Something Borrowed Part 33

"What about her?"

"I was just thinking about the time she wrote to Michael Jordan and asked him to our prom."

I laugh. "She actually thought he was going to come! Remember how she was worried about how she would break the news to Blaine?"

"And then Jordan wrote back to her. Or his people did, anyway. That's the part that I found unreal. I never thought she'd get a response." He laughs. No matter what he says, I know he has a soft spot for her, in spite of himself. Just as I do.

"Yeah. Well, she did. She still has the letter."

"You've seen it?"

"Yeah. Don't you remember how she taped it up in our locker?"

"And yet," he says, "you never saw the letter from Notre Dame."

"Okay. Okay. You might be right. But where were you twelve years ago with that insight?"

"As I said, I thought we were on the same page there. The whole thing was pretty transparent... You know, for a smart woman you can be pretty dim."

"Why, thank you."

He tips an imaginary hat. "Don't mention it."

We return to Ethan's flat, where I succ.u.mb to my jet lag. When I wake up, Ethan offers me a cup of Earl Grey tea and a crumpet. Lunch at a pub, a walk past Diana's old pad, an afternoon nap where I don't dream once about Dex, and tea and crumpets with my good friend. The trip is off to a good start. If anything can really be good with a broken heart.

That evening we meet up with Ethan's friends Martin and Phoebe, whom he met during his stint writing for Time Out. I have heard much about both of them: I know that Martin is very proper, went to Oxford, and comes from a ton of money, and that Phoebe hails from East London, once got fired for telling her boss to "p.i.s.s off," and has slept with a lot of men.

They are exactly as I imagined. Martin is well dressed and attractive in an uns.e.xy way. He sits with his legs crossed at the knee, nods and frowns a lot, and makes a "hmm" sound whenever anyone else speaks, showing rapt attention. Phoebe is Amazon-tall with untamed, tomato-red hair. I can't decide whether her orange lipstick clashes with her hair or complements it. I also can't decide whether she is very pretty or just plain weird-looking. Her body is definitely not ideal, but she doesn't try to hide it. One roll of her big white stomach shows between her s.h.i.+rt and jeans. n.o.body in Manhattan would expose her stomach unless it was as hard as bedrock. Ethan told me once that British women are much less obsessed with appearances and being thin than American women. Phoebe is evidence of this, and it is refres.h.i.+ng. All night she talks about this bloke whom she wants to s.h.a.g, and that bloke whom she has already s.h.a.gged. She makes all the statements matter-of-factly, as you would tell someone that work has been very busy or that you are tired of all of the rain. I like her candor, but Martin rolls his eyes a lot and makes dry comments about her being uncouth.

After Phoebe has carried on for a while about this guy Roger, who "deserves to have kerosene poured on his b.a.l.l.s," she turns to me and asks, "So, Rachel, how do you find the men in New York? Are they as b.l.o.o.d.y dreadful as English men?"

"Why, thank you, darling," Martin deadpans.

I smile at Martin and then turn back to Phoebe. "It depends... widely varies," I say. I have never thought in terms of "American men." They are all I know.

"Are you involved with anyone now?" she asks me, and then blows smoke up toward the ceiling.

"Um. Not exactly. No. I'm... unattached."

Ethan and I exchange a look. Phoebe is all over it. "What? There is a story here. I know there is."

Martin unfolds his arms, waves smoke out of his face, and waits. Phoebe makes a hand motion, as if to say, come on, out with it.

"It's nothing," I say. "Not worth discussing, really."

"Tell them," Ethan says.

So now I have no choice in the matter because Ethan has established that there is, indeed, something to tell.

I don't want to annoy everyone with a long session of "it's nothing," "tell," "really nothing," "c'mon, tell," and Phoebe does not seem the type to tolerate that evasive charade. She is Hillary-like in this regard-Hillary is fond of saying, "Well then, why'd you bring it up?" Only in this instance, Ethan brought it up. In any case I am stuck, so I say, "I've been seeing this guy all summer who is getting married in... less than two weeks. I thought he might call the wedding off. But he didn't. So here I am. Single once again." I tell my story without emotion, a fact that makes me proud. I am making progress.

Phoebe says, "Usually they wait until they're married to cheat. This bloke has a head start, eh?... What's his wife-to-be like? Do you know her?"

"Yeah. You could say that."

"A real b.i.t.c.h, is she?" Phoebe asks solicitously.

Martin clears his throat and waves away her smoke again. "Maybe Rachel doesn't wish to discuss it. Have we considered that?"

"No, we haven't" she says to him, and then to me, "Do you mind discussing it?"

"No. I don't mind," I say. Which I think is the truth.

