Something Borrowed (9 page)

want to be holding his hand, so I knew my reaction was only a mix

of nostalgia and hurt pride. And regret that maybe I should have

pursued Hunter, who had long since been snatched up by another

discerning undergraduate.

I phoned Darcy in a rare case of role reversal, seeking comfort

from the relationship pro. She told me not to look back, that I had

some good, rah-rah college memories with Joey, something I

wouldn't have had with Hunter, who would have dragged me

down socially. "Besides," she said earnestly, "Joey taught you the

basics of predictable, missionary-style sex. And that's worth

something, right?" It was her idea of a pep talk. I guess it helped a

little.

I kept hoping that Hunter and his girlfriend would break up, but it

never happened. I didn't date again at Duke, nor did I through

most of law school. The long drought finally ended with Nate

Menke.

I met Nate our first year of law school at a party, but for the next

three years we barely talked, only said hello in passing.

Then we

both found ourselves in the same small class The Empowered

Self: Law and Society in the Age of Individualism.

Nate spoke in

class often, but not just to hear himself speak, as half the people in

law school did. He actually had interesting things to say. After I

made a decent point one day, he asked if I wanted to grab a coffee

to discuss it further. He ordered his black, and I remember

copying him because it seemed more sophisticated than dumping

milk and sugar into my cup. After coffee, we took a long walk

through the Village, stopping in CD stores and used-book shops.

We went to dinner after that, and by the end of the evening it was

clear that we were going to become a couple.

I was thrilled to have a boyfriend again and became quickly

enthralled with most things about Nate. I liked his face, for one.

He had the coolest eyes that turned up slightly in a way that would

have made him look Asian but for his light coloring. I also liked

his personality. He was soft-spoken but strong-willed and

politically active in a defiant, angry sort of way. It was hard to

keep track of all his causes, but I tried, even convinced myself that

I felt the same way. Compared to Joey, who could only muster

passion for a basketball team, Nate seemed so real. He was

intense in bed too. Although he had had few partners before me,

he seemed very experienced, always urging me to try something

new. "How's this?" "How's that?" he would ask, and then would

memorize his position and get it just right the next time.

Nate and I graduated from law school and spent the summer in

the city, studying for the bar exam. Every day we went to the

library together, breaking only for meals and sleep.

Hour after

hour, day after day, week after week, we crammed thousands of

rules and facts and laws and theories into our crowded brains. We

were both driven less by the desire to succeed than by an allpervasive

fear of failure, which Nate chalked up to our being only

children. The relentless ordeal brought us closer. We were both

miserable, but happy in our misery together.

But that fall, only one of us stayed miserable. Nate began working

as an assistant district attorney in Queens, and I started my law

firm job in Midtown. He loved his job, and I hated mine. As Nate

interviewed witnesses and prepared for trial, I was relegated to

document productions the lowliest task in the legal profession.

Every night I'd sit in conference rooms studying piles of papers in

endless cardboard boxes. I'd look at the dates on those documents

and think, / was just getting my driver's license when this letter

was typed, and here it is, still caught in an endless cycle of

litigation. It all seemed so pointless.

So my life was bleak except for my relationship with Nate. I

began to rely on him more and more as my sole source of

happiness. I often told him that I loved him, and felt more relief

than joy when he said it back. I started to think about marriage,

even talked about our theoretical children and where we all might

live.

Then one night Nate and I went to a bar in the Village to hear a

folk singer from Brooklyn named Carly Weinstein.

After her

performance, Nate and I and a few other people chatted with her

as she put her guitar away with the gentleness of a new mother.

"Your lyrics are beautiful what inspires you?" Nate asked her,

big-eyed.

I was instantly worried; I remembered that look from our first

coffee date. I became even more distressed when he bought a copy

of her CD. She wasn't that good. I think Nate and Carly went on a

date a week later, because there was one night when he was

unaccounted for and didn't answer his cell phone until after

midnight. I was too afraid to ask where he had been.

Besides, I

already knew. He had changed. He looked at me differently, a

shadow over his face, his mind somewhere else.

Sure enough, we had the big talk soon after that. He was very

forthright. "I have feelings for someone else," he said.

"I always

promised that I would tell you."

I remembered those conversations well, remembered liking the

strong, confident way I sounded as I told him that if he ever met

someone else, he should just tell me outright, that I could handle

it. Of course, I didn't think at the time that it would ever leave the

hypothetical realm. I wanted to suck back all my cavalier

instructions, tell him instead that I would greatly prefer a gentle

lie about needing some space or some time apart.

"Is it Carly?" I asked, a catch in my throat.

He looked shocked. "How did you know?"

"I could just tell," I said, unable to fight back sobs.

"I'm so sorry," he said, hugging me. "It kills me to hurt you like

this. But I had to be honest. I owe you that."

So he got a new girl, and he got to be noble. I tried to be angry, but

how can you be mad at someone for not wanting to be with you?

Instead I just sulked around, gained a few pounds, and swore off

men.

Nate kept calling for a few months after our breakup. I knew he

was just being nice, but the calls gave me false hope. I could never

resist asking about his girlfriend. "Carly is fine," he would say

sheepishly. Then once, he answered, "We're moving in together

and I think we're going to get engaged" His voice trailed off.

"Congratulations. That's great. I'm really happy for you," I said.

"Thank you, Rachel. It means a lot to hear you say that."

"Yeah Best of luck and all, but I don't think I want you to call me

anymore, okay?"

