by Emily Giffin
My mother collapsed onto the bed, dug her fists into my mattress, and wept. It wasn’t exactly the “Mom, I’m pregnant” moment I had imagined.
“Mother, puh-lease! You’re supposed to be happy for me!”
Her expression changed from mournful to angry. “How could you ruin your life like this? That boy is awful.”
“He is not awful. He can be charming and really funny,” I said, realizing that he hadn’t been charming or even a little bit funny in a very long time. “And I’m marrying him, Mother. End of story.”
“No. No. No! You can’t do that, Darcy!”
“Yes, I can.”
“You’re throwing your life away. He’s not good enough for you. Not even close,” she said, her eyes filling with fresh tears.
“Because of one comment?”
“Because of a lot of things. Because you are not right for each other. Because of his behavior last night. Dex would never behave in such a deplorable—”
“Stop bringing up Dex! I’m with Marcus now!” I shouted at her, not caring who overheard me.
“You’re ruining your life!” she yelled back at me. “And your father and I are not going to stand by and watch you do it!”
“I’m not ruining my life, Mother. I love Marcus and we’re going to get married and have this baby. And you better just get used to it. Or else you’re going to be one of those women on Oprah talking about how she’s never met her grandchildren,” I said, roughly pushing aside the covers and marching over to the guest room, into the arms of my husband-to-be.
After all, there is nothing like a mother telling you that you’re making a bad decision to convince you that what you are doing is the absolute best course of action.
Minutes later, Marcus and I had packed our bags and were standing on the corner of the cul-de-sac waiting for the cab I had called. Nobody—not even my chipper little brother—tried to stop us from leaving. The cab dropped us off at the Holiday Inn next to the airport, where Marcus at least pretended to be contrite. I accepted his apology, and we spent the remainder of the weekend having sex and watching television in a darkened room that smelled of bleach and cigarette smoke. The whole scene was undeniably depressing, but strangely romantic and unifying. Marcus and I rehashed my fight with my mother, both of us agreeing that she was a heartless, shallow bitch.
And when we returned home, things continued to be good between us—or at least not altogether bad. But the peace was short-lived, and within a few weeks, we were at it again. Fighting about everything and anything. My chief complaints were his far-too-frequent poker nights with his newly acquired friends from the underbelly of Manhattan, his shabby wardrobe, and his unwillingness ever to make the trip up to my apartment. His chief complaints were my sudden lack of interest in giving him blow jobs, my keeping the thermostat too low in his apartment, and my obsession with Dex and Rachel.
Then one Saturday morning, after a doozy about baby names (he deigned to suggest the name Julie, when I knew that he had lost his virginity to a girl named Julie), Marcus kicked me out of his apartment, saying that he needed some time alone. So I left his place and went to Barneys, chalking it up to yet another lover’s quarrel. Later that night, I expected him to call and apologize. But that didn’t happen. In fact, he didn’t call at all. Instead, I called him. Over and over. I left him angry messages. Then I left him threatening messages. And then I resorted to hysterical, pathetic, begging messages. When Marcus finally called me back, my venom and tears were gone. I only felt a cold uncertainty.
“Where have you been all weekend?” I asked, feeling pitiful.
“Thinking,” he said.
“About us?”
“Yup.”
“What exactly were you thinking?” I asked. “Whether you want to be with me?”
“More or less…”
At that moment, I knew that Marcus had all of the power. Every drop of it. I thought of all the times I had dumped guys, particularly remembering my breakup speech with my high school boyfriend Blaine. I remember how he had asked, “I want to stay together and you want to break up? How come you get your way?”
“Because, Blaine,” I had said. “That’s just how it works. The person who wants out of the relationship always gets her way. It’s definitional.”
The sad truth of the statement hit me in the gut now. If Marcus wanted out, there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop him.
I tried anyway, my voice shaking. “Marcus, please! Don’t do this!”
“Look. We should talk face-to-face. I’ll be over soon,” he said.
“Are you going to break up with me? Just tell me now. Please!” I had waited for him all weekend, but the thought of waiting another twenty minutes was too much to bear.
“I’ll be there soon,” he said. His voice was flat, emotionless.
He arrived an hour later, wearing a Hooters T-shirt.
“You’re dumping me, aren’t you?” I asked, before he could even sit down.
He twisted the cap off a plastic bottle of Sprite, took a swig, and nodded twice.
“Omigod. I just can’t believe this is happening. How can you dump me? I am pregnant with your baby! How can you do this?”
“I’m sorry, Darcy…but I just don’t want to be with you.”
It was the most surprising sentence I had ever heard. It was even more shocking than when Dex came out of the closet, so to speak. Perhaps because it was so utterly one-sided. I wanted Marcus. He did not want me. End of story.
“Why?” I asked. “Because of one fight?”
He shook his head. “You know it’s not about any one fight.”
“Then why?”
“Because I just can’t ever see marrying you.”
“Fine. We don’t have to get married. We’ll be like Goldie Hawn and what’s his name?”
He shook his head again. “No.”
