I

almost forgot to tell you!"

"What?" I ask, unnerved by her sudden outburst, even though I

know she isn't going to say, "I forgot to tell you that I know you

slept with Dex!"

"Marcus likes you!" We might as well be in the tenth grade, from

her tone and use of the word "likes."

I am intentionally obtuse. "I like him too," I say. "He's a nice guy."

And a hell of an alibi.

"No, silly. I mean, he likes you. You must've done a good job at the

party because he called Dex and got your number. I think he's

going to ask you out for this weekend. Of course, I wanted it to be

a double date, but Marcus said no, he doesn't want witnesses."

She drops her bikinis onto the counter and fumbles in her purse

for her wallet.

"He got my number from Dex?" I ask, thinking that this is quite a

development.

"Yeah. Dex was cute when he told me about it. He was" She

looks up, searching for the right word. "Sort of protective of you."

"What do you mean by 'protective'?" I ask, way more interested in

Dex's role in this exchange than in Marcus's intentions.

"Well, he gave Marcus the number, but when he got off the phone