And that was that. There was no getting around it—Rachel and Dex had blown off my thirtieth birthday, a day we had talked about for at least the past five years. I started to cry, undermining the treatment for puffy eyes that I had added to my regular facial. I called Marcus’s cell to garner some sympathy.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“That’s for me to know—and you to find out,” he said, the noise of heavy traffic in the background. I pictured him tripping down Fifth Avenue, his arms filled with packages.
“They didn’t call. Neither of them. No calls, e-mails, cards. Nothing.”
He knew who I meant. “The
nerve
of some ex-boyfriends,” Marcus joked.
“It’s not funny!” I said. “Can you believe them?”
“Darcy, didn’t you tell them that you never wanted to speak to them again? That they were—what were your words?—‘dead to you’?”
I gave him credit for recalling my precise wording. “Yes—but they could at least try to
redeem
themselves. They didn’t even try. It’s my thirtieth birthday!”
“I know, babe. And we’re gonna celebrate. So bring your skinny ass down here.”
He was right, my ass
was
still skinny. This observation cheered me up a drop. “Am I going to be a basketball girl?”
“What’s a basketball girl?”
“One of those girls who looks as if she has only a basketball under her shirt. You know, with thin limbs and a still-pretty face? And then the ball falls out and she is,
voila,
perfect again?”
“Sure you will. Now get down here!”
He hung up before I could ask him where we were going for dinner, how dressed up I needed to be. Well, there’s no such thing as being overdressed, I told myself, as I selected my slinkiest black dress, highest Jimmy Choo stilettos, and gauziest wrap out of my closet, lining the ensemble up on my bed. Then I showered, blew my hair out straight, applied makeup to my glowing skin, opting for neutral lips and dramatic, smoky eyes.
“Thirty and ab-so-lute-ly stunning,” I said aloud to the mirror, trying not to look at the tiny crow’s feet around my eyes. Or worry about the fact that I was no longer in my twenties, and therefore on the road to losing my two most valuable assets: beauty and youth. I was filled with an unfamiliar sense of self-doubt that I pushed aside as I grabbed Aunt Clarice’s ten for cab fare and headed out the door.
Fifteen minutes later I sauntered into Marcus’s apartment, catwalk-style.
He whistled. “You look great.”
“Thanks.” I smiled as I noticed that he was wearing old brown cords, a pilled gray sweater, and scuffed shoes. I pictured Claire’s disapproving frown when I told her about Marcus. Maybe this was part of the reason why. He was sloppy. But not
couture
sloppy—you know, the whole low-hanging Dolce & Gabbana jeans with a cool Hanes wifebeater. Just
bad
sloppy.
“No offense, but you do not look so great,” I said, remembering that Rachel once told me that anytime I had to preface a statement with “no offense” I was probably saying something I shouldn’t be saying.
“No offense taken,” Marcus said.
“Please change and kick it up a notch. And FYI, brown and gray don’t generally go together… although somehow Matt Lauer manages to pull it off.”
“I’m not changing,” he said stubbornly.
“C’mon, Marcus. Couldn’t you at least put on some khakis and a sweater purchased within the last six years?”
“I’m wearing this,” Marcus said.
We argued for a few seconds, and I finally gave in. Nobody was going to be looking at Marcus anyway. Not with me on his arm. On our way out the door, I heard a clap of thunder. I asked Marcus for an umbrella.
“I don’t have one,” he said, sounding curiously proud of himself. “Haven’t for years.”
I told him that I truly didn’t get how one can not own an umbrella. Fine, people lose umbrellas all the time, leave them in shops or cabs when the rain has cleared, not realizing it until the next rainy day. But how could you simply not own one?
“What am I supposed to use to keep dry?” I asked.
He handed me a plastic Duane Reade bag. “Take this.”
“Really classy,” I said, snatching it from him.
The evening wasn’t off to a roaring start.
It only got worse as we stood on the corner struggling to find a cab, which is close to impossible when it’s raining. Nothing frustrates me more about living in Manhattan than being stranded on the sidewalk in inclement weather and very high heels. When I expressed this to Marcus, he suggested we make a run for the subway.
