Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [60]
"He was upset? I don't remember." I look at the ceiling, wrinkle my forehead. "I don't think he was upset. Why do you ask?"
When trapped, answering a question with a question is always a sound tactic.
"No reason. It just seemed odd, is all."
"Odd?"
"I don't know. It's crazy…"
"What?"
"It's crazy, but… you guys looked like a couple."
I laugh nervously. "That is crazy!"
"I know. But as I was watching you two talk, I thought to myself that you would be way better with Dex. You know, better than he is with Darcy."
"Oh, come on," I say. More nervous laughter. "They look great together."
"Sure. Yes. They have all of that surface stuff. But something about them doesn't fit." She brings her water glass to her lips and inspects me over it.
Keep your day job, Hillary.
I tell her she is nuts, even though I love what she has just told me. I want to ask her why she thinks this. Because we both went to law school? Because we have some shared trait—more depth or dignity than Darcy? But I say nothing more, because it's always wise to say as little as possible when you're guilty.
Les barges into my office after lunch to ask me about another matter for the same client. I have figured out over the years that this is his awkward way of apologizing. He only comes by my office after an explosion, like the one this morning.
I swivel in my chair and give him the update. "I've checked all of the cases in New York. And federal cases too."
"Okay. But keep in mind that our fact pattern is unique," Les says. "I'm not sure the Court will care much about precedent."
"I know that. But as far as I can tell, the general holding we rely upon in Section One of our brief is still good law. So that's a good first step."
So there.
"Well, make sure you check case law in other jurisdictions too," he says. "We need to anticipate all of their arguments."
"Yup," I say.
As he turns to leave, he says over his shoulder, "Nice roses."
I am stunned. Les and I do not make small talk, and he has never commented on anything other than my work, not even a "How was your weekend?" on a Monday morning, or a "Cold enough out there for you?" when we ride the elevator together on a snowy day.
Maybe two dozen red roses make me seem more interesting. I am more interesting, I think. This affair has given me a new dimension.
I am shutting down my computer, about to leave work, with plans to see Dexter. We have not yet spoken, only traded a series of conciliatory messages, including one from me thanking him for the beautiful flowers.
Hillary appears in my doorway, on her way out. "You're leaving now too?"
"Yeah," I say, wishing I had slipped out ahead of her. She often asks me if I want to get a drink after work, even on Mondays, which virtually everybody else considers the only stay-in night of the week. She isn't so much a party girl, like Darcy, she just isn't one to sit home and do nothing.
Sure enough, she asks if I want to grab a margarita at Tequilaville, our favorite place near work despite—or maybe because of—the stale chips and touristy crowd. It is always a welcome escape from the predictable New York scene.
I say no, I can't.
Of course she wants a reason. Every reason I think of she can and will refute: I'm tired (c'mon, one drink?), I have to go the gym (blow it off!), I'm cutting back on alcohol (a blank, incredulous stare). So I tell her that I have a date. Her face lights up. "So ole Marky Mark's flowers worked their magic, huh?"
"You got me," I say, glancing at my watch for good measure.
"Where are you going? Or are you staying in?"
I tell her we're going out.
"Where?"
"Nobu," I say, because I ate there recently.
"Nobu on a Monday night, huh? He does dig you."
I regret my choice; I should have gone for the no-name neighborhood Italian restaurant.
"If the date ends before two, call me and give me the scoop," she says.
"Sure thing," I say.
I go home forgetting all about Marcus and Hillary.
"Thank you so much for seeing me," Dex says, as I open the door. He is wearing a dark suit and white shirt. His tie is removed,