Read Something Borrowed Online
Authors: Emily Giffin
Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary, #Fiction, #General, #Single Women, #Female Friendship, #Psychological, #Contemporary Women, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #People & Places, #Juvenile Nonfiction, #Risk-Taking (Psychology)
just didn't understand why people, particularly Rachel, insisted on
making things so much more difficult than they had to be. She
may have followed all the rules, but there she was, single and
thirty, pulling all-nighters at a law firm she despised.
Meanwhile,
I was the happy one, just as I had been throughout our whole
childhood. I remember trying to coach her, telling her to inject a
little fun into her glum, disciplined life. I would say things like,
"For starters, you should give your bland shoes to Goodwill and
buy a few pairs of Blahniks. You'll feel better, for sure."
I know now how shallow that sounds. I realize that I made
everything about appearances. But at the time, I honestly didn't
think I was hurting anyone, not even myself. I didn't think much
at all, in fact. Yes, I was gorgeous and lucky-in-love, but I truly
believed that I was also a decent person who deserved her good
fortune. And I saw no reason why the rest of my life should be any
less charmed than my first three decades.
Then, something happened that made me question everything I
thought I knew about the world: Rachel, my plain, do-gooding
maid of honor with frizzy hair the color of wheat germ, swooped
in and stole my fiance.
Suckerpunch.
It was one of my little brother Jeremy's pet expressions when we
were kids. He used it when regaling the scuffles that would break
out at the bus stop or in the halls of our junior high, his voice high
and excited, his lips shiny with spittle: WHAM!' POW!
Total
suckerpunch, man!'He'd then eagerly sock one fist into his other
cupped palm, exceedingly pleased with himself. But that was
years ago. Jeremy was a dentist now, in practice with my father,
and I'm sure he hadn't witnessed, received, or rehashed a sucker
punch in over a decade.
I hadn't thought of those words in just as long until that memorable drive back to my apartment on the Upper West Side. I
had just left Rachel's place and was telling my cab driver about my
horrifying discovery.
"Wow," he said in a heavy Queens accent. "Your girl really suckerpunched
you good, huh?"
"Yes," I cried, all but licking my wounds. "She certainly did."
Loyal, reliable Rachel, my best friend of twenty-five years who
always had my interest ahead of, or at least tied with her own, had
WHAM! POW! sucker-punched me. Blindsided me.
The surprise
element of her betrayal is what burned me the most.
The fact that
I never saw it coming. It was as unexpected as a seeing-eye dog
willfully leading his blind, trusting owner into the path of a Mack
truck.
Truth be told, things weren't quite as simple as I made them out
to be to my cab driver. But I didn't want him to lose sight of the
main issue the issue of what Rachel had done to me. I had made
some mistakes, but I hadn't betrayed our friendship.
It was the week before what would have been my wedding day,
and I had gone over to Rachel's to tell her that my wedding was
called off. My fiance, Dex, had been the first to say the difficult
words that perhaps we shouldn't get married but I had quickly
agreed because I'd had an affair with Marcus, one of Dexter's
friends. One thing had led to another, and after one particular
steamy night, I had become pregnant. It was all hugely difficult to
absorb, and I knew the hardest part would be confessing
everything to Rachel, who, at the start of the summer, had been
mildly interested in Marcus. The two had gone on a few dates, but
the romance had petered out when, unbeknownst to her, my
relationship with Marcus began. I felt terrible the entire time for
cheating on Dex, but even more for lying to Rachel.
Still, I was
ready to come clean to my best friend. I was sure that that she
would understand. She always did.
So I stoically arrived at Rachel's apartment on the Upper East
Side.
"What's the matter?" she asked as she answered the door.
I felt a wave of comfort as I thought to myself how soothing and
familiar those words were. Rachel was a maternal best friend,
more maternal than my own mother. I thought of all the times my
friend had asked me this question over the years: like the time I
left my father's sunroof down during a thunderstorm or the day I
got my period all over my white Guess jeans. She was always there
with her "What's the matter?" followed by her "It's going to be all
right" in her competent tone that made me feel sure that she was
right. Rachel could fix anything. Make me feel better when
nobody else could. Even at that moment, when she might feel
disappointed that Marcus had chosen me over her, I was sure
she'd rise to the occasion and reassure me that I had chosen the
right path, that things happened for a reason, that I wasn't a
villain, that I was right to follow my heart, that she completely
understood, and that eventually Dex would, too.
I took a deep breath and glided into her orderly studio apartment
as she rattled on about the wedding, how she was at my service,
ready to help with any last-minute details.
"There isn't going to be a wedding," I blurted out.
"What?" she asked. Her lips blended right in with the rest of her
pale face. I watched her turn and sit on her bed. Then she asked
me who called it off.
I had a flashback to high school. After a breakup, which was
always a very public happening in high school, guys and girls alike
would ask, "Who did it?" Everyone wanted to know who was the
dumper and who the dumpee so that they could properly assign
blame and dole out pity.
I said what I could never say in high school because, to be frank, I
was never the dumpee. "It was mutual Well, technically Dexter
was the one. He told me this morning that he couldn't go through
with it. He doesn't think that he loves me." I rolled my eyes. At
that point, I didn't believe that such a thing was possible. I
thought the only reason Dex wanted out was because he could
sense my growing indifference. The drifting that comes when you
fall for someone else.
"You're kidding me? This is crazy. How do you feel?"
I studied my Prada pink-striped jeweled sandals and matching
pink toenail polish and took a deep breath. Then I confessed that I
had been having an affair with Marcus, dismissing a pang of guilt.
