I interrupt him. 'I know, Dex.'
'Something has to be done soon. I just haven't had a free moment. I haven't had a chance… But I want you to know that I think about it-and you-all the time. I mean, all the time…' His expression is sincere, tortured. He waits for me to speak.
This is my opening. Words form in my head; they are right on my tongue, but I say none of them, reasoning that this is not the moment to delve. We don't have enough time for a real conversation. I reassure myself that I'm not a coward, I'm just being patient. I want to wait for the right moment to discuss the destruction of my best friend. So I give him and myself an out. 'I know, Dex,' I say again. 'Let's talk next week, okay?'
He nods somberly and hugs me hard.
After he leaves, I call Claire and tell her that I got stuck on a work call but will be right over. I finish dressing, down my Snapple, and put my egg-salad sandwich in the refrigerator. I walk to the door as I eye the folded note. I can't help myself. I go back, unfold it, read it:
DARCY,
JUST WANTED YOU TO HAVE A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM ME BEFORE YOUR BIG NIGHT OUT. I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT TIME WITH YOUR FRIENDS.
LOVE, DEXTER
Why did he have to insert the word 'love'? I comfort myself by thinking that he didn't just make love to her, and we will talk next week, still within Hillary's deadline. Then I scurry off to meet Claire, to help her prepare for Darcy's big weekend.
The whole situation is completely out of control, the stuff that happens to other people. Not to people like me.
The shower/bachelorette party is agony from start to finish, for obvious reasons, and also because I have nothing in common with Darcy's PR friends, all of whom are materialistic, shallow, bitchy egomaniacs. Claire is the best of the lot, which is scary. I tell myself to smile and suck it up. It is only one evening.
We meet at Claire's first to give Darcy her lingerie, an arsenal of black lace and red silk that I simply cannot compete against. If Darcy decides to wear any of this stuff before the wedding-particularly a La
Perla garter with fishnet stockings-I am dead. Unless she only debuts my gift, a long ivory nightgown with a high neckline, something that Caroline Ingalls might have worn on Little House on the Prairie. It screams sweet and wholesome, in contrast to the other sultry, skimpy gifts that scream, 'Bend me over a chair and bust out the whipped cream.' Darcy pretends to like my gift, as I catch a knowing glance between Claire and Jocelyn, an Uma Thurman look-alike. For one paranoid second, I believe that Claire suspects the truth after our chance meeting yesterday and has shared her suspicions with Jocelyn. But then I just chalk it up to this sentiment: Darcy's dowdy friend Rachel strikes again. How can she be the maid of honor when she doesn't even know how to give a proper piece of lingerie?
After the shower segment of the evening, we cab it to Churrascaria Plataforma, an all-you-can-eat Brazilian rotisserie in the Theater District, where waiters bring you endless servings of skewered meat. It is an amusing choice for a bunch of paper-thin women, half of whom are vegetarians and subsist on celery and cigarettes. Our group parades proudly into the restaurant, fetching plenty of stares from a predominantly male patronage. After a painful round of overpriced cocktails (put on my credit card) we are seated at a long table in the center of the restaurant where the PR girls continue to work the room, pretending to be oblivious to the attention they are garnering from all angles.
I watch a nearby table of women in conservative, Ann Taylor attire eye our group with a strange mix of envy and condescension. I make a bet with myself that before the evening is over, the Ann Taylor women will complain to their waiter that our table is being too loud. Our waiter will give us a saccharine suggestion that we bring the volume down just a tad. Then our table will get all huffy and declare the Ann Taylor women a bunch of fat losers. / am seated at the wrong table, I think, as Claire and I flank Darcy upon her command. She is still wearing a little veil constructed out of the ribbons and bows from her gifts, happy to be conspicuous, the hottest girl at a table full of gorgeous women. Except for me, that is. I pretend to care about the flimsy conversation swirling about me as I sip my sangria and smile, smile.
