Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [61]
I never considered not seeing him. I tell him this, realizing that it might erode my power. I don't care. It is the truth.
Both of us begin to apologize, moving toward each other awkwardly, self-consciously. He takes one of my hands in his, squeezes it. His touch is both soothing and electrifying. "I'm so sorry for everything," he says slowly.
I wonder if he knows to be sorry about the beach too, if that is included in "everything." I have replayed that scene over and over, mostly in sepia, like Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" video. I blink, squeezing the images out of my mind. I want to make up. I want to move on.
"I'm sorry too," I say. I take his other hand, but there is still much space between us. Enough to fit another person or two.
"You have no reason to be sorry."
"Yes I do. I had no right to be angry at you. I was so out of line… We weren't going to discuss anything until after July Fourth. That was the deal…"
"It's not fair to you," he says. "It's a fucked-up deal."
"I am fine with the way things are," I say. It's not exactly true, but I am afraid of losing him if I ask for more. Of course, I am terrified of truly being with him too.
"I need to tell you about that afternoon with Darcy," he says.
I know he is talking about the shower episode, and I can't bear to hear it. The sepia beach frolic is one thing, the up-close and color porn scene is another. I don't want a single detail from his perspective. "Please don't," I say. "You really don't have to explain."
"It's just that… I want you to know that she initiated it… Truly… I've been avoiding it for so long, and I just couldn't get out of it." His face twitches, a mask of guilty discomfort.
"You do not have to explain," I say again, more firmly. "She's your fiancée."
He nods, looking relieved.
"You know when the two of you were on the beach?" I ask quietly, surprising myself by bringing it up.
"Yeah," he says knowingly, and then looks down. "When I came back up to the towels, I knew. I knew you were upset."
"How did you know?"
"You heard me say your name and ignored me. You were so cool. Chilly. I hated that."
"I'm sorry. It's just that you looked so happy with her. And I felt soso…" I struggle to find the right word. "Well, obsolete, used."
"You are not obsolete, Rachel. You are all I think about. I couldn't sleep last night. Couldn't work today. You are anything but obsolete." His voice has lowered to a whisper, and we have assumed the position of slow-dancers, my arms around his neck. "And you must know that I'm not using you," he says into my ear. I feel the goose bumps rising.
"I know," I say into his shoulder. "But it's just so weird. Watching you with her. I don't think I should go to the Hamptons with you both again."
"I'm so sorry," he says again. "I know. I just wanted to spend time with you."
We kiss once. It is a soft, closed-mouth kiss, our lips barely touching. There is no connotation of lust or sex or passion. It is the other side of a love affair, the part I like the best.
We move over to my bed. He sits on the edge, and I am cross-legged beside him.
"I just want you to know," he says, staring intently into my eyes, "that I would never do this if I didn't deeply care for you."
"I know," I say.
"And I'm… you know… taking this whole thing very seriously."
"Let's not talk about it until the Fourth," I say quickly. "That was the deal."
"Are you sure? Because we can talk about it now if you want."
"I'm sure. Positive."
And I am positive. I am afraid of any leads he might give me about our future. I can't bear the thought of losing him, but have yet to consider what it would be like to lose Darcy. To have done something so huge and all-encompassing and wrong and final to my best friend.
He tells me that it scares him how much I mean to him, do I know how much I mean to him?
I nod. I know.
He kisses me again, more intensely this time. Then I experience my first truly unbelievable make-up sex.