Sure Rachel had had a small summer crush on Marcus, but she
had never slept with him, and it had been weeks since she had
even kissed Marcus. She just couldn't be that upset by the news.
"So you slept with him?" Rachel asked again in a loud, strange
voice. Her cheeks blushed pink a sign that she was angry but I
plowed on, divulging full details, telling her how our affair had
begun, how we tried e in i 1 y g i f f i n to stop but couldn't
overcome the crazy pull toward one another. Then I took a deep
breath and told her that I was pregnant with Marcus's baby and
that we planned on getting married. I braced myself for a few
tears, but Rachel remained composed. She asked a few questions
that I answered honestly. Then I thanked her for not hating me,
feeling incredible relief that despite the upheaval in my life, I still
had my anchor, my best friend.
"Yeah I don't hate you," Rachel said, sweeping a strand of hair
behind her ear.
"I hope Dex takes it as well. At least as far as Marcus goes. He's
going to hate him for a while. But Dex is rational.
Nobody did this
on purpose to hurt him. It just happened."
And then, just as I was about to ask her if she would still be my
maid of honor when I married Marcus, my whole world collapsed
around me. I knew that nothing would ever be the same again, nor
had it ever been as I thought. That was the moment I saw Dexter's
watch on my best friend's nightstand. An unmistakable vintage
Rolex.
"Why is Dexter's watch on your nightstand?" I asked, silently
praying that she would offer a logical and benign explanation.
But instead, she shrugged and stammered that she didn't know.
Then she said that it was actually her watch, that she had one just
like his. Which was not plausible on account of the fact that I had
searched for months to find that watch and then bought a new
crocodile band for it, making it a true original. Besides, even had
it been a predictable, spanking new Rolex Oyster Perpetual, her
voice was shaking, her face even paler than usual.
Rachel can do
many things well, but lying isn't one of them. So I knew. I knew
that my best friend in the world had committed an unspeakable
act of betrayal.
The rest was like slow motion. I could practically hear the sound
effects that accompanied The Bionic Woman, one of my favorite
shows. One of our favorite shows I had watched everything with
Rachel. I stood up, grabbed the watch from her nightstand,
flipped it over and read the inscription aloud. "All my love,
Darcy." My words felt thick and heavy in my throat as I
remembered the day I had his watch engraved. I had called Rachel
on my cell and asked her about the wording. "All my love" had
been her suggestion.
I stared at her, waiting, but she still said nothing. Just stared at
me with those big, brown eyes, her always ungroomed brow
furrowed above them.
"What the fuck?" I said evenly. Then I screamed the question
again as I realized that Dex was likely lurking in the apartment,
hiding somewhere. I shoved past her into the bathroom, whipping
open the shower curtain. Nothing. I darted forward to check the
closet.
"Darcy, don't," she said, blocking the door with her back.
"Move!" I screamed. "I know he's in there!"
So she moved and I opened the door. And sure enough, there he
was, crouched in the corner in his striped navy boxers.
Another
gift from me.
"You liar!" I shouted at him, feeling myself begin to hyperventilate. I was accustomed to drama. I thrived on drama.
But not this kind. Not the kind of drama that I didn't control from
the outset.
Dex stood and dressed calmly, putting one foot and then the other
into his jeans, zipping defiantly. There wasn't a trace of guilt on
his face. It was as if I had only accused him of stealing the covers
or eating my Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream.
"You lied to me!" I shouted again, louder this time.
"You have got to be kidding me," he said, his voice low. "Fuck you,
Darcy."
In all my years with Dex, he had never said this to me.
Those were
my words of last resort. Not his.
I tried again. "You said there was nobody else in the picture! And
you''re fucking my best friend!" I shouted, unsure of who to
confront first. Overwhelmed by the double betrayal.
I wanted him to say, yes, this looks bad, but there had been no
fornicating. But no denial came my way. Instead he said, "Isn't
that a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, Darce? You and
Marcus, huh? Having a baby? I guess congratulations are in
order."
I had nothing to say to that, so I just turned the tables right back
on him and said, "I knew it all along."
This was a total lie. I never in a million years could have foreseen
that moment. The shock was too much to bear. But that's the
thing about the sucker punch; the sucker element hurts worse
than the punch. They had socked it to me, but I wasn't going to be
their fool, too.
"I hate you both. I always will," I said, realizing that my words
sounded weak and juvenile, like the time when I was five years old
and told my father that I loved the devil more than I loved him. I
wanted to shock and horrify, but he had only chuckled at my
creative put-down. Dex, too, seemed merely amused by my
proclamation, which enraged me to the brink of tears. I told
myself that I had to escape Rachel's apartment before I started
bawling. On my way to the door, I heard Dex say, "Oh, Darcy?"
I turned to face him again. "What?" I spit out, praying that he was
going to say it was all a joke, a big mix-up. Maybe they were going
to laugh and ask how I could think such a thing. Maybe we'd even
share a group hug.
But all he said was, "May I have my watch back, please?"
I swallowed hard and then hurled the watch at him, aiming for his
face. Instead it hit a wall, skittered across her hardwood floor, and
stopped just short of Dexter's bare feet. My eyes lifted from the
watch to Rachel's face. "And you," I said to her. "I never want to
see you again. You are dead to me."
Somehow I managed to make it downstairs (where I gave Rachel's
doorman the gruesome highlights), into a cab (where I again
shared the tale), and over to Marcus's place. I burst into his sloppy
studio, where he sat cross-legged on the floor, playing a melody
on his guitar that sounded vaguely like the refrain in
"Fire and
Rain."
He looked up at me, his expression a blend of annoyance and