Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [56]
Claire gives him the standard response. "Not yet. I'm not hot enough."
Marcus says he hates to swim, particularly in freezing water. "Please make me see how that is fun."
Darcy giggles. "It's not fun. It's torture!"
I say nothing, hit the play button on my Discman.
"What about you, Rachel?" Dex asks, still hovering over me.
I ignore him, pretending that the volume is too high to hear him.
He and Darcy return to their towels on the other side of Claire. Darcy brushes sand from her feet and ankles, while Dex sits cross-legged, looking at the ocean. I can see his shoulder and back out of the corner of my eye. I try not to think about his smooth skin and how he feels against me. I won't be feeling it again. I tell myself it's not the end of the world. It is for the best.
Before dinner that night, as I am dressing, Darcy comes to my room to ask me if I brought an eyelash curler. I tell her no, that I don't own an eyelash curler. Maybe Hillary does, but she is showering. She sits on my bed and sighs, her features rearranging in a dreamy expression.
"I just had the best sex," she says.
I struggle to keep my composure. "Oh, really?" I know I am opening the door for more sharing, but I don't know what else to say. My face is on fire. I hope Darcy won't notice.
"Yeah, it was phenomenal. Did you hear us?" It is like Darcy to share such details. She has always been explicit in her sexual reports. She will tell you what words were exchanged at the moment of orgasm. I have always listened, usually laughed, occasionally even enjoyed her stories. But those days are long over.
"No. I must have been in the shower," I say.
"Yeah, we were in the shower too." She finger-combs her wet hair, then shakes her head from side to side. "Wow. Haven't had sex like that in months."
I think of their wet bodies pressed together and can't decide who I hate more.
It is late, after two a.m. I have avoided Dex all night, at the house and then at dinner. Now we are at the Talkhouse. I have just ordered two beers, one for me and one for Hillary, when Dex finds me at the bar.
"Hi, Rach," he says.
I am buzzed and brazen. The alcohol has dried up my hurt, leaving only resentment and anger. They are easier emotions to manage, more straightforward. "Yes?"
"What's going on?" he asks casually.
"Nothing," I snap, turning to leave.
"Wait a sec. Where are you going?"
"To take Hillary her beer."
"I want to talk to you."
"What about?" I make my voice icy.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," I say, wishing I could think of something pointed and vengeful. I have not had much practice being mean, but my tone of voice must do the trick because Dex looks hurt. Not as hurt as I was today on the beach or during Darcy's sex report. Not hurt enough. I raise my eyebrows, looking at him with a slight look of disgust, as if to say, Yes? Is there something I can do for you?
"Are you—are you mad at me?" he asks.
I laugh—no, it is more of a snort.
"'Are you?" he asks again.
"No, Dex, I'm not mad at you," I say. "I really am not concerned with you at all. Or what you do with Darcy."
Now he knows that I know. "Rachel…" he starts, flustered. Then he tries to tell me it was her doing, that she initiated it.
"She said it was the best sex of her life," I say as I walk away, leaving him standing alone at the bar. "Good job. Congrats."
Even in the fog of my buzz, I know that I have no right to confront Dex like this. All he did was have sex with his fiancée. He has promised me nothing—we were not supposed to even discuss anything until the Fourth of July. No material misrepresentation has been made. In fact, no misrepresentation has been made at all, material or otherwise. I am in this situation of my own accord, have not been duped. But I still hate him.
I scan the crowd, trying to find Hillary. Dex follows me and grabs my arm right below my elbow. I drop one of the beers. The bottle breaks.
"Nice. Look what you did," I say, looking down at the mess.
"I'll get you another one."
"Don't bother."
"Rachel,