Dex said nothing.
“You did, didn’t you? You went to Hawaii with her?”
“The tickets were nonrefundable, Darcy. Even the hotel was already paid for,” he said, looking guilty.
“How could you do that? How? And then I see you two in Crate and Barrel, shopping for couches. That’s how I knew about Hawaii. You were all tan. Shopping for couches… All tan and happy and buying couches.” I was babbling now, a total mess. “Are you moving in together?”
“Not yet…”
“Not
yet
?” I said. “So you are eventually? Are you
serious
?”
“Darcy, please. Stop this. Rachel and I didn’t do this to hurt you. Just like you didn’t get pregnant to hurt me. Right?” he asked in his “please be reasonable” tone.
I looked out the window again at a pile of trash on the curb. Then I returned my gaze to Dex. “Please be with me again,” I said softly. “Please. Give me another chance. We had seven good years together. Things were good. We’ll forgive each other and move on.” I walked back over to him and tried to hug him. He stiffened and recoiled like a puppy resisting the grasp of an overzealous child.
“Dex? Please?”
“No, Darcy. We don’t belong together. We aren’t right for each other.”
“Do you love her?” I asked under my breath, truly expecting him to say no or that he didn’t know or that he wouldn’t answer the question.
But instead he said, “Yes. I love her.” I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t saying it to be mean; he was saying it out of a sense of loyalty to her. It was that committed, resolute look of his. It was Dex being a good person, being true to his new girlfriend. I marveled at how fast old loyalties, ones that took years to build, could be ripped apart and replaced. I knew I had lost him, but I felt desperate to recruit a small piece of his heart back to me. Make him feel even a sliver of what he used to feel for me. “More than you ever loved me?” I asked, looking for one small scrap.
“Don’t do this, Darcy.”
“I need to know, Dex. I really need to know the answer to that,” I said, thinking that he couldn’t possibly love her more in a few weeks than he had loved me when he had proposed after years together. It just wasn’t possible.
“Why do you need to know, Darce?”
“I just do. Tell me.”
He stared down at the coffee table for a long minute in that dazed way of his where he doesn’t blink. Then he looked around the apartment, his eyes resting on an oil painting of a dilapidated, pillared house surrounded by terraced fields and a solitary oak. We had purchased the painting together in New Orleans right at the beginning of our relationship. We had spent nearly eight hundred dollars on it, which seemed like a huge sum of money at the time, as Dex was in law school and I had just begun to work. It was our first big purchase as a couple—an implicit acknowledgment of our commitment to each other. Sort of like buying a dog together. I remember standing in that gallery, admiring our painting, as Dex told me that he loved the way the early evening shadows fell across the front porch. I remember him saying that dusk was his favorite time of day. I remember we grinned at each other as the clerk bubble-wrapped our painting. Then we returned to the hotel, where we made love and ordered a banana split from the room service menu. Had he forgotten all of that?
I guess I had forgotten such moments when my affair began with Marcus. But I remembered every such occasion now. Regret surged through me. What I would have given to have a big ol’ redo, take back everything with Marcus. I looked at Dex and asked the question again. “Do you love her more than you ever loved me?”
I waited.
Then he nodded and said so softly that it was nearly a whisper, “Yes. I do. I’m really sorry, Darcy.”
I stared at him incredulously, trying to process what he was saying, how it could be possible that he could love Rachel so much. She wasn’t that pretty. She wasn’t that fun. What did she have that I didn’t have besides a few measly IQ points?
Dex spoke again. “I can tell you’re in a bad place right now, Darcy. Part of me would like to help you, but it just won’t work. I can’t be that person for you. You have friends and family you need to turn to… I really have to go now.” His voice was distant, his gaze detached. In a few seconds, he would walk out, hail a cab, and cross the park to see Rachel. She would greet him at her door, her brown eyes sympathetic, probing for details about our meeting. I could hear her asking, “How did it go?” and stroking Dexter’s hair as he told her everything. How I had lied about the baby, then begged, then cried. She would feel both pity and disdain for me.
“Fine. Get out. I don’t want to talk to you or her ever again,” I said, realizing that I had said pretty much the same thing in Rachel’s apartment. This time, my words had a watered-down, weak effect.
