Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [124]
Maybe the trunk is clean.
See? It's all about low expectations.
The backseat keeps getting hotter, so I roll down the window and endure the dirty wind whipping my hair around my face. Finally I am home again. I pay my not-so-courteous cabbie the flat rate from JFK, plus toll and tip (even though the placard also states that I may refuse to tip if my rights weren't complied with). I heave my roller bag out of the backseat.
It is five-thirty. By this time on Saturday, Darcy and Dex will be married. I will have already helped Darcy into her gown and wrapped the stems of her calla lilies with my lace handkerchief, her something borrowed. I will have already assured her a thousand times that she has never looked so beautiful, that everything is just right. I will have already walked down the aisle toward Dexter without looking at him. Well, trying not to look at him, but maybe catching a fleeting look in his eyes, a mixture of guilt and pity. I will have endured that painful thirty seconds of watching Darcy, in all of her glory, walk toward the altar, as I hold Dexter's platinum band in my sweaty palm. In six days, the worst will be over.
"Hello there, Ms. Rachel!" Jose says as I close the cab door. Then he says to someone in the lobby, "She's back!"
I stiffen, expecting to see Darcy with her wedding folder, ready to bark demands my way. But it is not Darcy waiting for me in my lobby, in the lone leather wing chair.
* * *
It is Dex. He stands as I stare at him. He is wearing jeans and a gray "Hoyas" T-shirt. He is tanner than when I left. I resent his healthy glow and his placid expression.
"Hi," he says, taking a step toward me.
"Hi." I freeze, feeling my posture become perfect. "How did you know when I was getting home?"
"Ethan gave me your flight details. I found his number in Darcy's address book."
"Oh… What do you want? What are you doing here?" I ask. I don't mean to sound bitter, but I know that I do.
"Let me come up. I have to talk to you," he says quietly, but urgently. Jose is still beaming, perfectly clueless.
I shrug and push the arrow for the elevator. The ride up is endless, quiet. I look at him as he waits for me to exit first. I can tell by his expression that he is here to reapologize. He can't stand being the bad guy. Well, I will not give him the satisfaction. And I will not be patronized. If he goes down that road of telling me again how sorry he is, I will cut him off. Maybe even tell him about James. I will say that I am fine, that I will be at the wedding, but after that, I want minimal contact with him, and that I expect him to cooperate. Make no mistake about it, I will say, our friendship is over.
I turn the key in my lock and open the door. Entering my apartment is like opening a hot oven, even though I remembered to put my shades down. My plants have all wilted. I should have asked Hillary to water them. I turn on my air conditioner and notice that it won't operate on high. Whenever it gets above ninety-five, there is a deliberate citywide brownout. I miss London, where it's not even necessary to own an air conditioner.
"Brownout," Dex says.
"I can see that," I say.
I breeze by him and sit on my couch, cross my arms, try to raise one eyebrow as Phoebe did. Both rise together.
Dex sits beside me without asking first. He tries to take my hand, but I pull it away.
"Why are you here, Dex?"
"I just called it off."
"What?" I ask. Surely I heard him wrong.
"The wedding is off. I—I'm not getting married."
I am stunned, remembering the first time I heard that people pinch themselves when they think they're dreaming. I was four years old and took the concept literally, pinching my arm hard, as if maybe I was still two years old and had dreamed up the second half of my life. I remember feeling relieved that my skin hurt.
Dex continues, his voice steady and quiet. He stares at his balled fists in his lap as he talks, only glancing at me between sentences. "The whole time you were gone, I was going crazy. I missed you so