by Emily Giffin
“Or else what?”
“Or else it will be the biggest mistake of her life.”
“You’re that good?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Actually, I am that good.”
And then I got that wistful pang again. That feeling that it was just too bad that I couldn’t sample Marcus before marrying Dex. Even beyond any minor feelings I felt for Marcus, I thought about what a shame it was that I would never experience another first kiss. That I’d never fall in love again. I think most guys experience such feelings in a relationship, typically right before they break down and buy the engagement ring. But from what I can tell, most women aren’t like this—at least they don’t admit to having such feelings. They find a good man, and that’s it. They seem relieved that the search is over. They are content, committed, totally in it for the long haul. I guess I was more like a guy in this regard.
Still, despite my occasionally chilly feet, I knew that nothing could happen with Marcus. So I set about doing the noble thing: I encouraged Rachel to go out with Marcus and took an active interest in their potential relationship. And when they actually did go out, I was happy for them.
But then both he and Rachel flatly refused to include me in any postdate gossip, and that irritated me as I was better friends with each of them than they could have become with each other on one stupid date. Rachel gave me nothing, wouldn’t even tell me if they had kissed—which left me wondering if they had done much more than that. The more I pried, the more private they became, and the more intrigued with Marcus I became. It was a vicious cycle. Consequently, over the next few weeks, whenever Marcus called to talk to Dex, I made it my goal to keep him on the phone for as long as possible. Occasionally, I’d even call him to talk at work, under the pretext of asking about our Hamptons share or something related to the wedding. I’d hang up and follow up with a clever e-mail. He’d shoot one back at the speed of light, and we’d have a playful repartee that would last throughout the day. Harmless stuff.
Then over the July Fourth weekend, Dex and Rachel both stayed in the city to work rather than joining the rest of us in the Hamptons. Mostly I was annoyed and disappointed that my best friend and my fiancé were staying behind, but part of me was excited at the idea of spending unchaperoned time with Marcus. Not that I wanted anything to happen. I just wanted a little intrigue.
Sure enough, the intrigue bubbled up at The Talkhouse over part two of our little shot game, only this time it was without the Dexter safety net. I had a few too many, but managed not to get sick, black out, or become completely stupid. Still, I was unquestionably drunk. So was Marcus. We danced until two in the morning, when he, Claire, and I returned home. Claire put on her Lily Pulitzer pajamas and went straight to bed, but Marcus and I kept partying, first in the den and then in the backyard.
It was all good fun—the teasing and the laughing. But then the boisterous put-downs gave way to playful slapping, which led to some wrestling around in the damp, cool grass. I remember yelling at Marcus to stop after he had tackled me under a tree. I told him that I was going to get stains all over my Chaiken white halter sundress. But I really didn’t want him to stop, and I think he knew this because he didn’t. Instead he pinned my arm behind my back, which I have to say is a huge turn-on. At least it was with Marcus. I could tell that he was turned on, too, because I felt him there on top of me. Which of course only turned me on more.
At some point, it started to rain, but neither of us made a move for the house. Instead we stayed glued on top of each other, almost frozen in place. Then the laughing stopped. We weren’t even smiling, just staring at each other, our faces so close that our noses touched. After a long time like that, in sexual limbo, I tilted my head to the side and brushed my lips against his. Back and forth one time, lightly, innocently. I wanted him to kiss me first, but I had waited long enough. The brief seconds of contact were tellingly delicious. I could tell he thought so, too, but he pulled away and asked, “What’s going on here?”
I found his lips again. This time it was a real kiss. I remember feeling completely alert, all my senses buzzing. “I’m kissing you,” I said.
“Should you be doing that?” he asked, still on top of me, pressing slightly harder.
“Probably not,” I said. “But here we are anyway.”
I kissed him again, and this time he kissed me back. We made out for a long time with warm rain falling on us and thunder rumbling in the distance. I knew we were both thinking that we couldn’t, shouldn’t, do more than kiss, but we were both stalling to be sure. Calling the other’s bluff. He said stuff like We gotta stop, and This is nuts, and We can’t do this, and What if Claire busts us out here? but neither of us changed course or even braked.
Instead, I took firm hold of his hand and moved it up under my sundress. And he sure knew what to do after that. If there had been any doubt in my mind before as to Marcus’s expertise, I had no doubt anymore. He was just one of those guys. Dex might be handsome, I remember thinking, but he can’t do this. Not like this. And even if he did, it wouldn’t feel like this. And the thought that I’d never have with Dex what Marcus was offering me, made me whisper into his ear, “I wanna be with you.”
“We can’t go there,” Marcus said, his hand still working between my legs.
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
“But I want to.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. I’m sure I do,” I said.
“Hell, no. We can’t.”
But by then I was wriggling out of my thong and unfastening his jeans, reaching down into the warmth of his boxers, determined to make him breathe as hard as I was. We went through the whole high school charade of inching forward step by step, only delaying the inevitable. But the inevitable finally came. Right there under that tree in the pouring July rain.
