by Emily Giffin
Marcus studied the second hand on his watch until I said, “A cross! That means positive!”
“Lemme see,” he said, looking stunned and wide-eyed as he examined the stick, comparing it to the diagram on the back of the box. “It looks kind of faint compared to the picture.”
“A faint cross still counts,” I said. “It’s the whole ‘you can’t be a little bit pregnant’ concept. Here. Read the directions.”
Marcus scanned the page of fine print, obviously hoping to find a disclaimer—a section on false positives. A flash of fear crossed his face as he put the directions down. “So what now?”
“Well, for starters, we’re having a baby in about nine months,” I said jubilantly.
“You can’t be serious.” His voice had a hard edge.
I gave him a look that told him I was totally serious. Then I took his hands in mine.
Marcus stiffened. “Are you sure that’s what you want? ’Cause we have other options.”
The implication was clear. I raised my chin and said, “I don’t believe in abortion.”
I’m not sure why I said it, because I am actually as pro-choice as they come. Furthermore, I didn’t particularly want to be a mother at this stage of my life. I had none of the biological cravings that so many of my friends had been experiencing lately as we reached our thirtieth year. And I certainly didn’t want to gain a bunch of pounds. Or have all of that responsibility, and those restrictions on my freedom and night life.
But at that moment, I was inexplicably happy with my positive pregnancy tests. Perhaps because I was so wrapped up in Marcus that the idea of having his baby seemed thrilling. The ultimate romantic endeavor. Or maybe I liked the feeling of reeling him in just a little bit more. Not that I questioned his commitment to me. I could tell he was crazy about me in his own peculiar way. But he was one of those guys you could never quite control, and being pregnant with his child tightened my grip. Not that I consciously got myself pregnant. Not really. I thought back to our make-up sex. Clearly, it was just meant to be.
And even clearer to me at that moment was this: a positive pregnancy test meant that my wedding was off. The fact that my relief was so palpable meant that I had my true answer: I didn’t want to marry Dex. In one instant, I felt over Dex and our fairy-tale wedding, only thrilled to be a part of an even greater drama.
“I’ll tell Dex today,” I said with an aplomb that surprised even me.
“That you’re pregnant?” Marcus asked, aghast.
“No. Just that the wedding is off.”
“Are you sure you wanna do that? Are you sure you wanna have a baby?” he asked, looking panicked.
“Positive.” I looked over at the sticks. “Positive. Get it?”
Marcus just sat there, looking shell-shocked and a little bit pissed.
“Aren’t you at all happy?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said glumly. “But—but I think we need to slow down and discuss our…options.”
I let him stumble on. “I could have sworn you said you were pro-choice?”
“Okay. So I am pro-choice,” I said with an exaggerated nod. “And I choose to have this baby. Our baby.”
“Well, take your time thinking it all over…”
“You’re hurting my feelings,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I want to have this baby,” I said, getting upset. “And I wish you felt the same…. I can’t believe you haven’t even hugged me yet.”
Marcus sighed and put his arms loosely around me.
“Tell me you’re happy. A little bit happy,” I whispered in his ear.
Marcus looked at me again and said unconvincingly, “I’m happy. I’m just saying that maybe we want to slow down and think things through. Maybe you should talk to someone.”
I gave him a scornful gaze. “You mean a shrink?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s ridiculous. People go to therapists when they are filled with despair. But I’m thrilled,” I said.
“Still, you might have some issues around this thing,” Marcus said. He always talked in generalities about our relationship—some issues, this thing, our deal, the situation—and sometimes with just a quick flourish of his hand. It always irritated me that he thought a hand motion could capture our essence. We were so much more than that. Especially now. We were going to be parents.
“I have no issues. I’m in love with you. I want to keep our baby. And that is that.” Even as I said it, I knew that that was never just that in my world. That was maybe that or some of that or that along with a dose of this. But I kept going, resolute. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding to cancel.”
And that’s exactly what I did. I marched right back over to the Upper West Side to break the news to my fiancé. I found Dex putting away his dry cleaning, stripping off the plastic coverings and separating his blue shirts from the white. For one moment, I couldn’t do it, couldn’t imagine telling Dex that after years of being together, we were finished. But then I thought about Marcus and drew confidence from him.
“We need to talk,” I said, all business.
“All right,” Dex said slowly. And I could tell he knew exactly what was coming. He had appeared clueless for weeks, but his expression at that moment told me that even men have intuition.
Mere sentences later our wedding was officially canceled. A seven-year relationship over. It was bizarre how fast and easy it was. Technically, Dex was the one to pull the cord, saying that it would be a mistake to get married. Hearing him use the word mistake in relation to me made me backtrack for a second, but then I convinced myself that he was simply acknowledging a reality I had created. He was reacting to my emotional and physical withdrawal from him. I watched him, with all that balled, dry-cleaning plastic at his feet, and felt sorry for him.
I kissed his clean-shaven cheek and said what people always say when they dump someone under amicable circumstances. I told him that I wished the best for him and hoped that he would find happiness. And I meant it on one level. After all, I certainly didn’t want Dex to die alone. But if I’m completely honest, I’d say that I did want him to grieve for a good long while before seeking out his next girlfriend, a girlfriend I hoped would never quite measure up to me. Little did I know that he would be looking for that runner-up in my best friend’s apartment.