"I understand," he said, probably relieved to be off the hook.

I haven't heard from Nate since that conversation. I'm not sure if

or when they married, but I still look for Carly Weinstein

sometimes when I'm shopping for CDs. So far she hasn't made it

big.

Looking back, I question whether I really loved Nate, or just the

security of our relationship. I wonder if my feelings for him didn't

have a lot to do with hating my job. From the bar exam through

that first hellish year as an associate, Nate was my escape. And

sometimes that can feel an awful lot like love.

A reasonable time passed after Nate. I lost my breakup weight, got

my hair highlighted, and agreed to a string of blind dates. At worst

they were awful. At best, simply uncomfortable and forgettable.

Then I met Alec Kaplan at Spy Bar, down in Soho. I was with

Darcy and some of her friends from work and he and his oh-sohip

friends approached us. Alec, of course, wooed Darcy at first,

but she pushed him my way literally, with her hand on the small

of his back with firm directions to "talk to my friend."

To her, it

was the ultimate in generosity. Even though she had Dex, she was

never one to turn down male attention. "He's really cute," Darcy

kept whispering. "Go for it."

She was right, Alec was cute. But he was also all about image. He

was the kind of guy who retires his college cool-boy uniform of

filthy, intentionally broken-in baseball caps, fraternity party Tshirts,

and woven leather belts, swapping it for his twentysomething

urban cool-boy uniform of gripping, cotton-spandex Tshirts,

tight black pants with a slight sheen, and loads of hair gel.

He told too many "a guy walks into a bar" jokes (none funny) and

"I'm a badass trader" war stories (none impressive).

When he

bought me a drink on that first night, he threw down a onehundred-dollar bill and told the bartender in a loud voice that he was sorry but he didn't have anything smaller. In a nutshell, he

epitomized what Darcy and I call TTH for Trying Too Hard.

But Alec was smart enough, fun enough, and nice enough. So

when he asked for my number, I gave it to him. And when he

called and asked me out to dinner, I went. And when he propositioned me, four dates later, ribbed condom in hand, I

shrugged inside but said yes. He had a great body, but the sex was

just average. My mind often wandered to work, and once when I

heard SportsCenter in the background, I even pretended he was

Pete Sampras. Many times I came close to breaking up with him,

but Darcy kept telling me to give him another chance, that he was

rich and cute. Way richer and cuter than Nate, she'd point out. As

if that was what it was all about.

Then one night, Claire spotted Alec kissing a petite, somewhat

trashy-looking blonde at Merchants. When the girl went to the

bathroom, Claire confronted Alec, warning him that if he didn't

confess his infidelity, she would tell me herself. So the next day

Alec called and sputtered an apology, saying he was getting back

together with his ex, who I assume was the girl at Merchants. I

almost told him that I had wanted to break up too it was the

truth. But I cared so little that I didn't bother setting the record

straight. I simply said okay, best of luck. And that was that.

Every now and then I run into Alec at the New York Sports Club

near work. We are very cordial to each other once I even used the

StairMaster beside his, not caring that my face was broken out or

that I was wearing my sloppiest gray sweats (Darcy says they

should never be worn in public). On that occasion, we made small

talk. I inquired about his girlfriend, letting him ramble on about

their upcoming trip to Jamaica. It took no effort at all to be nice,

another clear indication that I had nothing real invested in our

relationship. In some ways, in fact, I shouldn't even put Alec in

the serious-boyfriend category. But because I slept with him (and

see myself as the sort of woman who would only sleep with

someone in a legitimate relationship), I put him in that unfortunately exclusive club.

I review my three boyfriends, the three men I slept with in my

twenties, searching for a common thread. Nothing. No consistent

features, coloring, stature, personality. But one theme does

emerge: they all picked me. And then dumped me. I played the

passive role. Waiting for Hunter and then settling for Joey.

Waiting to feel more for Nate. Then waiting to feel less. Waiting

for Alec to go away and leave me in peace.

And now Dex. My number four. And I am still waiting.

For all of this to blow over.

For his September wedding.

For someone who gives me that tingly feeling as I watch him

sleeping in my bed early on a Sunday morning.

Someone who isn't

engaged to my best friend.

On Saturday night, I cab down to

Gotham Bar and Grill with an open mind and a positive attitude half the battle before any date thinking that maybe

Marcus will be the someone I am looking for.

I walk into the restaurant and spot him right away, sitting at the

bar, wearing baggy jeans and a slightly wrinkled, green plaid shirt

with the sleeves rolled up haphazardly the opposite of TTH.

"Sorry I'm late," I say, as Marcus stands to greet me.

"Had some

trouble getting a cab."

"No worries," he says, offering me a stool next to his.

I sit down. He smiles, exposing two rows of very white, straight

teeth. Possibly his best feature. Either that or the cleft in his

square chin.

"So what can I get you?" he asks me.

"What are you having?"

"Gin and tonic."

"I'll have the same."

He glances toward the bartender with a twenty extended and then

looks back at me. "You look great, Rachel."

I thank him. It's been a long time since I've received a proper

compliment from a guy. It occurs to me that Dex and I didn't get

around to compliments.

Marcus finally gets the bartender's attention and orders me a

Bombay Sapphire and tonic. Then he says, "So, last time I saw you

we were all pretty wasted That was a fun night."

"Yeah. I was pretty out of it," I say, hoping that Dex told me the

truth about keeping Marcus in the dark. "But at least I made it

home before sunup. Darcy told me you and Dex were out pretty