'She can be a little shallow.'
Darcy gives me a blank stare.
'I'm just saying she cares too much about money, appearances, and how connected the guy is. She's just narrowing her pool a bit-and her chances of finding someone.'
'I don't think she's that picky,' Darcy says. 'She'd have gone out with Marcus and he's not well connected. He's from some dumpy town in Wyoming. And his hair is sort of thinning.'
'Montana,' I say, marveling at how superficial Darcy sounds. I guess she's been like this since her arrival to Manhattan, maybe even our whole lives, but sometimes when you know someone well, you don't see them as they really are. So I honestly think I've managed to ignore this fundamental part of her personality, perhaps not wanting to see my closest friend in this light. But ever since my conversation with Ethan, her pushy, shallow tendencies seem magnified, impossible to overlook.
'Montana, Wyoming. Whatever,' she says, waving her hand in the air as if she herself doesn't hail from the Midwest. It bothers me the way Darcy downplays our roots, even occasionally bagging on Indiana, calling it backward and ugly.
'And I like his hair,' I say.
She smirks. 'I see you're defending him. Interesting.'
I ignore her.
'Have you heard from him lately?'
'A few times. E-mails mostly.'
'Any calls?'
'A few.'
'Have you seen him?'
'Not yet.'
'Damn, Rachel. Don't lose momentum.' She removes her gum and wraps it in a napkin. 'I mean, don't blow this one. You're not going to do better.'
I study my menu and feel anger and indignation swell inside of me. What a rude thing to say! Not that I think there is anything wrong with Marcus, but why can't I do better? What is that supposed to mean, anyway? For our entire friendship, it has been silently understood that Darcy is the pretty one, the lucky one, the charmed one. But an implicit understanding is one thing. To say it just like that-you can't do better-is quite another. Her nerve is truly breathtaking. I formulate possible retorts, but then swallow them. She doesn't know how bitchy her remark is; it only springs from her innate thoughtlessness. And besides, I really have no right to be mad at her, considering.
I look up from my menu and glance at Darcy, worried that she will be able to see everything on my face. But she is oblivious. My mom always says that I wear my emotions on my sleeve, but unless Darcy wants to borrow the outfit, she doesn't see a thing.
Our waiter comes by and takes our orders without a notepad, something that always impresses me. Darcy asks for dry toast and a cappuccino, and I order a Greek omelet, substituting cheddar cheese for feta, and fries. Let her be the thin one.
Darcy whips out her orange folder and starts to tick through various lists. 'Okay. We have so much more to do than I thought. My mom called last night and was all 'Have you done this? Have you done that?' and I started freaking out.'
I tell her that we have plenty of time. I am wishing we had more.
'It's, like, three months away, Rach. It's going to be here before we know it.'
My stomach drops as I wonder how many more times I will see Dexter in the three months. At what point will we stop? It should be sooner rather than later. It should be now.
I watch Darcy as she continues to go through her folder, making little notes in the margins until the waiter brings our food. I check the inside of my omelet-cheddar cheese. He got it right. I begin to eat as Darcy yaps about her tiara.
I nod, only half listening, still feeling stung by her rude words.
'Are you listening to me?' she finally asks. Yes.
'Well then, what did I just say?'
'You said you had no idea where to find a tiara.'
She takes a bite of toast, still looking doubtful. 'Okay. So you did hear me.'
'Told ya,' I say, shaking salt onto my fries.
'Do you know where to get one?'
'Well, we saw some at Vera Wang, in that glass case on the first floor, didn't we? And I'm pretty sure Bergdorf has them.'
I think back to the early days of Darcy's engagement, when my heart had been at least somewhat in it. Although I was envious that her life was coming together so neatly, I was genuinely happy for her and was a diligent maid of honor. I recall our long search for her gown. We must have seen every dress in New York. We made the trek to Kleinfeld in Brooklyn. We did the department stores and the little boutiques in the Village. We hit the big designers on Madison Avenue-Vera Wang, Carolina Herrera, Yumi Katsura, Amsale.
But Darcy never got that feeling that you're supposed to get, that feeling where you are overcome with emotion and start weeping all over the dressing room. I finally targeted the problem. It was the same problem that Darcy has trying on bathing suits. She looked stunning in everything. The body-hugging sheaths showed off her slender hips and height. The big princess ball gowns emphasized her minuscule waist. The more dresses she tried on, the more confused we became. So finally, at the end of one long, weary Saturday, when we arrived at our last appointment, at Wearkstatt in Soho, I decided that this would be our final stop. The fresh-faced girl, who was not yet jaded by life and love, asked Darcy what she envisioned for her special day. Darcy shrugged helplessly and looked at me to answer.
'She's having a city wedding,' I started.
'I just love Manhattan weddings.'
'Right. And it's in early September. So we're counting on warm weather… And I think Darcy prefers simple gowns without too many frills.'
'But not too boring,' Darcy chimed in.
'Right. Nothing too plain-Jane,' I said. God forbid.
The girl pressed a finger to her temple, scurried off, and returned with four virtually indistinguishable A-lines. And that's when I made a decision that I was going to pick one of the dresses to be the one. When Darcy tried on the second dress, a silk satin A-line in soft white with a dropped waist and beading on the bodice, I gasped. 'Oh, Darcy. It's gorgeous on you,' I said. (It was, of course.) 'This is it!'
'Do you think?' Her voice quivered. 'Are you sure?'
'I'm positive,' I said. 'You need to buy this one.'
Moments later, we were placing an order for the dress, talking about fittings. Darcy and I had been friends forever, but I think it was the first time that I realized the influence I have over her. I picked her wedding dress, the most important garment that she will ever wear.
'So you won't mind running some errands with me today?' she asks me now. 'The only thing I really want to accomplish is shoes. I need my shoes for the next fitting. I figure we'll look at Stuart Weitzman and then zip up to Barney's. You can come with me, can't you?'
I plow a forkful of my omelet through ketchup. 'Sure… But I do have to go in to work today,' I lie.
'You always have to work! I don't know who has it worse-you or Dex,' she says. 'He's been working on this big project lately. He's never home.'
I keep my eyes down, searching my plate for the best remaining fry. 'Really?' I say, thinking of the recent nights Dex and I have stayed at work late, talking on the phone. 'That sucks.'
'Tell me about it. He's never available to help with this wedding. It's really starting to piss me off.'
After lunch and a lot more wedding conversation, we walk over to Madison, turning left toward Stuart Weitzman. As we enter the store, Darcy admires a dozen sandals, telling me that the cut of the shoes is perfect for her narrow, small-heeled feet. We finally make our way to the satin wedding shoes in the back. She scrutinizes each one, choosing four pairs to try on. I watch as she prances around the store, runway style, before settling on the pair with the highest heels. I almost ask her if she is sure they are comfortable, but stop myself. The sooner she makes