I scowled and told him that I couldn’t run in heels. And besides, Jimmy Choos shouldn’t tread the underworld. Then, when a cab finally arrived, my left shoe got stuck in a gutter, wedged in so tightly that I had to remove my foot from the shoe, bend down, and yank. As I examined the scratched heel, the Duane Reade bag flew up and rain splattered across my forehead.
Marcus chuckled and said, “The shoes would have been better off in the underworld, eh?”
I glared at him as he slid in the cab ahead of me and told the driver the address. I couldn’t determine the restaurant from the address but thought to myself that it had better be a good choice, appropriate for a thirtieth birthday. An all-caps Zagat entry I had forgotten about.
But minutes later, I discovered that Marcus’s idea of an appropriate thirtieth-birthday dinner was my idea of an appropriate twenty-sixth birthday dinner if the guy is near broke and/or not that into the girl. He had picked an Italian restaurant I had never heard of on a street in the Village I had never bothered to walk down. Needless to say, I was the only one wearing Jimmy Choos in the joint. Then, the food was awful. I’m talking stale, recycled bread plopped onto the table in a red plastic basket with a waxed-paper liner, followed by overcooked pasta. The only reason I braved it and ordered dessert was to see if Marcus had at least thought to request a candle in my cake, do something ceremonious or special. Of course, my tiramisu arrived sans accoutrement. No drizzle of raspberry, no presentation whatsoever. As I picked at it with my fork, Marcus asked if I wanted my gift. “Sure,” I said, shrugging.
He handed me a Tiffany box, and for a moment, I was excited. But like his choice of venue, he had bombed in the gift department. Elsa Peretti bean earrings in silver. Not even platinum or white gold. Sure, they came from Tiffany, but those bean earrings were mass-produced, suburban Tiffany. Again, appropriate for a twenty-sixth birthday, but not a thirtieth. Claire had done better. At least her gift was shaped in a heart rather than a gas-causing vegetable.
As Marcus signed the check, I resisted making a snide remark on the off chance that the bean-earring stunt was designed to throw me off the scent of the diamond ring, hidden in the pocket of his leather jacket. Instead, I graciously thanked him for the earrings, replacing them in the box.
“Aren’t you going to wear them?” Marcus asked.
“Not tonight,” I said. I wasn’t about to switch out of my diamond studs, which, ironically, were given to me by Dex on my twenty-sixth birthday.
After dinner Marcus and I had a drink at the Plaza (my idea) and then returned to his apartment and had sex (his idea). For the very first time with Marcus, I didn’t have an orgasm. Not even a tiny hiccup of one. What was worse, he didn’t seem to notice, not even when I furrowed my brow and sighed, the portrait of a frustrated woman. Instead, his breathing grew deep and steady. He was falling asleep. My day was beginning and ending in the same frustrating way.
“Well, I guess this means no engagement ring,” I said loudly.
He didn’t respond, so I shot him another pointed barb, something about winning some and losing some.
Marcus sat up, sighed, and said, “What’s your beef now, Darcy?”
And that was that. We were on our way to a full-on fight. I called him insensitive; he called me demanding. I called him mean; he called me spoiled. I told him that the bean earrings were not acceptable. He said he’d gladly return them. And then I think I said that I wished I were still with Dex. And that maybe we shouldn’t get married. He said nothing back. Just gave me a cold stare. It wasn’t the reaction I was after. I thought about what Rachel always said:
The opposite of love isn’t hate; it’s indifference
. Marcus’s expression was the embodiment of utter indifference.
“You want to be off the hook!” I shouted. I turned away from him and sobbed quietly into my pillow.
After a long while, Marcus broke and put his arm around me. “Let’s not fight anymore, Darce. I’m sorry.” His tone was unconvincing, but at least he was apologizing.
I told him that I was sorry for the mean things I had said, especially the part about Dex. I told him I loved him. He told me, for only the second time, that he loved me too. But as Marcus fell asleep again, his arm still around me, I knew that our relationship wasn’t quite right. Moreover, I think I knew that it had never really been right in the first place. Sure, we had shared some passion under a tree in East Hampton. And we had had a few good times after that, but what else did we have together? I reminded myself that Marcus was the father of my baby, and I vowed to make things work between us. I tried to come up with names for our daughter. Annabel Francesca, Lydia Brooke, Sabrina Rose, Paloma Grace. I envisioned our life together, pictured the pages of the scrapbook: rosy snapshots on creamy, linen pages.
