Something Borrowed Part 20

"I did too." I am filled with a deep longing, and am sure that our talk is coming. Our Post-Independence Day Talk. We are going to discuss ways to make this crazy thing work. How we can't bear to hurt Darcy, but that we must. I wait for his lead. It is his conversation to begin.

That's when he says, "No matter what happens, I meant that."

His words are like the sound of a needle dragging across a record. A sinking, sickening feeling washes over me. This is why you should never, ever get your hopes up. This is why you should see the gla.s.s as half empty. So when the whole thing spills, you aren't as devastated. I want to cry, but I keep my face placid, give myself a psychological shot of Botox. I can't cry, for several reasons, not the least of which is that if he asks why I'm crying, I won't be able to articulate an answer.

I fight to salvage the night, bring the golden cast back. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me, I tell myself. But it is not helping. He looks at me worriedly. "What's wrong?"

I shake my head, and he asks again, his voice gentle.

"Hey, hey, hey..." He lifts my chin, looks into my eyes. "What is it?"

"I'm just sad." My voice trembles tellingly. "It's our last night."

"It's not our last night."

I take a deep breath. "It's not?"

"No."

But that doesn't really explain much. What does "no" mean? That we will continue in this fas.h.i.+on for a few more weeks? Until the night before their rehearsal dinner? Or does he mean that this is only our beginning? Why can't he be more specific? I can't bring myself to ask. I am afraid of his answer.

"Rachel, I love you."

His lips stay curled up at the end of the last word, until I lean over to kiss him. A kiss is my response. I won't say it back until we have our talk. Way to take a stand!

We are kissing on my couch, followed by the unzipping and unb.u.t.toning and attempting to gracefully slide out of denim, which is impossible. We move various sections of the Times out of our way and onto the floor. The sure fix, I think-the panacea. We are making love, but I am not in the moment. I am thinking, thinking, thinking. I can feel the dials of my brain whirring and rotating like the inside of a Swiss watch. What is he going to do? What is going to happen?

The next morning, when I wake up beside Dex, I hear him saying "no matter what happens." But during sleep my mind reprocessed the meaning of his words, landing on a perfectly logical explanation: Dexter just meant that whatever s.h.i.+t hits the fan, no matter what Darcy says or does, if we need some time apart in the aftermath of blood and guts, he will be waiting to love me and it will all be fixed in the end. That is what he must have meant. But still. I want him to tell me this. Surely he will say something more before he returns to the Upper West Side.

We get up, shower together, and go to Starbucks. Already we have a routine. It is eleven. Darcy and the others will be home soon. We are down to minutes and still no conversation, no conclusions. We finish our coffee and then stop at a toy store. Dex needs to buy a baby present for one of his work friends. Just a small token, he says. I can't decide whether I enjoy the feeling of being such an established couple that we run errands together, or whether I resent wasting our dwindling moments on this random task. It's more the latter. I just want to get back so that we have a few moments together. Time for him to share his plan.

But Dex lingers over various toys and books, asking me my opinion, laboring over a decision that doesn't matter one bit in the scheme of things. He finally decides on a stuffed, green triceratops with a cartoon-ish expression. It's not what I would choose for a newborn, but I admire his conviction. I hope he will have similar conviction about us.

"It's cute. Don't you think?" he asks, c.o.c.king its small head.

"Adorable."

Then, as he's about to pay for the dinosaur, he spots a plastic bin full of wooden dice. He picks out two red ones with gold-painted dots and holds them up in an open palm. "How much for a pair of dice?"

"Forty-nine cents per die," the man at the register says.

"A bargain. I'll take 'em."

We leave the store and walk toward my apartment. People are returning to the city in droves; traffic has resumed its normal pace. We are almost at my block. Dex is holding the bag with the dinosaur in his right hand and the dice in his left. He has been shaking them along the way. I wonder if his stomach hurts as much as mine does.

"What are you thinking?" I ask him. I want a long answer, articulating everything I am thinking. I want rea.s.surance, some small nugget of hope.

He shrugs, licks his lips. "Nothing much."

