Something Blue - Emily Giffin [50]
"Hello, Dex," I said, smiling a slow smile. "You're early."
Dex grimaced and tossed his document into his briefcase. Then he snapped it closed, stood up, and looked me straight in the eye. "Hi, Darcy."
"Come on up," I said, walking as enticingly as possible up the stairs to our third-floor apartment. Dex used to hate when I took the elevator three floors up, so I would show him that people could change. He followed me silently and then stood waiting with a grim expression as I unlocked the door. I walked inside, but he waited just outside the doorway.
"Well? Aren't you going to come in?" I asked, making my way over to the couch.
"Where's my stuff?" he asked, refusing to take another step.
I rolled my eyes. "Can't you please just come in and sit down? I want to talk to you for one second."
"I have plans at nine," he said.
"Well, it's only eight."
He glanced around nervously. Then he sighed, walked toward me, and perched on the very edge of the couch, placing his briefcase between his feet. I thought of all the times he had plopped down on that exact spot, kicked off his shoes, and reclined. We had eaten countless dinners on that couch, watched hundreds of movies and television shows there, even made love a few times in the early days. Now he looked out of place and stiff. It was weird.
I smiled at him, trying to alter the mood.
"Let's get this show on the road, Darcy. I gotta get going."
"Where are you going?"
"That is none of your business."
"Are you going out with Rachel? How are things going with her?" I asked, hoping to hear that their ill-advised romance—one based on hurt feelings and confusion—had fizzled, destroying their friendship along the way.
Dex said, "Let's not go through the charade of inquiring about each other's lives as if we're friends."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"What part didn't you get?" he said.
"The part about us not being friends?"
"We're not friends," he said.
"We date for seven years and now we're not even friends? Just like that?" I asked.
He didn't flinch. "That's right. Just like that."
"Well. Regardless of whether we're friends, why can't you tell me if you're still with Rachel? What's the big deal?" I paused, praying that he would say, Don't be ridiculous. Rachel and I don't have a relationship. That afternoon was just something that happened… or even better… almost happened. Maybe I had even imagined their tans in Crate and Barrel.
"It's not a big deal," he said. "I just think it's best if we don't discuss our personal lives." He gripped the handle on his briefcase, pushing it from side to side.
"Why? I can handle it. You can't?"
He exhaled hard, shook his head, and said, "Fine. If you insist. Things with Rachel are very good. Great, in fact."
"So you're actually dating?"
"See? That's exactly why I don't want to discuss my life with you," Dex said, rubbing his hand along his jaw.
"Fine." I sniffed. "Let's just get your things. They're in the bedroom. You remember where that is, don't you?"
"You get them. I'll wait here."
"Dex, please," I said. "Just come with me."
"No," he said. "I'm not going back there."
I sighed, striding toward our bedroom, where I had planned on seducing him after a glass or two of wine. That clearly wasn't going to happen. So I grabbed a shoebox, dumped a pair of Jimmy Choos on my bed, and rummaged through my desk until I found a few instruction booklets. One for a fancy calculator he had bought for his home office. Another for our stereo. And a few maps of the D.C. area where his father lived. I put the papers in the shoebox. Then, just to add some heft, I threw in our studio engagement picture, expensive sterling silver frame and all. I knew it was one of Dexter's favorites of me, so it had surprised me when he took other pictures of us and left that one behind. I waltzed back into the living room, thrust the box toward him, and said, "Here."
"That's the heavy box you couldn't carry?"