Something Borrowed (41 page)

school instead. "He wants to meet up with us today. Go to some

palace or castle together."

"Hmmm. A palace or castle in England. That narrows it down."

"Leeds or something?"

Ethan nods. "Yeah, Leeds Castle is nice. Is that what you want to

do?"

"I don't know. Why not?" I say.

It seems like a waste of time and a lot of effort to make more

conversation with James, but I call him anyway, and we all end up

going to Leeds Castle for the day. Phoebe and Martin come too.

Apparently all of Ethan's friends make their own work schedules

because none of them seem to think twice about taking off on a

random Wednesday. I think of how different my life is back in

New York, with Les looming over me, even on the weekends.

It is a warm day, nearly hot by London standards. We explore the

castle and grounds, have a picnic lunch in the grass. At one point,

Phoebe asks me, loud enough for everyone to hear, if I've taken a

shine to James. I look at James, who rolls his eyes at Phoebe.

Then I smile and tell her, in the same volume, that he is quite

nice, if only he lived in New York. I figure, what does it hurt to

compliment him? If he genuinely likes me, he'll be happy to hear

it. And if he doesn't, he will feel safe because of the distance.

''So why don't you move to London?" she asks. "Ethan says you

positively despise your job. Why not move here and find

something? It would be a nice change of scenery, wouldn't it?"

I laugh and tell her that I can't do that. But it occurs to me, as we

sit by a peaceful lake and admire the fairy-tale castle in the

English countryside, that I could, in fact, do exactly that. Maybe

the thing to do after you roll the dice and lose is simply pick

them up and roll them again. I imagine handing Les my letter of

resignation. It would be incredibly satisfying. And I wouldn't have

to deal with seeing Dex and Darcy on a regular basis. I wonder

how a good therapist would characterize the move as running

away or creating a fresh, healthy start?

On my last night in London, Ethan and I are back at his favorite

pub, which is starting to feel like my local. I ask Ethan what he

thinks of the idea of my moving to London. Within fifteen minutes

he has me all moved into his neighborhood. He knows of a flat, a

job, and several guys, if James isn't ideal, all of whom have

straight, white teeth (because I have commented on the Brits'

poor dental work). He says do it. Just do it. He makes it sound so

simple. It is simple. The seed is more than just planted.

It is

growing and sprouting a tiny bud.

Ethan continues. "You should get away from Darcy.

That toxic

friendship It's unhealthy. And it's only going to be more destructive when you have to see them after the wedding."

"I know," I say, pushing a fry through mushy peas.

"And even if you stay in New York, I think it's essential that you

pare back that friendship. It's not even a real friendship if she only

wants to beat you."

"It's not as malicious as you make it sound," I say, wondering why

I am defending her.

"You're right. It's not just for the sake of defeating you.

I think she

just respects you so much that she wants to beat you to win your

respect You'll note that she's not going out of her way to show up

Annalise. It's just you. But sometimes I think you get sucked into

it, and your whole dynamic becomes more about competing than

true friendship." He gives me a knowing, parental look.

"You think that I like Dex for the same reason to compete with

Darcy. Don't you?"

He clears his throat and dabs his napkin to his lips, replaces it to

his lap. "Well? Is it possible?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No way. You can't trick yourself into the

feelings I have. Had," I say.

"Okay. It was just a theory."

"Absolutely not. It was the real deal."

But as I fall asleep that night in Ethan's bed (he insisted on taking

the couch all week), I wonder about this theory of his.

Is it

possible that the thrill I felt when I kissed Dex had more to do

with the titillation of being bad, breaking rules, having something

that belonged to Darcy? Maybe my affair with Dex was about

rebelling against my own safe choices, against Darcy and years of

feeling deficient. I am disturbed by the idea, because you never

like to think that you are a slave to these sorts of subliminal pulls.

But at the same time, the idea consoles me. If I liked Dex for these

reasons, then I don't love him after all. And it should be a whole

lot easier for me to move on.

But the next day, as Ethan takes the tube with me to Paddington

Station, I know, again, that I really do love Dex, and probably will

for a very long time. I buy my ticket for the Heathrow Express.

The board tells us that the next train will depart in three minutes,

so we walk to the designated platform. "You know what you're

doing, right?" he asks protectively.

For a second, I think he is asking me about my life, then I realize

he is only inquiring about travel logistics. "Yes. This goes straight

to Heathrow, right?"

"Yeah. Just get out at Terminal Three. It's easy."

I hug Ethan and thank him for everything. I tell him that I had a

wonderful time. "I don't want to leave."

"Then move here I really think you should do it. You have

nothing to lose."

He is right; I do have nothing to lose. I'd be leaving nothing. A

depressing thought. "I'll think about it," I say and promise myself

I will keep thinking about it once I get home, rather than falling

blindly into my old routine.

We hug one last time, and then I board my train and watch Ethan

wave at me through the tinted train window. I wave back, thinking

that there is nothing like old friends.

I arrive at Terminal Three and go through the motions of checking

in, going through security, and waiting to board. The flight feels

endless, and although I try, I can't sleep at all. Despite my week of

distraction, I don't feel much better than I did on the flight over.

Even the aerial views of New York City, which usually charge me

with anticipation and excitement, don't do a thing for me. Dex is

amid those buildings. I liked it better when the Atlantic Ocean

separated us.

When the plane lands, I make my way through passport control,

baggage, and customs to find a long cab line. It is meltingly hot

outside, and as I get in my cab, I discover that the air-conditioning

is barely blowing through the vent into the backseat.