But in the final seconds before I drifted off to sleep, in that time of semiconsciousness when what you think dictates what you dream, I thought of Claire’s disapproving stare and my own feelings of dissatisfaction. Then my mind was elsewhere, rooted in the past. Fixed on Dex and Rachel and what would never be again.
thirteen
In the following weeks, my relationship with Marcus disintegrated further. Even the sex—the cornerstone of our relationship—was starting to feel routine. I tried to tell myself that it was only the stress caused by the life changes hurtling our way: the apartment we had yet to look for, the wedding we had yet to plan, and our baby on the way.
When I asked Marcus why he thought we were fighting so much, he blamed it all on my “fixation” with Rachel and Dex. He said he had grown weary of my endless Q&A, that he didn’t think it was healthy to spend so much time speculating over what they were doing, and that I should focus on my own life instead. I vowed to talk less about them, believing that in a matter of weeks, I would no longer care what they were doing. But a worry tugged at my heart that it wasn’t that simple, that despite my efforts to make things work with Marcus, we were on the brink of a breakup.
What nagged at me even more than any relationship woes was the accompanying regret about the baby. I talked a big game, but deep down, I wasn’t so sure I wanted a baby. Since I had been a teenager, my identity was about being thin and beautiful and fun and carefree. A baby threatened all of that. I didn’t know who I was going to become. And I certainly didn’t feel like anyone’s mother.
My own mother called me every other hour in those transitional weeks, just to check on me, her voice filled with pity and worry. Being without a man was a fate worse than death to her, so I finally put her out of her misery and told her that I had a new boyfriend.
I was at Marcus’s apartment, talking on his phone while he ate a slice of pizza. I was skipping dinner, as I had far surpassed my carb and fat allocation for the day.
When I told her the good news, she said, “That was fast,” with not a hint of disapproval. Only pride that I was back on my horse. “What’s his name?”
“Marcus,” I said, hoping that she wouldn’t remember that there had been a groomsman named Marcus. I wanted to ease her into that part of the story. Of course, I had no intention of breaking the baby news anytime soon.
“Is he black? Marcus sounds like a black name.”
“No. He’s white,” I said.
“Does he go by Mark?”
“No. Just Marcus,” I said, looking up at him and smiling.
“Marcus what?”
“Marcus Peter Lawson,” I said proudly.
“I
like
the full name.
A lot
. I was never too keen on the name Dexter. Were you?”
“Not really,” I said, even though I actually loved the name Dex. It had panache. But the name Marcus did too.
“What does he look like? Tell me all about him. How did you meet?”
“Well, Mother, how about you just meet him yourself? We’re coming home this weekend. I got flights today.”
Marcus’s head jerked up to look at me. This was news to him. I hadn’t quite gotten around to telling him about our travel plans.
“Fantastic news!” she shouted.
I heard my father ask in the background if I was getting back with Dex. My mother covered the phone, but I could still hear her say, “No, Hugh. Darcy has a
new
boyfriend.”
Marcus frantically whispered something. I held up my hand and shushed him. He took an imaginary golf swing and mumbled that he had plans.
I shook my head and mouthed, “Cancel.”
“Well, just give me a short prelude,” my mom said. “What does he look like?”
“He’s handsome,” I said. “You’ll love him. And as a matter of fact, he’s here right now. So I better run.”
“Oh! Let me say hello to him,” she said.
“No, Mom. You’ll meet him soon enough!”
“I can’t wait,” she said.
“You’ll like him way more than Dex,” I said, winking at Marcus. “I know you will.”
“Dex?” My mother giggled. “Dex who?”
I smiled as I hung up the phone.
“What’s the big idea?” Marcus demanded.
“I forgot to tell you,” I said breezily. “I booked us flights to Indy.”
He threw his slice of pizza back into the greasy box and said, “I’m not goin’ to Indy this weekend.”
“I asked you if you had plans. Remember? You said you didn’t.”
“You asked about Friday or Saturday nights. I’m golfing Saturday afternoon.”
“With whom? Dex?”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “I have other friends in this town, ya know.”
Very few, I thought. Another problem in our relationship. When I was with Dex, we traveled in a pack, a big group of friends. But Marcus and I spent all of our time alone, most of it holed up in his apartment. I knew I needed to stage our coming-out party, but I wasn’t quite ready for my discerning crowd to sit in judgment of my new boyfriend. And in any event, I needed to buy him some new clothes first.