I’d like to say that I was thinking big, important thoughts—about what I was doing, what it meant in the scheme of my life, the impact it would have on my engagement, my relationship. But no, it was more like, Am I better than his other girls? Will Dex ever find out? Will Marcus ever go out with Rachel again? Why does this feel so damn good?
We lasted a long time together, perhaps because of all that we had had to drink, but I decided that it had more to do with perfect chemistry and with Marcus’s sexual prowess. Afterward, we rolled onto our backs, catching our breath, our eyes mostly closed. The rain came to a sudden stop, but we were both soaking wet.
“Wow,” he said, moving a stick from under his back and flinging it several feet away from us. “Fuck.”
I could tell I had made an impression, so I smiled to myself.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
“Too late,” I said, intertwining my fingers with his.
He squeezed my hand. “Way too late…. Ffffuck.”
“You’re not gonna tell Dex, are you?” I asked.
“Are you fuckin’ nuts? No way. Nobody. You’re not either,” he said, looking slightly panicked.
“Of course not. Nobody,” I said. Rachel flashed through my mind—her expression changing from shock to hurt to piousness. Especially not Rachel.
Marcus ran his hand over my wet thigh. “We should go in. Shower.”
“Together?”
“No.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Not together. I think we’ve done enough damage tonight.”
I wanted to ask him what would happen from here. I wanted to know what it had meant to him, how he was feeling, whether it was a one-time thing or whether we’d have a repeat performance. But I was starting to feel groggy, confused, and a little bit worried. We went inside, kissed good night, and took separate showers. I couldn’t quite believe what had happened—and although I didn’t regret it, I still cried a little under the hot water when I looked at my beautiful diamond engagement ring and thought about Dexter asleep in our bed on the Upper West Side.
After my shower, I tried to rub the grass stains out of my dress with some
Woolite that I found under the sink, but it was hopeless, and I knew bleach would only ruin the delicate fabric. So I wrung out the dress, crept down to the kitchen, and stuffed it into the bottom of the plastic trash bag under a banana peel and an empty box of Trix. I wasn’t about to crash and burn over a dress like some kind of Monica Lewinsky.
Five
The next day I awoke with a dry tequila mouth and a searing headache. I checked my watch; it was nearly noon. The night before seemed like a blurry dream. A blurry, good dream. I couldn’t wait to see Marcus again. I got up, brushed my teeth, swept my hair up in a ponytail, added a hint of pink blush to my cheeks, put on a Juicy Couture lime-green skirt and a white tank, and sauntered out to find him.
He was in the den alone, watching television.
“Hiya,” I said, taking a seat next to him on the couch.
He glanced over at me, squinted, and let out a hoarse, “Morning. Or afternoon, I guess.” Then his eyes returned to the TV.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
He told me that Claire went to brunch and that Hillary, our other housemate, hadn’t returned home the night before.
“Maybe she got some action too,” I said to break the ice.
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”
I tried again. “So how do you feel?”
“Like ass,” he said, changing the channel and still avoiding eye contact. “Those shots weren’t such a hot idea.”
“Ahh. I get it,” I said. “We’re blaming what happened on the alcohol, are we?”
He shook his head and struggled not to smile. “Always knew you were trouble, Darcy Rhone.”
I liked that that was his impression, but at the same time I didn’t want him to think that I was a slut, or that I often cheated on Dexter, so I set the record straight, told him that nothing like that had ever happened before. It was, in a technical sense, the truth.
“Yeah. Well. It won’t happen again. Back to reality,” Marcus said.
It hurt my feelings and bruised my ego that he was treating me with no particular gentleness. We had, after all, shared a night of passion. Passion that I hadn’t experienced in years. Maybe not ever. I like to think of myself as a woman of the world, and I certainly had had sex in my share of interesting spots—including, but not limited to, a church parking lot, a cornfield, and the waiting room of my father’s dentist office. But the thunderstorm hookup was a first, and I was annoyed that Marcus wasn’t giving our liaison its proper due.
“So you’re sorry it happened?” I asked.
“Of course I am.”
I sighed and tried another angle. “So you…didn’t enjoy it?”
He finally cracked, looked up at me, and grinned. “Totally beside the point, Rhone.”
“Don’t call me Rhone,” I said. “You weren’t calling me Rhone last night.”
“Last night,” he said, shaking his head, “was fucked up. I think it’s best we drop the whole thing.”
“No,” I said.
He looked at me. “No?”
“No. I can’t drop it,” I said. “It happened. We can’t take it back.”
“I know we can’t take it back, but we gotta forget it,” he said. “It was a shitty thing to do. You’re engaged…and Dex is my boy…It’s done.”
“Right,” I said, giving him a suggestive once-over.
He looked away, then crossed his legs, man-style. “It was fucked up.”
It made me mad that he was worrying about Dex, instead of me. “Marcus,” I said.
“What?”
“I think we should talk about what happened. I think we should talk about why it happened.” I wanted to test the waters, determine how much he liked me and whether I could have him again if I wanted him. Which I sort of did. Maybe once or twice more. I mean, once you cheat, is it that much worse to cheat two or three times?
“It happened because we drank too much.”
“That’s not why it happened. There was more to it than that. You weren’t out there with Claire.”
He cleared his throat, but said nothing.
