Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [32]
"Well, the summer is long," Claire says wisely. "You're smart not to commit until you see what else is out there."
We arrive at our summer house, a small cottage with limited charm. Claire found it when she came out alone in mid-February, disgusted with all of us for not sacrificing a free weekend to house-hunt. She organized everything, including setting up the other half of the share. As we tour the house, she apologizes again for the lack of a pool, and laments that the common areas aren't really large enough for good parties. We reassure her that the big backyard with a grill makes up for that. Plus, we are close enough to the beach to walk, which, in my opinion, is the most important thing about a summerhouse.
We unpack the car and find our bedrooms. Darcy and Dex have the room with the king-sized bed. Marcus has his own room, which could come in handy. And Claire has her own room—a reward for her efforts. I am rooming with Hillary, who blew off work today and took the train in last night. Hillary is always blowing off work. I don't know anyone more laid-back about work, particularly at a big firm. She comes to work late every day—closer and closer to eleven with each passing year—and she refuses to play the games that other associates play, like leaving a jacket on the back of their chair or a cup full of coffee on their desk before leaving at night so that partners will think they've only left for a short break. She billed fewer than two thousand hours last year and therefore received no bonus. "Do the math and you'll realize that making a bonus comes out to less per hour than flipping burgers at McDonald's," she said this year on the day checks were handed out.
I call her on my cell now. "Where are you?"
"Cyril's," she shouts over the crowd. "Want me to stay here or meet you guys somewhere?"
I pass along the question to Darcy and Claire.
"Tell her we're going straight to the Talkhouse," Darcy says. "It's already late."
Then, as I expected, Claire and Darcy insist on changing their clothes. And Marcus, who is still wearing his work clothes, goes to change too. So Dex and I sit in the den, opposite each other, waiting. He holds the remote control but does not turn the TV on. It is the first time we have been alone since the Incident. I am conscious of sweat accumulating under my arms. Why am I nervous? What happened is behind us. It is over. I must relax, act normal.
"Aren't you going to doll up for your boyfriend?" Dex asks quietly, without looking at me.
"Very funny." Even the mere exchange of words now feels illicit.
"Well, aren't you?"
"I'm fine in this," I say, glancing down at my favorite jeans and black knit top. What he doesn't know is that I already put much thought into this outfit when I changed after work.
"So you and Marcus make a swell couple." He glances furtively at the staircase.
"Thanks. So do you and Darcy."
We exchange a lingering look, too loaded with potential meaning to begin to interpret. And then, before he can respond, Darcy bounds down the stairs in a curve-hugging chartreuse sheath. She hands Dex a pair of scissors and crouches at his feet, lifting her hair. "Can you cut the tag, please?"
He snips. She stands and spins.
"Well? How do I look?"
"Nice," he says, and then glances at me sheepishly as if the one-word compliment to his fiancée might somehow upset me.
"You look awesome," I say, to show him that it doesn't. Not in the least.
We pay the cover and make our way through the massive crowd at Stephen's Talkhouse, our favorite bar in Amagansett, saying hello to all of the people we know from various circles back in the city. We find Hillary at the bar with a Budweiser, wearing cutoff jeans, a white scoop-neck T-shirt, and the kind of plain blue flip-flops that Darcy and Claire would only wear to their pedicurist. There is not a pretentious bone in Hillary's body, and as always, I am so happy to see her.
"Hey, guys!" she yells. "What took you so long?"
"Traffic was a bitch," Dex says. "And then certain people had to get ready."