Dex bit his lower lip. “Please be well,” he said, gathering up his briefcase and the shoebox of junk he didn’t want any more than he wanted me. Then he stood and walked out of his old apartment, leaving me for good.
sixteen
It was incomprehensible. In my entire lifetime—throughout high school, college, and my twenties—I had never been dissed by a guy. Not dumped. Not stood up. Not even slighted. And there I was—a two-time loser all in a week’s time. I was completely alone, didn’t even have a prospect in sight.
I also didn’t have Rachel, my steadfast source of comfort when other things, unrelated to romance, had unraveled in my life. Nor did I have my own mother—whom I refused to call back and hear some variation of “I told you so.” That left Claire, who came to my apartment after I had called in sick to work for three straight days. I was surprised that it took her so long to rush to my aid, but I guess she had no way of suspecting my depth of despair. Up to that point in my life, my definition of down-and-out was a bad case of PMS.
“What has gotten into you?” Claire asked, glancing around my messier-than-usual apartment. “I’ve been so worried about you. Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”
“Marcus dumped me,” I said mournfully. I had sunk too low to try to put a triumphant spin on the facts.
She raised the blinds in my living room. “
Marcus
broke up with
you
?” she asked, appropriately shocked.
I sniffed and nodded.
“That’s ridiculous! Has he taken a look in the mirror? What was he thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He just doesn’t want to be with me.”
“Well, the whole world’s gone mad. First Dex and Rachel and now
this’t
I mean—come on! This is
nuts
. I just don’t get it. It’s like an episode of
The Twilight Zone
.”
I felt a tear roll down my cheek.
Claire rushed over to give me a hug and a “buck up, little camper” smile. Then she said briskly, “Well, it’s a blessing in disguise. Marcus was so
bush league.
You’re better off without him. And Rachel and Dex are dullsville.” She headed for my kitchen, holding up a plastic bag filled with all the fixings for margaritas. “And believe me, this whole situation is nothing that a few drinks won’t cure… Besides, I have a much finer man all cued up for you.”
I blew my nose and looked at her hopefully. “Who?”
“You remember Josh Levine?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I have two words for you. Hot and loaded,” she said, rubbing her thumb against her fingers. “His nose is rather large, but not offensively so. Your daughter might need a minor nose job, but that’s the only issue,” she said brightly. She rolled up her sleeves and set about rinsing my dishes covered with day-old Kraft macaroni and cheese residue. “You briefly met him at that house in the Hamptons with the eighteen-person hot tub? Remember? He’s friends with Eric Kiefer and that whole crowd?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, conjuring a well-dressed, thirty-something banker with wavy brown hair and big, square teeth. “Doesn’t he have a girlfriend who is a model or actress or something?”
“He
did
have a girlfriend. Amanda something or other. And yes, she’s a model… but the low-rent catalog kind. I think she wore some pleated cords in Chadwick’s of Boston or something. But Josh dumped her two days ago.” Claire looked up smugly. “How’s that for hot off the presses?”
Claire loved being the first to get a scoop.
“Why’d they break up?” I asked. “Did Josh catch his best friend hiding in Amanda’s closet?”
Claire chuckled. “No. Word is she was just too dumb for him. She is as vapid as they come. Get a load of
this one
… I heard that she actually thought
paparazzi
was the last name of one particular Italian photographer. Apparently she said something like, ‘Who is this Paparazzi guy and why didn’t they arrest him years ago after he killed Princess Diana?’”
I laughed for the first time in weeks.
“So anyway, Josh is
a-vail-a-ble”
Claire sang and spun around ballerina-style.
I became momentarily suspicious. “Why don’t you want him?”
“You know my uptight Episcopalian parents would never let me go down the Jewish-guy road or I would have claimed him for myself… But you better act fast because the girls in this city are ready to
pounce.”
“Yeah. Don’t let Jocelyn catch wind of this,” I said.
Jocelyn Silver worked with Claire and me, and although I liked her in small doses, she was a total alpha female, way too competitive for me ever to trust. She also bore a strong resemblance to Uma Thurman, and if I had to watch her pretend to be annoyed when one more stranger approached her to ask if she was Uma, I was going to puke. Which, incidentally, was what Jocelyn did after every meal.
“No kidding… I haven’t mentioned anything about the breakup to her. Even if I did, Josh would
totally
go for you over her.”
I smiled with false modesty.
