Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [107]
I have no explanation for her. At least none that she would find acceptable. My phone rings, interrupting our awkward silence.
I glance at the screen on my phone. "It's Les. I better take it," I say, feeling relief that the inquisition is over. It is a sad day when I am grateful to hear from Les.
Later that afternoon, I take a break from my research and roll my chair over to my window. I peer down on Park Avenue, watching people move about their daily lives. How many of them feel desperate, euphoric, or simply dead inside? I wonder if any of them are on the verge of losing something huge. If they already have. I close my eyes and picture the wedding scenes that Hillary painted for me. I then add my own honeymoon reel—Darcy clad in her new lingerie, posing seductively on their bed. I can see it all so perfectly.
And suddenly, all at once, it is clear to me why I won't force Dex's hand. Why I said nothing over July Fourth, nothing in the time since, nothing last night. It all comes down to expectations. In my heart, I don't actually believe that Dex is going to call off the wedding and be with me, no matter what I do or say. I believe that those Dex and Darcy wedding and honeymoon scenes will unfold while I am left on the sidelines, alone. I can already feel my grief, can envision my final time with Dex, if it hasn't happened already. Sure, I have occasionally scripted a different ending, one in which Dex and I are together, but those images are always short-lived, never escaping the realm of "what if." In short, I have no real faith in my own happiness. And then there is Darcy. She is a woman who believes that things should fall into her lap, and consequently, they do. They always have. She wins because she expects to win. I do not expect to get what I want, so I don't. And I don't even try.
It is Saturday afternoon, and we're in the Hamptons. I took the train out this morning, and now our whole group is reunited in the backyard. The togetherness is a recipe for disaster. Julian and Hillary are playing badminton. They ask if anyone wants to challenge them in a doubles match. Dex says sure, he will. Hillary glares at him. "Who do you want to be your partner, Dexter?"
Until this point, Dexter did not know that I told Hillary anything about us. I had two reasons for keeping him in the dark on this: I didn't want him to feel uncomfortable around her, and I didn't want him to have free license to tell a friend.
But Hillary makes her snide remark in a way that you simply cannot miss if you are aware of the situation. Which apparently Julian is, because he gives her a look of warning. It has become clear that he will be the steadying force in their duo.
She does not stop there. "Well, Dex, who is it going to be?" She rests her hand on her hip and points at him with her racquet.
Dex stares back at Hillary. His jaw clenches. He is pissed.
"What if two people both want to be your partner, then what?" Hillary's voice is dripping with innuendo.
Darcy seems oblivious to the tension. So do Marcus and Claire. Perhaps everyone is used to Hillary's occasional confrontational tone. Maybe they just chalk it up to the lawyer in her.
Dex turns around and looks at us. "Any of you guys wanna play?"
Marcus waves his hand dismissively. "Naw, man. No, thanks. That's a girly game."
Darcy giggles. "Yeah, Dex. You're a girly man."
Claire says no, she hates sports.
"Badminton is hardly a sport," Marcus says, opening a can of Bud-weiser. "It's like calling tic-tac-toe a sport."
"Looks like it's between Darcy and Rachel. Doesn't it?" Hillary says. "You want in, Rach?"
I am frozen at my post at the picnic table, flanked by Darcy and Claire.
"No, thanks," I say softly.
"You want me to be your partner, honey?" Darcy asks. She looks across the yard at Dex as she shades her eyes with her hand.
"Sure," he says. "C'mon then."
Hillary snorts as Darcy hops up from the table with a warning