ARE YOU MARRYING DARCY? The words roar in my head. But I say nothing, worrying that pressuring him is not strategically wise. As if what I say or don't say in the final minutes of our togetherness might make a difference. Maybe it is that tenuous-the fate of three people hanging in the balance like the cradle in the nursery rhyme.

"You like to gamble?" Dex asks, examining his dice while still walking.

"No," I say. Surprise, surprise. Rachel playing it safe. "Do you?"

"Yeah," he says. "I like c.r.a.ps. My lucky number is six-a four and a two. You have a lucky roll?"

"No... Well, I like double sixes," I answer, trying to mask my feelings of desperation. Desperate women are not attractive. Desperate women lose.

"Why double sixes?"

"I don't know," I say. I don't feel like explaining that it stems from playing backgammon with my father when I was little. I'd chant for double sixes and whenever I rolled them he'd call me Boxcar w.i.l.l.y. I still don't know who Boxcar w.i.l.l.y is, but I loved it when he called me that.

"Want me to roll you some double sixes?"

"Yeah," I say, pointing down at the filthy sidewalk, humoring him. "Go ahead."

We stop on the corner of Seventieth and Third. A bus lurches past us, and a woman with a baby nearly runs her stroller into Dex. He seems to ignore everyone and everything around him, shaking the dice with both hands, an expression of intense concentration on his face. If I saw him exactly like this, but in Atlantic City wearing polyester and a gold chain, I would wonder if he had his house and life savings on the line.

"What are we betting?" I ask.

"Betting? We're on the same team, baby," he says in a Queens accent, and then blows hard on his dice, his smooth cheeks puffing out like a little boy blowing the candles out on his birthday cake.

"Roll me double sixes right now."

"And if I do?"

I think to myself, You roll double sixes, we end up together. No wedding with Darcy. But instead I say, "It will mean good luck for us."

"All righty then. Double sixes coming right up for ya." He licks his lips and shakes his dice more vigorously.

The sun s.h.i.+nes in my eyes as he tosses the dice in the air, catches them easily, and then dramatically lowers his arm toward the ground as if he's about to roll a bowling ball. He opens his hand, fingers splayed, as the cubes clatter to the concrete right at the busy Manhattan intersection.

One red die lands on six immediately. My heart skips with the thought, What iff We are crouched over the landed die and its spinning twin, rotating on its axis for what seems like forever. If you tried to make a die go that long, you couldn't do it. But there it is, turning on its corner, a blur of gold dots and red background. And then it slows, slows, slows, and lands neatly beside the first one. Two rows of three dots on the second die.

Double sixes.

Boxcar w.i.l.l.y.

Holy s.h.i.+t, I think... No wedding with Darcy!... He wanted to talk about "no matter what happens" as if someone were steering from up above; well, here you go. Here you have it. Double sixes. Our fate.

I look up from the dice at Dex, debating whether to tell him what the roll had really been for. He looks at me with his mouth slightly open. Our eyes return to the dice as if maybe we got it wrong.

What are the chances?

Urn, that would be precisely one in thirty-six. Just under three percent.

So we aren't talking one-in-a-million odds. But those statistics are misleading when removed from our context. We have reached the end of a pivotal, meaningful weekend together. Right as we are minutes from parting ways (for the day? forever?), Dexter buys the dice on a whim, plays with them instead of putting them in the bag with his stuffed dinosaur, and adopts his boyish gambling persona. I play along, even though I'm in no mood for games. Then I decide, albeit silently, the terms of the roll. And he rolls double sixes! As if to say, we are foolproof, baby.

I look at his ninety-eight-cent (plus tax) dice with the reverence you would have for a crystal ball in a richly upholstered room with the world's greatest fortune-teller, wrinkled by the Persian sun, who has just told you how it was, how it is, and how it is going to be. Even Dex, who doesn't know what he just sealed for us, is impressed, telling me that he needs to take me to Atlantic City, Vegas, that we'd make a h.e.l.l of a team.

Exactly.

He smiles at me and says, "There's your good luck, baby."

I say nothing, just pick up the dice and wedge them into the front pocket of my shorts.

"You stealing my dice?"

Our dice.

"I need them," I say.

We return to my apartment, where he collects his things and says good-bye.

