Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [65]
"What does Martha suggest?" I ask, marking my place in my novel with my thumb.
"I dunno, hard stuff to make. Labor-intensive stuff." She looks at me plaintively. "You have to help! You know I'm no good at crafts."
"Neither am I."
"You're better than I am!"
I turn back to my book, pretending to be engrossed.
She sighs and chews her Juicy Fruit more vigorously. And when that doesn't work, she hits the spine of my book. "Raa-chel!"
"Okay! Okay!"
She smiles, unabashed, like a child who doesn't care that she's made her mother miserable, only that she got what she wanted. "So you think we should do something with d?"
"D?" I ask, playing dumb.
"You know, a d… for Dex and Darcy. Or is that cheesy?"
"Cheesy," I say, which would have been my answer even before the D and R days.
"Okay—then what?" She checks the number of fat grams in her snack mix before casting it into the seat-back pocket in front of her.
"Well, you have your sugared almonds in netting tied with pastel ribbons… or mints in a tin with your wedding date," I say as I exert slight pressure with my left elbow, trying to wedge it in a tiny crevice on my armrest. In my peripheral vision, I see Crew Cut flex his bicep in resis-tance. "Then you have permanent keepsakes like Christmas tree ornaments…"
"Can't. We have too many Jewish guests—and honestly, I think some people who celebrate Kwanza," she interrupts, proud of her diverse guest list.
"Okay. But you get the point. That genre. Permanent keepsakes: ornaments, homemade CDs with your favorite songs."
She becomes perky. "I like the CD idea! But wouldn't that be expen-siver
I give her a look that says, yeah, but you're worth it. She eats it up. "But what's another few hundred dollars in the scheme of things, right?" she asks.
I'm sure her parents would love this statement. "Right," I patronize.
"So we could have, like, The Darcy and Dex Soundtrack and put our all-time favorite songs on it," she says.
I wince.
"Are you sure it's not cheesy? Tell me the truth."
"No, I like it. I like it." I want to change the subject but worry that this will spark a discussion of my maid-of-honor shortcomings. So instead I strike a thoughtful pose and tell her that although the CDs would be time intensive and expensive, they would make a lovely, special favor. Then I ask her if Dex would like the idea.
She looks at me as if to say, who cares what Dex wants? Grooms don't matter. "Okay. Now help me think of some songs."
I hear Shania Twain singing "Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?" Or maybe Diana Ross belting out "Stop! In the Name of Love!" No, all wrong, I think. Both songs cast Darcy in the role of noble victim.
"I can't think of one song. My mind's a blank. Help me think," Darcy says, her pen poised over her napkin. "Maybe something by Prince? Van Halen?"
"I can't think of any either," I say, hoping that Bruce Springsteen doesn't make the cut.
"You sure it's not cheesy?" she asks.
"It's not cheesy," I say, and then whisper, "This guy next to me is really pissing me off. He won't give me any of the armrest." I turn to quickly survey Crew Cut's smug profile.
"Excuse me! Sir!" Darcy leans over my lap and pokes his arm. Once, twice, three times. "Sir? Sir!"
He casts a disdainful eye her way.
"Sir, could you please share the armrest with my friend here?" She flashes him her most seductive smile.
He shifts his arm one centimeter. I mumble thanks.
"See?" Darcy asks me proudly.
This is the part where I'm supposed to marvel at her way with men.
"You just have to know how to ask for what you want," she whispers. My mentor in dealing with the opposite sex.
I think of Dex and July Fourth.
"I might have to try that," I say.
My parents call my cell right after we land, to confirm that Darcy's father picked us up and to ask if I ate on the plane. I tell them yes, Mr. Rhone showed up, and no, they stopped serving dinner on the New York to Indy flight about ten years ago.
As we pull into our cul-de-sac, I spot my father waiting for me on the