"Could you make it cooler back here, please?" I ask my driver, who

is smoking a cigarette, an offense which could fetch him a $150

ticket.

He ignores me and lurches us sickeningly sideways. He is

switching lanes every ten seconds.

I ask him again if he will please turn the air up.

Nothing. Maybe

he doesn't hear me over his radio. Or maybe he doesn't speak

English. I glance at my Passenger Bill of Rights. I am entitled to: a

courteous, English-speaking driver who knows and obeys all

traffic laws air-conditioning on demand a radio-free (silent)

trip smoke- and incense-free air a clean trunk.

Maybe the trunk is clean.

See? It's all about low expectations.

The backseat keeps getting hotter, so I roll down the window and

endure the dirty wind whipping my hair around my face. Finally I

am home again. I pay my not-so-courteous cabbie the flat rate

from JFK, plus toll and tip (even though the placard also states

that I may refuse to tip if my rights weren't complied with). I

heave my roller bag out of the backseat.

It is five-thirty. By this time on Saturday, Darcy and Dex will be

married. I will have already helped Darcy into her gown and

wrapped the stems of her calla lilies with my lace handkerchief,

her something borrowed. I will have already assured her a

thousand times that she has never looked so beautiful, that

everything is just right. I will have already walked down the aisle

toward Dexter without looking at him. Well, trying not to look at

him, but maybe catching a fleeting look in his eyes, a mixture of

guilt and pity. I will have endured that painful thirty seconds of

watching Darcy, in all of her glory, walk toward the altar, as I hold

Dexter's platinum band in my sweaty palm. In six days, the worst

will be over.

"Hello there, Ms. Rachel!" Jose says as I close the cab door. Then

he says to someone in the lobby, "She's back!"

I stiffen, expecting to see Darcy with her wedding folder, ready to

bark demands my way. But it is not Darcy waiting for me in my

lobby, in the lone leather wing chair.

It is Dex. He stands as I stare at him. He is wearing jeans and a

gray "Hoyas" T-shirt. He is tanner than when I left. I resent his

healthy glow and his placid expression.

"Hi," he says, taking a step toward me.

"Hi." I freeze, feeling my posture become perfect.

"How did you

know when I was getting home?"

"Ethan gave me your flight details. I found his number in Darcy's

address book."

"Oh What do you want? What are you doing here?" I ask. I don't

mean to sound bitter, but I know that I do.

"Let me come up. I have to talk to you," he says quietly, but

urgently. Jose is still beaming, perfectly clueless.

I shrug and push the arrow for the elevator. The ride up is endless,

quiet. I look at him as he waits for me to exit first. I can tell by his

expression that he is here to reapologize. He can't stand being the

bad guy. Well, I will not give him the satisfaction. And I will not

be patronized. If he goes down that road of telling me again how

sorry he is, I will cut him off. Maybe even tell him about James. I

will say that I am fine, that I will be at the wedding, but after that,

I want minimal contact with him, and that I expect him to

cooperate. Make no mistake about it, I will say, our friendship is

over.

I turn the key in my lock and open the door. Entering my

apartment is like opening a hot oven, even though I remembered

to put my shades down. My plants have all wilted. I should have

asked Hillary to water them. I turn on my air conditioner and

notice that it won't operate on high. Whenever it gets above

ninety-five, there is a deliberate citywide brownout. I miss

London, where it's not even necessary to own an air conditioner.

"Brownout," Dex says.

"I can see that," I say.

I breeze by him and sit on my couch, cross my arms, try to raise

one eyebrow as Phoebe did. Both rise together.

Dex sits beside me without asking first. He tries to take my hand,

but I pull it away.

"Why are you here, Dex?"

"I just called it off."

"What?" I ask. Surely I heard him wrong.

"The wedding is off. I I'm not getting married."

I am stunned, remembering the first time I heard that people

pinch themselves when they think they're dreaming. I was four

years old and took the concept literally, pinching my arm hard, as

if maybe I was still two years old and had dreamed up the second

half of my life. I remember feeling relieved that my skin hurt.

Dex continues, his voice steady and quiet. He stares at his balled

fists in his lap as he talks, only glancing at me between sentences.

"The whole time you were gone, I was going crazy. I missed you so

much. I missed your face, your scent, even your apartment. I kept

replaying everything in my head. All of our time together, all of

our talks. Law school. Your birthday. July Fourth.

Everything.

And I just can't imagine never being with you again.

It's that

simple."

"What about Darcy?" I ask.

"I care about her. I want her to be happy. I saw marrying Darcy as

the right thing to do. We've been together for seven years and

most of the time we've been pretty happy. I didn't want to hurt

her."

I don't want to hurt her either, I think.

He continues. "But that was before you. And I just can't marry her

feeling this way about you. I can't do it. I love you.

And this is only

the beginning If you still love me."

There is so much I want to say, but somehow I am speechless.

"Say something."

I force a question from my lips. "Did you tell her about us?"

"Not about us. But I told her that I wasn't in love with her and that

it wasn't fair to marry her."

"What did she say?" I ask. I need to know every detail before I can

believe this is real.

"She asked if there was someone else. I told her no that it just

didn't feel right between us."

"How is she?"

"She's upset. But mostly she's just upset about the damn wedding

and what people are going to think. I swear that is what bothers

her the most."

"Where is she now?" I ask. "She hasn't left me any messages."

"She went to Claire's, I think."

"I'm sure she thinks that you'll change your mind."

I am thinking this too. He will change his mind and when he does,