“But I’m pregnant with your baby!”
“I know. And that’s a problem.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at me. “A problem with several different solutions.”
“I’ve told you a million times, I’m not getting an abortion!”
“That’s your decision, Darcy. Just like getting pregnant was your unilateral decision. Remember that?” he said angrily. “And now, here we are…and I just want you to have all the facts about the future—”
I interrupted him. “What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t want to be with you, and I certainly don’t want a kid. I’ll help support it financially if you insist on having it, but I don’t want to be…involved,” he said, looking relieved. “At all.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing!”
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking anything but sorry.
I begged. I cried. I pleaded. I promised that I would try harder.
Then he gave me the ultimate insult—“I’m just not that into you anymore”—before leaving my apartment.
It was Dex all over again. Only this time, I had no backup. No suitor waiting in the wings. I was, for the very first time in my life, completely on my own.
Fifteen
The next day I caved and did the unthinkable. I phoned Dex. It was a pathetic and desperate move, but there was no denying it, I had become pathetic and desperate.
“Hi, Dex,” I said when he answered his work line at Goldman Sachs.
He made a sound that was either a laugh or a cough, followed by silence.
“It’s Darcy,” I said.
“I know who it is.”
“How are you?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
“I’m fine. You?” he said.
“I’m…okay,” I said. “I was just wondering…can you talk? Is this an okay time?”
“Um…Well, I actually have to run—”
“Well, how about later? Can you meet me after work?”
“I don’t think so,” he answered quickly.
“Please. I really need to talk to you about something,” I said.
; As I said the words, I realized that Dex likely no longer cared about my needs. Sure enough, he said again, “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Because of Rachel?”
“Darcy,” he said, annoyed. “What do you want?”
“I just need to see you. Can’t you just see me? Please? I just want to talk to you. I’m sure she’d understand,” I said, wanting him to tell me that he wasn’t seeing Rachel anymore. That they had broken up. I was hungry to hear the words.
But instead he said, “Rachel would be fine with me seeing you.”
The statement wasn’t clarifying. It could mean she was secure in their relationship. It could mean there was no relationship. I decided not to press. For now. “Well, then, why won’t you see me?” I asked.
“Darcy, you need to move on.”
“I have moved on,” I said. “I just need to talk to you about something.”
He sighed and then folded. “Fine. Whatever.”
I brightened. My plan was going to work. He gave in because he secretly wanted to see me too. “So let’s meet back at our place at eight,” I said.
“Our place?”
“You know what I mean,” I said.
“No. I’m not going there. Pick somewhere else.”
“Like where?” I asked, wondering if he had a nice restaurant in mind. “You choose.”
“How about Session 73?”
The fact that the bar was mere blocks away from Rachel’s apartment was not lost on me. “Why there?” I asked snidely. “Is that your new Upper East hangout?”
“Darcy. You’re on thin ice,” he said. It was something he always used to say to me in jest. I felt a wave of nostalgia and wondered if he felt it too.
“Why can’t we meet at the apartment?”
“Don’t press your luck.”
“But I have some stuff to give you.”
“What stuff? I got it all.”
“Just a box of stuff you left. Stuff from the filing cabinet.”
“Like what?”
“Maps, instruction booklets, a few letters…”
“You can toss that stuff.”
“Can’t you just meet me back at the apartment? We can talk for ten minutes. I’ll give you your stuff and you can go.”
“No. Bring it to Session 73.”
“It’s too heavy,” I said. “I can’t lift it, let alone carry it all that way—”
“Oh. Right. You’re pregnant,” he said bitterly. It was a good sign; he wouldn’t be bitter if he didn’t still care.
“So I’ll swing by your place at eight,” he said. “Please have the stuff ready.”
“Okay,” I said. “See you tonight, Dex.”
Later that afternoon, I left work and zipped over to Bendel’s, where I picked up a fabulous sea-foam-green cashmere sweater that plunged in the back. Dexter was a huge fan of my back. He always told me that I had the best back and that he loved how strong it was and the way I had no fat around my bra strap. Rachel definitely had her share of back fat, I thought, as I raced across Fifth Avenue to my hair appointment at Louis Licari. After a fabulous blowout, I changed into my new sweater in the salon bathroom. In case Dex made it back to my place before I did, I wanted to be ready.
Sure enough, when I returned home, there he was, sitting on our front stoop, leafing through a document. He looked gorgeous. My heart raced just as it had when I first saw him walk into that bar in the Village so many years before. His tan had faded somewhat, but his skin still glowed. He had olive skin that would make any woman jealous. A perfect, even color, never a blemish. His sideburns were longer than usual—which gave him a sexy edge. I liked the subtle change. But with or without the sideburns, Dex was gorgeous. I had to get him back.
“Hello, Dex,” I said, smiling a slow smile. “You’re early.”
Dex grimaced and tossed his document into his briefcase. Then he snapped it closed, stood up, and looked me straight in the eye. “Hi, Darcy.”