She continued, “So how about this? I’ll make sure Josh comes to our club opening next week—the one Jocelyn’s going to miss for her cousin’s wedding…” She winked at me. “So stop this sniveling over Marcus. I mean, Christ, what was the deal there anyway? He could be fun, but he’s certainly not worthy of macaroni-and-cheese-level grief.”
“You’re right,” I said. I could feel myself cheering up as I thought of how Jewish men were supposed make great husbands. “Josh sounds divine. I’m sure I could convince him to have a Christmas tree, don’t you think?”
“You can convince anyone to do anything,” Claire said.
I beamed. That theory had been proven wrong a few times in recent days, but surely I was going to get back on track with my charmed life.
“And I had another thought on my way over…” Claire smiled mysteriously, poised to reveal another terrific surprise.
“What’s that?”
“Well,” she said as she uncorked the bottle of Patron, our favorite brand of tequila. “What do you say we move in together again? My lease is up, and you have a spare bedroom. We could save a ton on rent and have a blast together. What do you say?”
“That’s a fantastic idea,” I said, remembering fondly our roomie days before I had moved in with Dex. Claire and I had shared the same shoe size, the same taste in music, and the same love of fruity mixed drinks that we consumed in quantity as we primped for our big nights out. Besides, it would be great to have her around when the baby arrived. I was sure she wouldn’t mind getting up occasionally for nighttime feedings. I watched as she sliced a lime and hung perfect twists on our glasses. She had a nice touch when it came to entertaining, another perk of living with her. “Let’s do it!”
”
Excellent!” she
. squealed. “My lease expires next month.”
“There’s just one thing I should tell you,” I said as she crossed the living room over to my couch, drinks in hand.
“What’s that?”
I swallowed, reassuring myself that although Claire could be snobbish and judgmental, she had only demonstrated a sense of absolute loyalty to me over the years. I had to believe that she would be there for me in my hour of need. So as she handed me a temptingly perfect margarita on the rocks, salt lined evenly along the rim of the glass (an engagement present from Dexter’s Aunt Suzy), I blurted out my big secret. “I’m pregnant with Marcus’s baby.” Then I took one tiny sip of my drink, inhaling the sweet smell of tequila, licking the salt from my lips.
“Get outta here,” she said, her crystal drop earrings swinging as she plopped down next to me and curled her legs up under her ample bottom. “Oh—we didn’t do a toast. Here’s to being roomies again!”
She clearly thought I was joking. I clinked my glass against hers, took another tiny sip, and said, “No. It’s true. I
am
pregnant. So I probably shouldn’t drink this. Although a few more sips couldn’t hurt. It’s not that strong, is it?”
She looked at me sideways and said, “You’re kidding, right?”
I shook my head.
“Darcy!” She froze, a fearful smile plastered on her face.
“I’m not joking.”
“Swear.” I swear.
It went on like that for some time before I could convince her that I wasn’t putting her on, that I was, indeed, pregnant with the child of a man whom she had deemed woefully inadequate. As she listened to me ramble about my morning sickness, my due date, the problems with my mother, she gulped her margarita—which was highly unusual for Claire. She had finishing-school manners even when wasted. She never forgot to cross her legs on a bar stool or keep her elbows off a table, and she never gulped. But at that moment, she was rattled.
“So what do you think?” I asked her.
She took another swallow, then coughed and sputtered, “Whoa! Excuse me! I think it went down the wrong pipe.”
I waited for her to say something more, but she only stared back at me with a plastered smile, as if she were no longer quite sure who it was she was having a drink with. I guess I expected her to be surprised, but I wanted the
giddy
brand of surprised, not the
freaked-out
version. I reassured myself that I had just caught her off guard. She needed a minute to digest the news. In the meantime, I gave a short, noble speech about how I never once considered having an abortion or giving the baby up for adoption. In truth, I had given some consideration to both options in the past forty-eight hours, but something made me stay on track. I’d like to say it was strength of character and good morals, but it also had a lot to do with stubborn pride.
“Congratulations. That’s fantastic news,” Claire finally said, in the tinny, insincere voice of a game show host informing the losing contestant that they weren’t going to walk away completely empty-handed, but rather with a gift certificate for Omaha Steaks. “I know you’ll do a great job with this… And I will be here for you to help in any way I can.”