After dinner, we make our way to Float, a Midtown dance club complete with velvet ropes and self-important bouncers. Of course we are on a VIP list-compliments of Claire-and are able to power our way past the long line of nobodies (Darcy's description). The evening follows the stale, silly script for the typical twenty-something bachelorette party. Which would be okay, I guess, except for the fact that most of us are no longer twenty- somethings. We are too old for the shrieking and the shots and the wild dancing with any guy self-confident (or self-destructive) enough to penetrate our group of nine women. And Darcy is too old for the scavenger list that Claire has prepared: find red-haired boy to buy her a sex-on-the-beach, dance with a man over fifty (imagine this species who still frequents dance clubs), kiss a guy with a tattoo or body piercing.
The whole event is overplayed and unsophisticated, but Darcy shines. She is on the dance floor, glistening, her hair curling slightly from perspiration. Her tanned, flat stomach shows between her low-slung pants and halter top. Her cheeks are rosy, dewy. Everyone wants to talk to the bride-to-be. Single girls ask wistfully what her dress looks like and more than one guy tells her she should reconsider the marriage, or at the very least, have one final fling. I dance on the outskirts of the group, biding my time.
When the night is finally over, I am exhausted, sober, and five hundred bucks poorer. We file out of the club as Darcy turns to me and says that she wants to sleep over at my place, just the two of us, like old times. She is so thrilled with the idea that I cannot refuse. I smile. She whispers in my ear that she wants to shake Claire, that it won't be the same if she comes along. It reminds me of high school and how Darcy would decide who she wanted to include and exclude. Annalise and I seldom had a say and often could not figure out why someone failed to make the cut.
We hail a cab as Darcy thanks Claire, tells her the evening was a blast, and says to me loudly, with a nudge, 'Why don't we share a cab back uptown? I'll drop you off first.'
I say sure, and we head up to my apartment.
Jose is on duty. He is happy to see Darcy, who always flirts with him. 'Where you been, girl?' he asks. 'You don't visit me no more.'
'Planning my wedding,' she says in her beguiling way. She points to her now-crumpled veil that she is clutching like a precious souvenir.
'Aww. Say it ain't so! You gettin' maah-ried?'
I clench my teeth and hit the up button on the elevator.
'Yeah,' she says, cocking her head to the side. 'Why, do you think I shouldn't?'
Jose laughs, showing all his teeth. 'Hell, no. Don't do it!' Even my doorman wants her. 'Blow that guy off,' he says.
Clearly he hasn't put the pieces of this puzzle together.
Darcy takes his hand in hers and twirls herself around. She finishes the move with a hip-to-hip bump.
'C'mon, Darce,' I say, already in the elevator, holding the door-open button with my thumb. 'I'm tired.'
She twirls one last time and then joins me in the elevator.
On the ride up, she waves and blows kisses into the security camera, just in case Jose is watching.
When we get into my apartment, I immediately turn down the volume on my answering machine and switch off my cell phone in case Dex calls. Then I change into shorts and a T-shirt and give Darcy clothes to wear.
'Can I have your Naperville High shirt instead? So it will feel like old times.'
I tell her that it is in the wash, and she will have to make do with my '1989 Indy 500' T-shirt. She says it is good enough, as it reminds her of home too.
I brush my teeth, floss, and wash my face as she sits on the edge of my tub and talks to me about the party, how much fun it was. We trade places. Darcy washes her face and then asks if she can use my toothbrush. I say yes even though I think it's disgusting to share with anyone. Even Dex. Okay, maybe not Dex, but anyone else. Through a mouthful of toothpaste, she remarks that she is not drunk, or even very buzzed, which is surprising considering the amount of alcohol we consumed. I tell her it must be all the meat we ate.
She spits into the sink. 'Ugh. Don't remind me. I probably gained five pounds tonight.'
'No way. Think of how much you burned off dancing and sweating.'