“Come on up,” I said, walking as enticingly as possible up the stairs to our third-floor apartment. Dex used to hate when I took the elevator three floors up, so I would show him that people could change. He followed me silently and then stood waiting with a grim expression as I unlocked the door. I walked inside, but he waited just outside the doorway.
“Well? Aren’t you going to come in?” I asked, making my way over to the couch.
“Where’s my stuff?” he asked, refusing to take another step.
I rolled my eyes. “Can’t you please just come in and sit down? I want to talk to you for one second.”
“I have plans at nine,” he said.
“Well, it’s only eight.”
He glanced around nervously. Then he sighed, walked toward me, and perched on the very edge of the couch, placing his briefcase between his feet. I thought of all the times he had plopped down on that exact spot, kicked off his shoes, and reclined. We had eaten countless dinners on that couch, watched hundreds of movies and television shows there, even made love a few times in the early days. Now he looked out of place and stiff. It was weird.
I smiled at him, trying to alter the mood.
“Let’s get this show on the road, Darcy. I gotta get going.”
“Where are you going?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Are you going out with Rachel? How are things going with her?” I asked, hoping to hear that their ill-advised romance—one based on hurt feelings and confusion—had fizzled, destroying their friendship along the way.
Dex said, “Let’s not go through the charade of inquiring about each other’s lives as if we’re friends.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“What part didn’t you get?” he said.
“The part about us not being friends?”
“We’re not friends,” he said.
“We date for seven years and now we’re not even friends? Just like that?” I asked.
He didn’t flinch. “That’s right. Just like that.”
“Well. Regardless of whether we’re friends, why can’t you tell me if you’re still with Rachel? What’s the big deal?” I paused, praying that he would say, Don’t be ridiculous. Rachel and I don’t have a relationship. That afternoon was just something that happened… or even better…almost happened. Maybe I had even imagined their tans in Crate and Barrel.
“It’s not a big deal,” he said. “I just think it’s best if we don’t discuss our personal lives.” He gripped the handle on his briefcase, pushing it from side to side.
“Why? I can handle it. You can’t?”
He exhaled hard, shook his head, and said, “Fine. If you insist. Things with Rachel are very good. Great, in fact.”
“So you’re actually dating?”
“See? That’s exactly why I don’t want to discuss my life with you,” Dex said, rubbing his hand along his jaw.
“Fine.” I sniffed. “Let’s just get your things. They’re in the bedroom. You remember where that is, don’t you?”
“You get them. I’ll wait here.”
“Dex, please,” I said. “Just come with me.”
“No,” he said. “I’m not going back there.”
I sighed, striding toward our bedroom, where I had planned on seducing him after a glass or two of wine. That clearly wasn’t going to happen. So I grabbed a shoebox, dumped a pair of Jimmy Choos on my bed, and rummaged through my desk until I found a few instruction booklets. One for a fancy calculator he had bought for his home office. Another for our stereo. And a few maps of the D.C. area where his father lived. I put the papers in the shoebox. Then, just to add some heft, I threw in our studio engagement picture, expensive sterling silver frame and all. I knew it was one of Dexter’s favorites of me, so it had surprised me when he took other pictures of us and left that one behind. I waltzed back into the living room, thrust the box toward him, and said, “Here.”
“That’s the heavy box you couldn’t carry?” he asked, disgusted. He stood, poised to leave.
That’s when it all sank in and I started to cry. Dex was serious with Rachel. He was leaving me to go meet her. Through tears, I begged. “Don’t go. Please don’t go,” I said, wondering how many times I’d say those words.
“Darcy,” he said, as he sat back down. “Why are you doing this?”
“I can’t help it,” I said as I blew my nose. “I’m so sad.”
He sighed loudly. “You act as if I did this thing to you.”
“You did do this thing to me.”
“You did it too. Remember?” He pointed at my stomach.
“Okay. Fine. I did it too. But…” I struggled to think of some way to keep him with me a bit longer. “But I need some answers before I can move on. I need closure. Please, Dex.”
He stared at me blankly. His eyes said: “You don’t have a choice about moving on. I’m outta here.”
I asked my question anyway. “When exactly did you start dating? On the very day we broke up?”
“Darcy, that is entirely immaterial at this point.”
“Tell me. Were you looking to be consoled? Is that why you went to Rachel’s?”
“Darcy, just stop it. I want you to be happy. I want you and Marcus to be happy. Can’t you want the same for me?”
“Marcus and I broke up,” I blurted. All pride was out the window now.
Dex raised his eyebrows, his mouth forming the beginning of a question—when or maybe why. But he changed his response to, “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I miss you, Dex,” I said. “I want us to be together again. Isn’t there any way?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“But I still love you.” I linked my arm around his. “And I think that we still have something—”
“Darcy.” He pulled roughly away, his features rearranging in a preachy expression. I knew this face well. It was his “my patience has expired” face. The face he got after I posed the same question a dozen times. “I’m with Rachel now. I’m sorry. There’s no chance of us ever getting back together. Zero.”
“Why are you being so cruel?”
“I’m not trying to be cruel. You just need to know that.”