Marcus continued, “Darcy, you just can’t book a trip like that without telling me. That’s not cool.”
“C’mon, Marcus. This is
really important
. Just play ball on this one,” I said, using one of his many sports expressions.
He shook his head.
I smiled and said in my sweetest voice, “You need to meet your in-laws. We need to get this show on the road.”
He sighed wearily and said, “In the future, don’t go signing me up for shit without asking me. But this time, I’ll do it.”
As if you ever had a choice, I thought.
For the first time in my long dating history, I could tell my parents actually wanted to like the boy I was bringing home. Their instinct in the past was always to judge and disapprove. My father would follow the script of the living room interrogator, the staunch enforcer of curfews, the guardian of my virtue. Although I’m sure he really did have some protective instincts, I always had the feeling that it was mostly for show. I could tell my mother loved the routine by the way she would rehash it all later. “Did you see the way your father put Blaine back on his heels?” she would ask me the morning after a date. I think it reminded her of her own teenage years, when she was the big prize in her sleepy Midwestern town and my grandfather had to chase away her suitors.
While my father was a tough customer on the outside, my mother was harsh in private, after being all sugar and spice to the boy’s face. She had high standards for me. Specifically, any man of mine had to be as handsome as I was pretty. He had to be mainstream handsome at that. No quirky good looks would do. He also had to be smart, although she would let this one slide if he had money. And he had to have a certain well-mannered slickness. I called this “show quality”—the “impress the neighbors” factor. Dex had this one in spades. He passed with flying colors in every category.
Marcus, on the other hand, was far from perfect, but he had one significant thing going for him: my parents had a strong
need
to like him. What was their alternative? Have their daughter thirty and alone? I knew the thought made both of them shudder. Well, it made my mother shudder, and therefore it became my father’s problem too. My mother loved that I had a glamorous job and made good money, but she made it perfectly clear that she thought I should get married, have babies, and live a life of leisure. She wasn’t going to hear an argument from me over that game plan. My job could be fun, but not as much fun as a massage at Bliss, shopping at Bendel’s, and lunch at Bolo.
So that Friday, Marcus and I flew to Indianapolis for the big introduction. We found my father waiting at baggage claim, all smiles. My father is what you would call polished. Full head of dark hair always in place, polo shirts and sweaters with pressed khakis, loafers with tassels. Glow-in-the-dark teeth befitting the best dentist in town.
“Daddy!” I squealed as we approached him.
“Hi, baby,” he said, opening his arms wide to embrace me. I inhaled his aftershave and could tell that he had just showered before his drive over.
“It’s so good to see you,” I said in my “daddy’s little girl,” borderline baby-talk voice.
“You too, sweetie pie.”
My father and I didn’t know any other way to interact. When we were alone for any length of time, we’d fall silent and awkward. But on the surface, in front of an audience, we fulfilled our conspicuously traditional roles—roles that made us both feel comfortable. I don’t think I would have even noticed this dynamic but for watching Rachel with her own father. They talked like real friends, equals.
My dad and I separated as I turned to Marcus, who was shifting from foot to foot and looking most uncomfortable. “Daddy, this is Marcus.”
My dad squared his shoulders, stepped forward, and gave Marcus’s hand a hearty pump. “Hello, Marcus. Hugh Rhone. Welcome to Indianapolis. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he boomed in his chipper dentist’s-office voice.
Marcus nodded and mumbled that it was nice to meet him too. I gave him a look, widening my eyes as if to say “Is that the best you can do?” Had he ignored my lecture during the flight, my tireless explaining that my parents were all about image? “First impressions are last impressions” was one of my father’s favorite expressions. I had told Marcus this.
I waited for Marcus to say something more, but instead he averted his eyes to the luggage belt. “Is that your bag?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I said, spotting my Louis Vuitton suitcase. “Grab it for me, please.”
Marcus leaned down and heaved it from the belt. “
Sheesh
,” he said under his breath, the fourth comment he had made about my over-packing since we had left the city.
“Oh, Marcus, let me,” my dad said, reaching for my bag.
Marcus shrugged and gave it to him. “If you insist.”