I could tell she added the last sentence as an afterthought, its generality smacking of obligation rather than any earnest desire to be involved in my baby’s life. Or even mine, for that matter.
“Thank you,” I said, my mind spinning to analyze the moment. Was I being too critical of her? Too paranoid? What exactly did I want her to say? Ideally, she could ask to be the baby’s godmother or offer to throw me a big shower. At the very least, I wanted her to mention moving in with me again, or say something about Josh, how we needed to act fast while my body was still spectacular. Claire only laughed nervously and said, “This is all so…
so
exciting.”
“Yes,” I said defensively. “It really
is
. And I see no reason why I can’t still date.”
“Of course you will date,” she said, pumping one fist in the air. But no further mention of my Jewish Prince Charming.
“Do you think Josh will mind?” I asked.
More nervous laughter. “Mind that you’re pregnant?”
“Yeah. Mind that I’m pregnant?”
“Well, I… I’m not sure… I don’t know him
that well
.”
It was perfectly clear that she was quite sure that Josh would mind very much indeed. About as much as she would mind living with me and a newborn. She downed the rest of her margarita, chattering about how excited the girls in our office would be. Could she tell them? Was it public knowledge yet?
I said no, not yet, I wasn’t quite ready for the world to know.
“I understand. Mum’s the word,” Claire said, pinching her lips between thumb and index finger. She giggled. “No pun intended.”
I insisted that I wasn’t ashamed of my pregnancy. It wasn’t that at all. I babbled about how I would maintain my sense of self, referencing Rachel on
Friends
and Miranda on
Sex and the City.
Both women had managed to keep their lives and looks intact while embracing single motherhood. I saw no reason why I couldn’t do the same.
“Oh, I know,” Claire said in a condescending tone. “There’s no reason you can’t do it all, have it all. Be a modern woman!”
As I studied her big, fake smile, the exact contours of our shallow friendship came into focus. Sure, Claire liked me, but she liked me because I was fun to go out with and because I was a guy magnet, even when I had worn my engagement ring from Dex. She liked me because I was an invaluable asset. With her pedigree and my looks and personality, we had been unstoppable. The glamorous PR duo everyone either knew or wanted to know.
But in the time it took to down a margarita, my stock had plummeted in her eyes. I had been transformed into nothing but a struggling single mother. I might as well have had curlers in my hair and a welfare check in my callused hand. I was of no use to her anymore.
As she finished her drink, she eyed mine. “Well? May I?” she asked.
“Go ahead,” I said.
She took a few sips from my glass and then glanced at her watch. “Oh, shoot. Look at the time!”
“Did you have to be somewhere?” I asked. Usually it was impossible to shake Claire.
“Yes,” she said. “I told Jocelyn I’d give her a call. She wants to go out tonight. Didn’t I mention that?”
“No,” I said. “You didn’t mention that.”
Claire smiled tightly and said, “Yeah. Dinner and a few drinks. Of course, you can come if you want. Even though you can’t drink. We’d love your company.”
Claire was offering me, Darcy Rhone, a charity invite. I was tempted to go, to prove that I could still be fun. But I was too indignant to accept the invitation so easily. So I told her no, that I had some phone calls to return. I waited for a little coaxing, but she just stood, carried her glass over to the sink, swung her Prada bag over her shoulder, and said with all the cheeriness in the world, “All righty then, hon… Congratulations again. Have a great night. You take good care of yourself, okay?”
Needless to say the next week passed and Claire never mentioned moving in with me again. Instead, I heard from another girl in our office that Claire and Jocelyn were apartment-hunting in the Village. I also heard from Jocelyn herself, in the office restroom after her postlunchtime purge, that she had met a great guy—Josh Levine—did I know him? It was the final straw, the salt in rny open, bleeding, infected wound. Even dependent and doting Claire had joined the ranks and betrayed me. I hurried back to my office, stunned and teary, my mind racing about what to do next. Without even fully thinking it through, I found myself propelled down the hall to Cal’s office, where I informed my boss that I needed to take a leave of absence, effective immediately. I told him I was having some personal issues. He asked if there were anything he could do. I said no, I just needed some time away. He told me they were overstaffed these days, anyway, and the economy was socking the PR business right in the gut, so I could take as much time as I needed and could come back whenever I was ready. Then he gave my midsection an unmistakable once-over. He knew my secret.