No, luck is what you have, I'd think. Luck is buying a lottery ticket along with your Yoo-hoo and striking it rich. Nothing about my life is lucky-it's all about hard work, it is all an uphill struggle. But of course, I never said that. Just told her that things would soon turn around for her.
And sure enough, they did. About two weeks later a man waltzed into the Monkey Bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and began to chat Darcy up. By the time he finished his drink, he had promised her a job at one of Manhattan's top PR firms. He told her to come in for an interview, but that he would (wink, wink) make sure that she got the job. Darcy took his business card, had me revise her resume, went in for the interview, and got an offer on the spot. Her starting salary was seventy thousand dollars. Plus an expense account. Practically what I would make if I did well enough in school to get a job with a New York firm.
So while I sweated it out and racked up debt, Darcy began her glamorous PR career. She planned parties, promoted the season's latest fashion trends, got plenty of free everything, and dated a string of beautiful men. Within seven months, she left the flight attendants in the dust and moved in with her coworker Claire, a snobbish, well-connected girl from Greenwich.
Darcy tried to include me in her fast-track life, although I seldom had time to go to her events or her parties or her blind-date setups with guys she swore were 'total hotties' but that I knew were simply her castoffs.
Which brings me back to Dex. I raved about him to Darcy and Claire, told them how unbelievable he was- smart, handsome, funny. In retrospect I'm not sure why I did it. In part because it was true. But perhaps I was a little jealous of their glamorous life and wanted to juice mine up a bit. Dex was the best thing in my arsenal.
'So why don't you like him?' Darcy would ask.
'He's not my type,' I'd say. 'We're just friends.'
Which was the truth. Sure, there were moments when I felt a flicker of interest or a quickening of my pulse as I sat near Dex. But I remained vigilant not to fall for him, always reminding myself that guys like Dex only date girls like Darcy.
It wasn't until the following semester that the two met. A group of us from school, including Dex, planned an impromptu Thursday evening out. Darcy had been asking to meet Dex for weeks, so I phoned her and told her to be at the Red Lion at eight. She showed up, but Dex did not. I could tell Darcy viewed the whole outing as wasted effort, complaining that the Red Lion wasn't her scene, that she was over these grungy under-grad bars (which she had been into just a few short months ago), that the band sucked, and could we please leave and go somewhere nicer where people valued good grooming.
At that moment Dex sauntered into the bar wearing a black leather coat and a beautiful, oatmeal-colored cashmere sweater. He walked straight over to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek, which I still wasn't used to- Midwesterners don't kiss and greet like that. I introduced him to Darcy, and she turned on the charm, giggling and playing with her hair and nodding emphatically whenever he said anything. Dex was pleasant to her but didn't seem overly interested and, at one point, as she was dropping Goldman names-Do you know this guy or that guy?-Dex actually appeared to be suppressing a yawn. He left before the rest of us, waving good-bye to the group and telling Darcy that it was nice to meet her.
On the walk back to my room, I asked her what she thought of him.
'He's cute,' Darcy said, giving the minimum endorsement. Her lackluster response irritated me. She couldn't praise him because he hadn't been dazzled enough by her. Darcy expected to be the one pursued. And that's what I had come to expect too.
The next day, as Dex and I had coffee, I waited for him to mention Darcy. I was sure he would, but he didn't. A small-okay, a big-part of me enjoyed telling Darcy that her name hadn't come up. For once, somebody wasn't falling all over themselves to be with her.
I should've known better.
About a week later, out of the blue, Dex asked me what the story was with my friend.
'Which friend?' I asked, playing dumb.
'You know, the dark-haired woman from the Red Lion?'
'Oh. Darcy,' I said. And then cut right to the chase. 'You want her phone number?'
'If she's single.'
I delivered the news to her that evening. She smiled coyly. 'He is pretty cute. I'll go out with him.'
It took Dex another two weeks to call her. If he waited on purpose, the strategy worked wonders. She was in a frenzy by the time he took her to Union Square Cafe. The date obviously went well, because they went to brunch the next morning in the Village. Soon after that, Darcy and Dex were both off the market.
In the beginning, their romance was turbulent. I always knew Darcy loved to fight with her boyfriends-it wasn't fun unless high drama was involved-but I viewed Dex as this rational, cool creature, above the fray. Maybe he had been that way with other girls, but Darcy sucked him into her world of chaos and high emotion. She'd find a phone number in one of his law-school notebooks (she was a self-proclaimed snoop), do the research, trace it back to an ex-girlfriend, and refuse to speak to him. One day he came into Torts looking sheepish, with a cut on his forehead, right above his left eye. Darcy had hurled a wire hanger at him in a jealous rage.
And it worked the other way, too. We'd all go out and Darcy would cozy up to the bar with another guy. I'd watch Dex steal casual glances their way until he could stand it no longer. He'd go to collect her, looking angry but composed, and I'd overhear her justifying her flirtations with some tenuous connection to the guy: 'I mean, we were just talking about our brothers and how they were in the same freaking fraternity. Jesus, Dex! You don't have to overreact!' ‹
But eventually their relationship stabilized, the fights grew less intense and more infrequent, and she moved into his apartment. Then, this past winter, Dex proposed. They picked a weekend in September, and she picked me as her maid of honor.
I knew him first, I think to myself now. It is no more ironclad than the Ethan defense, but I cling to it for a moment. I picture my sympathetic juror, leaning forward as she absorbs this revelation. She even raises the point during deliberations. 'If it weren't for Rachel, Dex and Darcy would never have met. So, in a sense, Rachel deserved one time with him.' The other jurors stare at her incredulously, and Chanel Suit tells her not to be ridiculous. That it has nothing to do with anything. 'In fact, it might even cut the other way,' Chanel Suit counters. 'Rachel had her chance to be with Dex-but that window has long passed. And now she is the maid of honor. The maid of honor! It is the ultimate betrayal!'
I work late that night, delaying my call back to Dex. I even consider waiting until tomorrow morning, mid- week, not calling at all. But the longer I wait, the more awkward it will be when I inevitably see him. So I force myself to sit down and dial his number. I hope for voice mail. It is ten-thirty. With any luck, he will be gone, home with Darcy.
'Dex Thaler,' he answers, his tone all business. He is back at Goldman Sachs, having wisely chosen the banker route over the lawyer route. The work is more interesting, and the money much better.
'Rachel!' He sounds genuinely happy to hear from me, although somewhat nervous, his voice a bit too loud. 'Thanks for calling. I was starting to think I wasn't going to hear from you.'
'I've been meaning to call. It's just that… I've been really busy… Crazy day,' I stammer. My mouth is bone- dry.
'Yeah, it's been nuts here too. Typical Monday,' he says, sounding a bit more relaxed.
'Yeah…'
An awkward pause follows-well, it feels awkward to me. Does he expect me to bring up the Incident?
'So. How do you feel?' His voice becomes lower.
'How do I feel?' My face is burning, I'm sweating, and I can't rule out the possibility of regurgitating my sushi dinner.
'I mean, what do you think about Saturday?' His voice is lower still, almost a whisper. Maybe he is just being discreet, making sure nobody in the office hears him, but the volume translates as intimate.
'I don't know what you're asking me…'
'Do you feel guilty?'
'Of course I feel guilty. Don't you?' I look out my window at the lights of Manhattan, in the direction of his downtown office.
'Well, yeah,' he says sincerely. 'Obviously. It shouldn't have happened. No question about that. It was wrong… and I don't want you to think that, you know, that it's typical practice for me. I've never cheated on Darcy before. Never… You believe that, don't you?'