"Thanks for an awesome weekend," he says, his face now mirroring mine. He is sad too.

"Yeah. It was great. Thank you." I strike the pose of a confident girl.

He bites his lower lip. "I better head back. As much as I don't want to."

"Yeah. You better go."

"I'll call you soon. Whenever I can. As soon as I can."

"Okay." I nod.

"Okay. Bye."

After one final kiss, he is gone.

I sit on my sofa, clutching my dice. They are a comfort-the roll is almost as good as a talk. Maybe better. We didn't have a talk because it is all so obvious. We are in love and meant to be together, and the dice confirmed everything. I place them reverently in his empty cinnamon Altoids container, nestled in the white paper liner with the sixes still facing up. I touch the rows of dots, like reverse Braille. They tell me that we will be together. It is our destiny. All of me believes it. I close the lid of the tin and push it against the base of my vase filled with lilies that are still clinging on. The dice, the tin, the lilies-I have created a shrine to our love.

I glance around my prim, orderly studio, perfectly neat except for my unmade bed. The sheets have molded against the mattress, revealing a vague outline of our bodies. I want to be there again, to feel closer to him. I slip off my sandals and walk over to the bed, sliding under the covers, which are chilled from the air conditioner. I get up, close my blinds, and hit the remote control on my stereo. Billie Holiday croons. I get back in bed, wriggle down toward the bottom of it, hooking my feet over the end of the mattress. I let my senses fill with Dex. See his face, feel him next to me.

I wonder if he is home yet or still stuck in crosstown traffic. Will he kiss Darcy h.e.l.lo? Will her lips feel strange and unfamiliar after kissing mine all weekend? Will she sense that something is wrong, unable to put her finger on exactly what has changed, never considering for a second that her maid of honor and a pair of dice might have something to do with the faraway look in her fiance's eyes?

Hillary arrives at work the next day, shortly before eleven, wearing wrinkled pants and scuffed black sandals. Her toenail polish is badly chipped, making her big toe resemble a squat candy cane. I laugh and shake my head as she hunkers down in her usual chair in my office.

"What's so funny?"

"Your wardrobe. They're going to fire you."

Our firm recently changed its dress code, from suits to business casual so long as there is no client interaction. But I'm pretty sure that Hillary's ensemble is not what the managing partner had in mind when his memo referenced "appropriate business casual."

She shrugs. "I wish they would fire me... Okay. So tell me about the weekend. Spare no details."

I smile.

"That good?"

I tell her we had an awesome time. I tell her about going to Balthazar and Atlantic Grill and our walk in the park and how nice it was to have so much time with Dex. I am hoping that if I talk enough, I will be able to avoid the obvious question.

"So is he going to call it off?"

That's the one.

"Well, I'm not sure."

"You're not sure? So he said he's thinking about it?"

"Well, no."

"He's not thinking about it?"

"Well... It didn't come up per se." I try not to sound too defensive.

She wrinkles her nose. Then she stares at me blankly. I wonder if her disapproval has more to do with my pa.s.sivity or her growing suspicion that Dex is playing me for a fool. The former might be true, but the latter is not. "I thought you guys were going to discuss specifics," she says, frowning.

"I did too, but..."

"But what?"

"But he told me he loves me," I say. I hadn't planned on sharing this private detail, but I feel as if I must.

Hillary's expression changes somewhat. "He did?"

"Yes."

"Was he drunk?"

"No! He wasn't drunk," I say, glancing at my computer screen, hoping to get an e-mail from Dex. We have not yet spoken since his departure yesterday.

She isn't sold. "So did you say it back?"

"Yeah. I said it back. Because I do."

She gives me a respectful few seconds of silence. "All right. So you both love each other. What now? When does the little breakup happen?"

I take issue with the flippant characterization of his hurdle ahead. "Calling off a wedding and ending a long relations.h.i.+p is hardly a little breakup."

"Well, whatever. When is he going to do it?"

My stomach hurts as I say again that I don't know. I am tempted to tell Hillary about the dice, but I keep that to myself. That is between Dex and me. Besides, the story wouldn't translate well, and likely she would only be disgusted at me for relying on a dice roll instead of being direct.