Something Borrowed - Emily Giffin [92]
"I really should go," I say, angry that she ruined our chance to have the big conversation, but also somehow relieved.
He keeps kissing me as he removes my suit jacket and rubs my shoulder.
"Dex!"
"What?"
"I have to go."
"In a minute."
"No. Now."
But as he runs his fingers over my collarbone, I stop thinking about Claire. Moments later we are making love.
My cell phone rings immediately afterward. I jump. "Oh shit. That's gotta be Claire. I really have to go," I say, sitting up.
"But I wanted to talk about this weekend," he says.
"What about it?" I ask, avoiding his gaze as I button my shirt.
"Well, it's just that… I'm really sorry about this bachelorette party and everything—"
I interrupt him. "I know, Dex."
"Something has to be done soon. I just haven't had a free moment. I haven't had a chance… But I want you to know that I think about it—and you—all the time. I mean, all the time…" His expression is sincere, tortured. He waits for me to speak.
This is my opening. Words form in my head; they are right on my tongue, but I say none of them, reasoning that this is not the moment to delve. We don't have enough time for a real conversation. I reassure myself that I'm not a coward, I'm just being patient. I want to wait for the right moment to discuss the destruction of my best friend. So I give him and myself an out. "I know, Dex," I say again. "Let's talk next week, okay?"
He nods somberly and hugs me hard.
After he leaves, I call Claire and tell her that I got stuck on a work call but will be right over. I finish dressing, down my Snapple, and put my egg-salad sandwich in the refrigerator. I walk to the door as I eye the folded note. I can't help myself. I go back, unfold it, read it:
DARCY,
JUST WANTED YOU TO HAVE A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM ME BEFORE
YOUR BIG NIGHT OUT. I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT TIME WITH YOUR
FRIENDS.
LOVE, DEXTER
Why did he have to insert the word "love"? I comfort myself by thinking that he didn't just make love to her, and we will talk next week, still within Hillary's deadline. Then I scurry off to meet Claire, to help her prepare for Darcy's big weekend.
The whole situation is completely out of control, the stuff that happens to other people. Not to people like me.
The shower/bachelorette party is agony from start to finish, for obvious reasons, and also because I have nothing in common with Darcy's PR friends, all of whom are materialistic, shallow, bitchy egomaniacs. Claire is the best of the lot, which is scary. I tell myself to smile and suck it up. It is only one evening.
We meet at Claire's first to give Darcy her lingerie, an arsenal of black lace and red silk that I simply cannot compete against. If Darcy decides to wear any of this stuff before the wedding—particularly a La
Perla garter with fishnet stockings—I am dead. Unless she only debuts my gift, a long ivory nightgown with a high neckline, something that Caroline Ingalls might have worn on Little House on the Prairie. It screams sweet and wholesome, in contrast to the other sultry, skimpy gifts that scream, "Bend me over a chair and bust out the whipped cream." Darcy pretends to like my gift, as I catch a knowing glance between Claire and Jocelyn, an Uma Thurman look-alike. For one paranoid second, I believe that Claire suspects the truth after our chance meeting yesterday and has shared her suspicions with Jocelyn. But then I just chalk it up to this sentiment: Darcy's dowdy friend Rachel strikes again. How can she be the maid of honor when she doesn't even know how to give a proper piece of lingerie?
After the shower segment of the evening, we cab it to Churrascaria Plataforma, an all-you-can-eat Brazilian rotisserie in the Theater District, where waiters bring you endless servings of skewered meat. It is an amusing choice for a bunch of paper-thin women, half of whom are vegetarians and subsist on celery and cigarettes. Our group parades proudly into the restaurant, fetching plenty of stares from a predominantly male patronage. After a painful round of