Eight
The morning after the great closet fiasco I awoke in Marcus’s bed, momentarily disoriented. I had only spent the night with him once before, when Dex had gone on a business trip to Dallas, but I had left very early the next morning while it was still dark. So that really didn’t count as a full-fledged sleepover.
This morning felt different. Everything felt different. I looked around, noticing how bright the morning sun was in his apartment. It was almost as if I were seeing it for the first time, seeing Marcus for the first time. I studied his profile and his receding (but still sexy) hairline as it hit me that the end of our saga had finally come. Marcus and I were a done deal with a baby on the way. There was no more Dex to creep back to. I felt a rush of adrenaline as I anticipated breaking the news to my friends, coworkers, and acquaintances. I wondered what explanation Dex would offer to his friends and family. I thought of all the celebrity breakups, wishing that I had a spokesperson to contact his spokesperson, to agree on one unified statement. Still, after seven years you know a person pretty well, and I was almost positive that Dex would keep the indelicate details to himself. So I could spin things pretty much my way. I considered my options. I could tell the whole truth, confess my relationship with Marcus. Or I could say nothing about Marcus and shift the blame to Dex and Rachel. Or I could maintain an aura of mystery.
It was tempting to divulge the closet tale and turn people against Rachel and Dex, but I certainly didn’t want to look like some kind of tossed-aside loser. I had to safeguard my reputation in the city as a diva. After all, divas don’t get played. So I decided that I would tell everyone that I br
oke up with Dex, simply announce that I was very sad to end our relationship, but it was for the best because we just weren’t meant to be together. I would go for a somber, “I will survive” tone. It would elicit a certain degree of sympathy, but also inspire awe that I was the strong sort of woman who could voluntarily break free of a tall, dark, and handsome man. I’d omit the Marcus part of the equation for the time being. And of course I’d leave out my pregnancy. I was all for appearing to be a woman in charge, but not a full-on hussy. My public would know the truth at some point, but that was a worry for later.
In the meantime, I’d just cross my fingers and hope that nobody would find out about Dex and Rachel. I mean, surely they wouldn’t keep seeing each other. It was an absolute impossibility. She wasn’t his type. He was only using her in his moment of extreme sadness. He was a lost soul, she a familiar, comforting friend. As for Rachel, she had just succumbed to the most attractive man ever to cross her radar. A girl like Rachel only has such an opportunity once in her life. But she would come to her senses and return to the average Joes. She would never date such a significant ex of mine. It’s a cardinal rule—and Rachel was all about rules. I was sure she was already racked with guilt for her fleeting weakness. Any day now she was going to come crawling back to me, eloquently detailing exactly how sorry she was. And if she begged long enough, talked of our friendship with enough passion, I might eventually let her back into the fold. But it would take a long, long time for her to win back the accolade of best friend.
I turned to look at Marcus again, now sleeping with one hand tucked behind his head, the other hanging off the bed. His brow was furrowed as if he were doing long division in his sleep. Then his lips curled into a sexy pout, accentuating the cleft in his chin. Suddenly his face morphed into Dexter’s, like the faces at the end of Michael Jackson’s “Black or White” video.
“Marcus, wake up,” I said, shaking his arm. “I’m starting to freak out.”
He kept snoring. I leaned over and kissed him. He made a low, throaty noise, opened one eye, and mumbled, “Mornin’, Darce.”
“Do you think they’re together right now?” I asked.
“I told you already,” he said. I guess he was referring to the no that he’d given a dozen times the night before.
“Tell me again.”
“Nah…I highly doubt it. I’m sure you ruined the mood, and he probably left.”
I decided to believe him. “Okay…But even so, I don’t think I can go to work today. I’m too distracted. You wanna call in sick with me?”
In the seven years I had dated Dex he had never once called in sick unless he truly was extremely ill. Things were going to be different with Marcus. Our life was going to be so much more spontaneous and fun.
Sure enough, Marcus said, “All right, you twisted my arm. I’ll sleep in.”
I felt a fleeting sense of victory, but then realized that in some twisted way, I was actually looking forward to the wave I was about to create at work, so I said with a martyr’s sigh, “I guess I should go in and get it over with.”
“Get what over with?”
“You know…telling everyone that the wedding is off.”
“Hmm-mmm.”
“What exactly should I say?”
No response.
“Marcus!”
“You don’t have to tell anyone anything,” Marcus said, rolling over toward me. “It’s nobody’s business.”
“Of course I have to tell them. They think I’m getting married on Saturday. Some of them are invited.”
I admired Marcus’s laid-back approach to life, but this was a perfect example of him underestimating the requisite effort something would take. It might even prove to be problematic later, if he underestimated my desire to have nice things on my birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s, and randomly throughout the year. Dex knew the drill: flowers arrived like clockwork every other month, which meant a standing order rather than a rush of emotion, but that was fine with me. Attention was attention. Nice things were nice things.