I cringed, wishing he had protested at least once.
“So that’s it, Daddy. Marcus just has his carry-on bag,” I said, glancing at his nasty pea-green satchel with a frayed strap and some defunct Internet logo emblazoned on the side. I saw my father take it in too.
“Okeydokey. We’re off,” my dad bellowed, rubbing his hands together vigorously. Then, as we found his BMW in the parking garage, he told us of his speeding ticket on the way over. “Was only going seven over.”
“Daddy, was it really just seven?” I asked.
“Cross my heart. Seven over. Marcus, the cops in this town are relentless.”
“That’s what I told you in high school!” I said, hitting his arm. “A lot of good
that
excuse ever did me.”
“Drinking vodka in the Burger King parking lot at sixteen? That is hardly what I’d characterize as overzealous police work.” My dad chuckled. “Marcus, I have a lot of stories to tell you about our girl here.”
Our girl.
It was a big concession. That combined with his chipper mood on the heels of a ticket was only further proof of his determination to like my new boyfriend.
“I can only imagine,” Marcus said from the back seat, his voice detached, bored. Was he was missing my dad’s cues, or was he simply unwilling to go along with the jovial routine?
I glanced back at him, but his face was in shadow and I couldn’t read his expression. For the rest of the ride home, Marcus said virtually nothing despite plenty of effort from my father.
As we pulled into our cul-de-sac, I pointed out Rachel’s house to Marcus. He made an acknowledging sound.
“Are the Whites away?” I asked my father, noticing that all of their lights were out.
He reached over and squeezed my knee with one hand and then clicked our garage door opener with the other. “No. They’re around, I think.”
“Maybe they knew I was coming home and couldn’t bear to face me,” I said.
“Just remember, it’s not their fault,” my dad said. “It’s Rachel’s.”
“I know,” I said. “But they
did
raise a traitor.”
My dad made a face as if to say, “Fair point.”
“Think Mom will mind if we go in through the back way?” he asked me. My mother believes that visitors should always be brought through the front door—not that Marcus would ever notice the difference.
Sure enough, my mom peered into the garage and whispered, as if Marcus and I couldn’t hear her, “Hugh, the
front
door.”
“The kids have bags,” he said.
My mother forced a smile and said in her turbocharged, company voice, “Well then, come in! Come in!” As always, she was in full makeup—she put her “face” on even to go to the grocery store. Her hair was swept up in a jeweled clip I had bought for her at Barneys, and she was dressed in ivory from head to toe. She looked beautiful, and I was proud for Marcus to see her. If he subscribed to the whole “a daughter will end up looking like her mother” notion, he had to be exceedingly pleased.
Marcus and my father fumbled with our bags, maneuvering them between our car and the lawnmower as my mom lectured my father about pulling the car in too far to the left.
“Dee, I’m perfectly centered,” he said, agitation creeping into his voice. My parents bickered constantly, more with every passing year, but I knew that they would stay together for the long haul. Maybe not for love, but because they both liked the image of the proper home—the good, intact family. “I’m perfectly centered,” he said again.
My mom resisted a retort, and opened the door wide for us. As she kissed me, my nose filled with her heavier-than-usual application of Chanel No. 5. She then turned to Marcus, putting one hand on each of his cheeks and planting a big kiss just to the right of his mouth. “Marcus! Welcome! It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Marcus mumbled back.
My mother hates mumblers. I silently hoped that the shame of greeting a guest between our dark garage and laundry room would distract her from noticing my boyfriend’s poor enunciation. She quickly ushered us into the kitchen. A spread of cheese, olives, and her famous shrimp puffs was laid out on the counter.
My brother, Jeremy, and his girlfriend, Lauren, suddenly bounded around the corner like two overeager house pets. Neither of them was ever in a bad mood. My father once said that the pair had two modes: chipper or asleep. True to form, Lauren wasted no time postintroduction and launched into an inane tale about one of our neighbors. I have known Lauren since she was a baby—she lived down the street from us and Rachel occasionally babysat her—so I knew that she was the kind of girl who could dominate a conversation by saying absolutely nothing in the sort of way you expect from an old lady in church, not a twenty-five-year-old. The weather, the big sale at JoAnn Fabrics, or the latest winner of bingo at Good Haven, the nursing home where she worked.