'Yeah. Just get out at Terminal Three. It's easy.'
I hug Ethan and thank him for everything. I tell him that I had a wonderful time. 'I don't want to leave.'
'Then move here… I really think you should do it. You have nothing to lose.'
He is right; I do have nothing to lose. I'd be leaving nothing. A depressing thought. 'I'll think about it,' I say and promise myself I will keep thinking about it once I get home, rather than falling blindly into my old routine.
We hug one last time, and then I board my train and watch Ethan wave at me through the tinted train window. I wave back, thinking that there is nothing like old friends.
I arrive at Terminal Three and go through the motions of checking in, going through security, and waiting to board. The flight feels endless, and although I try, I can't sleep at all. Despite my week of distraction, I don't feel much better than I did on the flight over. Even the aerial views of New York City, which usually charge me with anticipation and excitement, don't do a thing for me. Dex is amid those buildings. I liked it better when the Atlantic Ocean separated us.
When the plane lands, I make my way through passport control, baggage, and customs to find a long cab line. It is meltingly hot outside, and as I get in my cab, I discover that the air-conditioning is barely blowing through the vent into the backseat.
'Could you make it cooler back here, please?' I ask my driver, who is smoking a cigarette, an offense which could fetch him a $150 ticket.
He ignores me and lurches us sickeningly sideways. He is switching lanes every ten seconds.
I ask him again if he will please turn the air up. Nothing. Maybe he doesn't hear me over his radio. Or maybe he doesn't speak English. I glance at my Passenger Bill of Rights. I am entitled to: a courteous, English-speaking driver who knows and obeys all traffic laws… air-conditioning on demand… a radio-free (silent) trip… smoke- and incense-free air… a clean trunk.
Maybe the trunk is clean.
See? It's all about low expectations.
The backseat keeps getting hotter, so I roll down the window and endure the dirty wind whipping my hair around my face. Finally I am home again. I pay my not-so-courteous cabbie the flat rate from JFK, plus toll and tip (even though the placard also states that I may refuse to tip if my rights weren't complied with). I heave my roller bag out of the backseat.
It is five-thirty. By this time on Saturday, Darcy and Dex will be married. I will have already helped Darcy into her gown and wrapped the stems of her calla lilies with my lace handkerchief, her something borrowed. I will have already assured her a thousand times that she has never looked so beautiful, that everything is just right. I will have already walked down the aisle toward Dexter without looking at him. Well, trying not to look at him, but maybe catching a fleeting look in his eyes, a mixture of guilt and pity. I will have endured that painful thirty seconds of watching Darcy, in all of her glory, walk toward the altar, as I hold Dexter's platinum band in my sweaty palm. In six days, the worst will be over.
'Hello there, Ms. Rachel!' Jose says as I close the cab door. Then he says to someone in the lobby, 'She's back!'
I stiffen, expecting to see Darcy with her wedding folder, ready to bark demands my way. But it is not Darcy waiting for me in my lobby, in the lone leather wing chair.
Chapter 22
It is Dex. He stands as I stare at him. He is wearing jeans and a gray 'Hoyas' T-shirt. He is tanner than when I left. I resent his healthy glow and his placid expression.
'Hi,' he says, taking a step toward me.
'Hi.' I freeze, feeling my posture become perfect. 'How did you know when I was getting home?'
'Ethan gave me your flight details. I found his number in Darcy's address book.'
'Oh… What do you want? What are you doing here?' I ask. I don't mean to sound bitter, but I know that I do.
'Let me come up. I have to talk to you,' he says quietly, but urgently. Jose is still beaming, perfectly clueless.
I shrug and push the arrow for the elevator. The ride up is endless, quiet. I look at him as he waits for me to exit first. I can tell by his expression that he is here to reapologize. He can't stand being the bad guy. Well, I will not give him the satisfaction. And I will not be patronized. If he goes down that road of telling me again how sorry he is, I will cut him off. Maybe even tell him about James. I will say that I am fine, that I will be at the wedding, but after that, I want minimal contact with him, and that I expect him to cooperate. Make no mistake about it, I will say, our friendship is over.
I turn the key in my lock and open the door. Entering my apartment is like opening a hot oven, even though I remembered to put my shades down. My plants have all wilted. I should have asked Hillary to water them. I turn on my air conditioner and notice that it won't operate on high. Whenever it gets above ninety-five, there is a deliberate citywide brownout. I miss London, where it's not even necessary to own an air conditioner.
'Brownout,' Dex says.
'I can see that,' I say.
I breeze by him and sit on my couch, cross my arms, try to raise one eyebrow as Phoebe did. Both rise together.
Dex sits beside me without asking first. He tries to take my hand, but I pull it away.
'Why are you here, Dex?'
'I just called it off.'
'What?' I ask. Surely I heard him wrong.
'The wedding is off. I-I'm not getting married.'
I am stunned, remembering the first time I heard that people pinch themselves when they think they're dreaming. I was four years old and took the concept literally, pinching my arm hard, as if maybe I was still two years old and had dreamed up the second half of my life. I remember feeling relieved that my skin hurt.
Dex continues, his voice steady and quiet. He stares at his balled fists in his lap as he talks, only glancing at me between sentences. 'The whole time you were gone, I was going crazy. I missed you so much. I missed your face, your scent, even your apartment. I kept replaying everything in my head. All of our time together, all of our talks. Law school. Your birthday. July Fourth. Everything. And I just can't imagine never being with you again. It's that simple.'
'What about Darcy?' I ask.
'I care about her. I want her to be happy. I saw marrying Darcy as the right thing to do. We've been together for seven years and most of the time we've been pretty happy. I didn't want to hurt her.'
I don't want to hurt her either, I think.
He continues. 'But that was before you. And I just can't marry her feeling this way about you. I can't do it. I love you. And this is only the beginning… If you still love me.'
There is so much I want to say, but somehow I am speechless.
'Say something.'
I force a question from my lips. 'Did you tell her about us?'
'Not about us. But I told her that I wasn't in love with her and that it wasn't fair to marry her.'
'What did she say?' I ask. I need to know every detail before I can believe this is real.
'She asked if there was someone else. I told her no… that it just didn't feel right between us.'
'How is she?'
'She's upset. But mostly she's just upset about the damn wedding and what people are going to think. I swear that is what bothers her the most.'
'Where is she now?' I ask. 'She hasn't left me any messages.'
'She went to Claire's, I think.'
'I'm sure she thinks that you'll change your mind.'
I am thinking this too. He will change his mind and when he does, it will be all the more cruel.
