Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [123]
"It's not as malicious as you make it sound," I say, wondering why I am defending her.
"You're right. It's not just for the sake of defeating you. I think she just respects you so much that she wants to beat you to win your respect… You'll note that she's not going out of her way to show up Annalise. It's just you. But sometimes I think you get sucked into it, and your whole dynamic becomes more about competing than true friendship." He gives me a knowing, parental look.
"You think that I like Dex for the same reason—to compete with Darcy. Don't you?"
He clears his throat and dabs his napkin to his lips, replaces it to his lap. "Well? Is it possible?" he asks.
I shake my head. "No way. You can't trick yourself into the feelings I have. Had," I say.
"Okay. It was just a theory."
"Absolutely not. It was the real deal."
But as I fall asleep that night in Ethan's bed (he insisted on taking the couch all week), I wonder about this theory of his. Is it possible that the thrill I felt when I kissed Dex had more to do with the titillation of being bad, breaking rules, having something that belonged to Darcy? Maybe my affair with Dex was about rebelling against my own safe choices, against Darcy and years of feeling deficient. I am disturbed by the idea, because you never like to think that you are a slave to these sorts of subliminal pulls. But at the same time, the idea consoles me. If I liked Dex for these reasons, then I don't love him after all. And it should be a whole lot easier for me to move on.
But the next day, as Ethan takes the tube with me to Paddington Station, I know, again, that I really do love Dex, and probably will for a very long time. I buy my ticket for the Heathrow Express. The board tells us that the next train will depart in three minutes, so we walk to the designated platform. "You know what you're doing, right?" he asks protectively.
For a second, I think he is asking me about my life, then I realize he is only inquiring about travel logistics. "Yes. This goes straight to Heathrow, right?"
"Yeah. Just get out at Terminal Three. It's easy."
I hug Ethan and thank him for everything. I tell him that I had a wonderful time. "I don't want to leave."
"Then move here… I really think you should do it. You have nothing to lose."
He is right; I do have nothing to lose. I'd be leaving nothing. A depressing thought. "I'll think about it," I say and promise myself I will keep thinking about it once I get home, rather than falling blindly into my old routine.
We hug one last time, and then I board my train and watch Ethan wave at me through the tinted train window. I wave back, thinking that there is nothing like old friends.
I arrive at Terminal Three and go through the motions of checking in, going through security, and waiting to board. The flight feels endless, and although I try, I can't sleep at all. Despite my week of distraction, I don't feel much better than I did on the flight over. Even the aerial views of New York City, which usually charge me with anticipation and excitement, don't do a thing for me. Dex is amid those buildings. I liked it better when the Atlantic Ocean separated us.
When the plane lands, I make my way through passport control, baggage, and customs to find a long cab line. It is meltingly hot outside, and as I get in my cab, I discover that the air-conditioning is barely blowing through the vent into the backseat.
"Could you make it cooler back here, please?" I ask my driver, who is smoking a cigarette, an offense which could fetch him a $150 ticket.
He ignores me and lurches us sickeningly sideways. He is switching lanes every ten seconds.
I ask him again if he will please turn the air up. Nothing. Maybe he doesn't hear me over his radio. Or maybe he doesn't speak English. I glance at my Passenger Bill of Rights. I am entitled to: a courteous, English-speaking driver who knows and obeys all traffic laws… air-conditioning on demand… a radio-free