Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [23]
Our business. Our. We. Us.
"I was just wondering what he knew. I mean, you told Darcy you were with him that night…"
"Yeah. I said, 'Marcus, I was with you last night and we had breakfast together this morning—all right?' And that was that. I know that's not how it works with you girls—women."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"I mean you and Darcy share every exhaustive detail with one another. Like what you ate that day and what brand of shampoo you plan on purchasing."
"And like when you sleep with one another's fiancés? That sort of detail?"
Dex laughs. "Yeah, that would be another example."
"Or like your bet that I'd say no to Marcus?"
He laughs again, knowing that he is busted. "She told you that, did she?"
"Yeah. She told me that."
"And did it offend you?"
I realize that I am starting to relax, almost enjoying the conversation. "No… but it made me say yes to Marcus."
"Oh!" he laughs. "I see how it works. So you're saying that had she not shared that piece of information with you, you would have turned my boy down?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" I ask coyly, hardly recognizing myself.
"I would actually. Please enlighten me."
"I'm not sure… Why did you think I'd say no?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," he retorts.
I smile. This is full-fledged flirtatious banter.
"Okay. I thought you'd say no because Marcus doesn't seem to be your type," he finally says.
"And who is?" I ask, and then feel instantly remorseful. Flirting like this is not the path to redemption. It is no way to right my wrong. This is what my brain tells me, but my heart is galloping as I await his answer.
"I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out for about seven years."
I wonder what he means by this statement. I twist the cord around my fingers and can think of nothing to say in response. We should hang up now. This is going in a bad direction.
"Rach?" His voice is low and intimate.
I feel breathless, hearing him say my name like this. The one syllable is familiar, warm. "Yeah?"
"You still there?" he whispers.
I manage to say, "Yes, I'm still here."
"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing," I lie.
I have to lie. Because what I am thinking is, Maybe you are my type a little bit more than I once thought.
* * *
Maybe I don't have a type at all. When I consider my past relationships there is no composite picture. Not that the sample would be considered statistically significant—other than Brandon in high school, I have had only three boyfriends.
My real dating history began my first semester of college at Duke. I lived in a coed dorm, and every night we all gathered in the lounge to study (or pretend to), hang out, and watch shows like Beverly Hills, 90210 and Melrose Place. It was in that lounge that I developed a serious crush on Hunter Bretz from Mississippi. Hunter was scrawny and nerdy, but I was crazy about him. I loved his intelligence, his slow, smooth drawl, and the way his brown eyes fixed on you when you talked, as though he really cared about what you had to say. My roommate Pam, a Jersey girl with big hair, declared my feelings a "total fucking mystery" but still encouraged me to ask Hunter out. I didn't, but I did work hard at developing a friendship, cracking through his shy exterior to talk to him about poetry and literature. I really believed that I was making progress with Hunter when Joey Merola came in for the kill.
Joey was the opposite of Hunter—a boisterous sports guy with a loud laugh. He played every intramural sport in the book and was always strolling into the lounge all sweaty with a story about how his team came from behind in the last second to win the game. He was the kind of guy who was proud of how much he could eat and the fact that he could get by in literature classes without ever reading a book.
One Thursday night, Joey, Hunter, and I were the last three in the lounge, talking about religion, the death penalty, and the meaning of life, the stuff I had imagined discussing in college, away from Darcy and her more shallow pursuits. Joey was an atheist and for the death penalty.