But Marcus could be trained, I was sure of it. Every man can be trained. I welcomed the challenge of molding my new boyfriend into a responsible—but still sexy and spontaneous—husband and father. For now, I had to make him understand that breaking the news to my colleagues was going to be a huge, emotional ordeal and that I would need his support—i.e., phone calls and e-mails during my trying day. Maybe even a luxury good waiting for me upon my return to his apartment. I imagined him coming through the door with an orange Hermès box and a doting smile.
“I know you have to tell the people you invited,” Marcus said. “I just think it’s unnecessary to explain the whole thing in detail. Just send a mass e-mail and be done with it.”
“But they’re going to ask what happened,” I said, thinking that I’d be disappointed if they didn’t. “People want details.”
“I know you would, you little information hound, but not everyone is like you.”
“Everyone is like me in the world of public relations. Trust me. It’s our business to gather, hoard, and disperse juicy details. And this is big-time juicy.”
“Well, I’m just sayin’ that it’s your prerogative to tell people to mind their own fuckin’ business,” Marcus said.
I told him that wasn’t my style. Then I got up quickly, resisting the urge to have sex. After all, I had a lot to accomplish in a day. I showered, put on my makeup, and then checked Marcus’s closet, which was full of my clothes that I had brought over the night before. I opted for an Escada pencil skirt, a green Versace V-neck, and a pair of Ferragamo slingbacks. Then, I leaned into the bathroom to say good-bye to Marcus, who was singing “Purple Rain” at the top of his lungs, and, impressively, in tune.
“See you tonight, hon!” I called into the bathroom.
He stopped singing and poked his head around the shower curtain. “Sounds good…. C’mere and give me a quick kiss.”
“Can’t. The steam will ruin my hair,” I said, blowing him a kiss from the doorway. Then I maneuvered through the busy city streets to the subway as I considered my strategy for how to break the news. I could tell Claire, coworker and new best friend effective immediately, that she was free to spread the word. Then I remembered that she had an out-of-office meeting with a potential new client this morning, and I couldn’t stand the thought of waiting for her return. So I would send a mass e-mail as Marcus suggested, adopting just the right tone.
When I got to my office, I settled into my chair in front of my computer and quickly typed out my breaking news:
Good morning, everyone. I just wanted to let you all know that my wedding will not be taking place this Saturday. It was a difficult decision, but I think I’m doing the right thing. I know it’s a bit odd to send out a group e-mail regarding such a personal matter, but I thought this was the easiest way.
Perfect. It was strong but emotional. And most important, it clearly signaled that I had done the dumping. I reread it, thinking that something was missing. I added an ellipsis at the end. Yes. Perfect touch. Those three little dots would conjure the sound of my voice trailing away mysteriously. Now for a subject line. Should it say “Wedding” or “Canceled” or “News”? None seemed right, so I kept the subject line blank. Then, as I selected my personal e-mail group and prepared to send the shocking nugget via cyberspace, my phone rang.
“Darcy,” my boss, Cal, said in his breathy, effeminate voice. “How are ya?”
“Not so good, Cal,” I said in my “I can’t deal with taking instructions” voice. One that he knew well. It was the beauty of working for Cal. He was a complete pushover.
“Well, may I please see you in Conference Room C?”
“For what?”
“We need to talk about the Celebrity Golf Challenge.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, if you could. Please?”
I sighed as loudly as possible. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there when I can.”
Damn. Had I arrived
a few minutes earlier, he’d be opening my e-mail and contacting someone else about the golf tournament. I was sure that once I told him the news, he’d pass the project elsewhere, especially if I could work up a few tears. In fact, I could probably squeeze a few leisurely weeks out of my purported hardship. Maybe Marcus and I could even take a vacation together. I minimized my e-mail, deciding that I’d give it a final tweaking and a spell-check before sending, and then made my way downstairs to the conference room. I pushed open the heavy door with a hangdog expression.
And there before me was the entire staff of Carolyn Morgan and Associates, all packed into the room, yelling “Surprise!” and hurling their heartiest congratulations at me from all directions. A gigantic blue box from Tiffany perched on one end of the lacquered table. An ivory-frosted cake with pink gel writing sat temptingly at the other. My heart raced. Talk about your audiences! Talk about your drama!
“We knew you’d expect your party later in the week!” Claire squealed. “Gotcha! And you believed I had that meeting!”
She was right. They had, indeed, gotten me. But I was about to get them right back. Top their surprise. I smiled hesitantly, and said, “You shouldn’t have.”
“Of course we should have,” Claire said.
“No. You really shouldn’t have,” I said.
Cal stepped toward me and put his arm around me. “Speech,” he said.
“I’m speechless,” I said. “I’m literally without speech.”
“Impossible,” Cal said. “I’ve known you for years and never seen it happen yet.”
Laughter rippled through the room, affirming that, indeed, I had the biggest mouth in the place. I cleared my throat again and took a step forward, smiling demurely. “Well. Thank you all so very much…but…there isn’t going to be a wedding. I’m not getting married.”
Cal and some others laughed again. “Yeah. Yeah. You’re going down like the rest of us poor, married fools,” he said.