Something Blue - Emily Giffin [37]
"Well, that," Claire said, struggling for tactful wording. "And, I don't know, just everything. He's a nice, fun guy—don't get me wrong…" She trailed off.
"You don't think he's sexy?" I said. "I think he's so sexy."
Claire looked at me blankly. Her answer was clear. She did not find Marcus sexy. Not in the least.
"Well, I think he is," I said again, feeling highly offended.
"That's all that matters, then," Claire said, patting my hand condescendingly.
"Right," I said, knowing that that was not all that mattered. "I can't believe you don't think he's cute."
"I guess," she said. "In a… I don't know… 'guy's guy' kind of way."
"Well, he's great in bed," I said, trying to convince Claire—and myself—that this single fact could make up for all of his shortcomings.
By five o'clock, I had received a dozen or more birthday e-mails and phone calls, and a stream of chipper office visits from colleagues. Still nothing from Rachel or Dex. There was one last possibility: maybe they had sent a card, note, or gift to my apartment, which I hadn't returned to in several days. So after my facial, I cabbed it across the park to my apartment, anticipating the apologies that were surely awaiting me.
Minutes later I grabbed my mail from the lobby, unlocked my door, and surveyed my stash: I had cards from the usual lineup: my parents; my brother, Jeremy; my still-smitten high school boyfriend, Blaine; my grandmother; and my second-oldest friend from home, Annalise. The final one had no return address. It had to be from Rachel or Dex! I ripped open the envelope to find a picture of wriggling golden retriever puppies piled into a white wicker basket. A "Happy Birthday" banner stretched over the basket, each letter written in a different shade of pink. My heart sank, as I realized that the card was likely from my aunt Clarice, who still treated me as if I were ten. Unless Rachel was playing on the whole "friends since childhood" theme. I slowly opened the card, feeling hopeful until I saw the telltale ten-dollar bill taped inside and Aunt Clarice's wobbly signature below the greeting "Hope your day is a basket of fun!"
And that was that. There was no getting around it—Rachel and Dex had blown off my thirtieth birthday, a day we had talked about for at least the past five years. I started to cry, undermining the treatment for puffy eyes that I had added to my regular facial. I called Marcus's cell to garner some sympathy.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"That's for me to know—and you to find out," he said, the noise of heavy traffic in the background. I pictured him tripping down Fifth Avenue, his arms filled with packages.
"They didn't call. Neither of them. No calls, e-mails, cards. Nothing."
He knew who I meant. "The nerve of some ex-boyfriends," Marcus joked.
"It's not funny!" I said. "Can you believe them?"
"Darcy, didn't you tell them that you never wanted to speak to them again? That they were—what were your words?—'dead to you'?"
I gave him credit for recalling my precise wording. "Yes—but they could at least try to redeem themselves. They didn't even try. It's my thirtieth birthday!"
"I know, babe. And we're gonna celebrate. So bring your skinny ass down here."
He was right, my ass was still skinny. This observation cheered me up a drop. "Am I going to be a basketball girl?"
"What's a basketball girl?"
"One of those girls who looks as if she has only a basketball under her shirt. You know, with thin limbs and a still-pretty face? And then the ball falls out and she is, voila, perfect again?"
"Sure you will. Now get down here!"
He hung up before I could ask him where we were going for dinner, how dressed up I needed to be. Well, there's no such thing as being overdressed, I told myself, as I selected my slinkiest black dress, highest Jimmy Choo stilettos, and gauziest wrap out of my closet, lining the ensemble up on my bed. Then I showered, blew my hair out straight, applied makeup to my glowing skin, opting for neutral lips and dramatic, smoky eyes.
"Thirty and ab-so-lute-ly stunning,"