“What if I’m not supposed to be with Dex?”
“Then you better call off the wedding.”
“You want me to do that?” I asked.
“No. I didn’t say that. You should marry Dex.” His voice was just cold enough to make me want to break him.
“What if I’m supposed to be with you?” I asked, staring purposefully into his eyes.
He looked away. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
“Why not?”
“Can’t happen.”
“Why?”
“Because.” He got up and shuffled into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of orange Gatorade. “It was a mistake. One of those things.”
“You have no feelings for me whatsoever?” I asked. It was a trap. He couldn’t deny any feelings or he would be an asshole for sleeping with me. But if he admitted that he had feelings for me, then the door wouldn’t be completely closed.
He thought for a second and skillfully replied, “Sure I like you, Darcy. We’re friends.”
“So you always do that with your friends?” I snapped back.
He turned the volume down one notch, crossed his arms, and looked at me. “Darce. I thoroughly…enjoyed last night…. But it was a dick move. And I regret it…. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake?” I said, looking highly offended.
“Yeah,” he said calmly. “A mistake. An alcohol-related incident.”
“But it did mean something to you?”
“Yeah.” He yawned, stretched, and smiled slightly. “Like I said, I enjoyed it. But it’s done. Over.”
“Okay. Fine,” I said. “But you’re not going to go out with Rachel again, are you?”
“I dunno. Maybe. Probably. Why?”
“You are?” I asked indignantly.
He just looked at me, took a swig of Gatorade. “Why not?”
“Don’t you think that’s sort of weird now?” I asked. “Like a conflict of interest or something?”
He shrugged, showing me that he saw no problem with it whatsoever.
“You aren’t going to sleep with her, are you?” I asked, assuming, based on Rachel’s track record, that he hadn’t already.
He laughed and said, “Can’t rule it out.”
“Are you serious?” I asked, horrified. “That’s just too weird. We’re best friends.”
He shrugged.
“Okay. Look. I gotta ask you this. One question…If I were single, who would you choose? Rachel or me?” I asked. I was pretty sure I knew the answer but wanted to hear him say it.
He laughed. “You’re too much.”
“C’mon. Answer me.”
“Okay. Here’s the truth,” he said somberly. I anticipated his first soft words since our encounter. “I’d try to hook up with both of you at once.”
I punched his arm and said, “Be serious.”
He laughed. “You guys have never done that before?”
“No, we’ve never done that before! You’re gross,” I said. “I’m game for a lot, but I like my love one on one…. So c’mon, you have to pick. Rachel or me?”
He shrugged. “Close call.”
“Close because of Dex, right? But you’re more attracted to me?” I asked, looking for affirmation. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to beat Rachel. It was more that she had her turf—the intelligent-lawyer thing—while being hot and desired by men was my domain, my main source of self-esteem. And I wanted—and needed—the lines to stay clear.
But Marcus wouldn’t grant me any satisfaction. “You’re pretty in different ways,” he said as he turned the volume back up on the television to show me that our conversation was over. “Now. Let’s watch some Wimbledon, what do you say? How about that Agassi?”
For the rest of the weekend, as Marcus did his best to avoid being alone with me, I found myself obsessing over him. And when we all returned to the city, my preoccupation only grew stronger. I didn’t n
ecessarily want to have an affair with him, but I wanted him to want me.
But that clearly wasn’t happening. Despite a barrage of e-mails and phone calls, Marcus pretty much ignored me. So about a week later, I took drastic measures and showed up at his apartment with a six-pack of beer and Pulp Fiction, a movie all men love. Marcus buzzed me up to his apartment and was standing in his open door with his arms crossed. He was wearing gray sweats with a hole in the knee and a faded, stained T-shirt. Still, he looked hot, as one can only look after you’ve just had forbidden sex with them in the pouring rain.
“Well? Can I come in? I brought treats,” I said, holding up the beer and the video.
“Nope,” he said, still smiling.
“Please?” I said sweetly.
He shook his head and laughed, but didn’t budge.
“C’mon? Can we please just hang out tonight?” I asked. “I just want to spend time with you. As friends. Strictly friends. Is that so wrong?”
He made an exasperated sound and moved over just enough to let me squeeze by him. “You’re a trip.”
“I just want to see you again. As friends. I promise,” I said, surveying his stereotypically messy bachelor pad. Clothes and newspapers were strewn everywhere. A Stouffer’s frozen lasagna sat thawing on his coffee table. His bed was unmade, the bottom sheet straining to cover a ratty blue mattress. And a large fish tank, badly needing a good scrub, sat next to a plasma screen television and dozens of video games. He saw me take it all in.
“Wasn’t expecting company.”
“I know. I know. But you wouldn’t return my calls. I needed to take drastic measures.”
“I know about you and your drastic measures,” he said, pointing at a futon opposite his leather sectional. “Have a seat.”
“Come on, Marcus. I think we can handle sitting on the couch together. I swear, nothing’s going to happen.”
It was a lie, and we both knew it.
So halfway through the movie, after a few smooth moves by me, Marcus and I were making our second big “mistake.” And, I have to say, I liked him even better on a dry, soft couch.