"So? The girl he's marrying-how do you know her?"

"Well..." I say. "We've known each other a long time."

Ethan cuts to the chase. "In a nutsh.e.l.l, Rachel is the maid of honor." He pats me on the back and then rests his hand on my shoulder in a congratulatory way. He is clearly pleased to have offered his mates this nugget of transatlantic gossip.

Phoebe isn't fazed. I'm sure she's seen worse trouble. "b.l.o.o.d.y mess," she says sympathetically.

"But it's over now," I say. "I made my feelings known. I told him to call the wedding off. And he picked her. So that's that." I try to mask the fact that I am a rejected mess; I think I am doing a good job of it.

"She's moving on marvelously," Ethan says.

"Yes. You don't look a bit ruffled,' Phoebe says. "Never would have guessed.'

"Should she be crying in her Carling?" Martin asks Phoebe.

"I would be. Remember Oscar?"

Ethan groans, and Martin winces. Clearly they remember Oscar.

Then Ethan tells them that he thinks I should blow off the wedding. Phoebe wants to know more about the bride, so Ethan gives the rundown on Darcy, including some color on our friends.h.i.+p. He even throws in the bit about Notre Dame. I answer questions when directly asked, but otherwise I just listen to the three of them discussing my plight as if I'm not present. It is amusing to hear Martin and Phoebe using Dex's name and Darcy's name and a.n.a.lyzing both in their British accents. People whom they have never met and likely will never meet. Somehow it helps put things in perspective. Almost.

"You don't want to be with him anyway," Phoebe says.

"That's what I tell her," Ethan says.

Martin offers that maybe he'll still call it off.

"No," I say. "He came over to my place the night before I left and told me in no uncertain terms. He's getting married."

"At least he told you outright," Martin says.

"At least," I say, thinking that that was a good thing. Otherwise I would be filled with hope on this visit. I have to give Dex limited credit for telling me face-to-face.

Suddenly Phoebe gets this fabulous idea. Her friend James is newly single, and he loves American women. Why not set that up and see what happens?

"She lives in New York," Martin says. "Remember?"

"So? That's just a minor logistical problem. She could move. He could move. And at the very least, they both will have a good time. Perhaps have a good s.h.a.g."

"Not everyone sees a s.h.a.g as therapy," Martin says.

Phoebe raises one eyebrow. I wish I could do that. There are times when it is such an appropriate gesture. "Oh, really? You might want to give it a go, Marty." She turns back to me, waiting to hear my position on this topic.

"A good s.h.a.g can never hurt," I say, to win favor with Phoebe.

She runs her hands through her tousled hair and looks smug. "My point precisely."

"What're you doing?" Ethan asks, as Phoebe retrieves her cell phone from her purse.

"Calling James," she says.

"f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, Pheebs! Put your mobile down," Martin says. "Have some tact."

"No, it's okay," I say, fighting against my prudish instincts. "You can call him.'

Phoebe beams. "Yeah. You boys stay out of this one."

So the next night, thanks to Phoebe, I am eating Thai food on a blind date with James Hathaway. James is a thirty-year-old freelance journalist. He is nice-looking, although Dexter's opposite. He is on the short side, with blue eyes, light hair, and even paler eyebrows. Something about him reminds me of Hugh Grant. At first I think it's just the accent, but then I realize that like Hugh, he has a certain flippant charm. And like Hugh, I bet he's slept with plenty of women. Maybe I should let him add me to his List.

I nod and laugh at something James just said, a wry comment about the couple next to us. He's funny. It suddenly occurs to me that maybe Dex is not very funny. Of course, I've always subscribed to the notion that if I want to laugh out loud, I'll watch a Seinfeld rerun, that I don't need to date a stand-up comic, but I contemplate revising my position. Maybe I do want a funny guy. Maybe Dex is lacking some crucial element. I try to run with this, picturing him as humorless, even boring. It doesn't really work. It's hard to trick yourself like that. Dex is funny enough. He is perfect for me. Other than the small, bothersome part about him marrying Darcy.

I realize that I have missed what James has been going on about, something about Madonna. "Do you like her?" he asks me.

"Not especially," I say. "She's okay."

"Usually Madonna elicits a stronger response. Usually people love her or hate her... Ever played that game? Love it or hate it?"

"No. What is it?"

James teaches me the rules of the game. He says that you throw out a topic or a person or anything at all, and both people have to decide whether they love it or hate it. Being neutral isn't allowed. What if you are neutral? I ask. I don't love or hate Madonna.

"You have to pick one or the other. So pick," he says. "Love her or hate her?"

I hesitate and then say, "Okay then. I hate her."

"Good. Me too."

"Do you really?" I ask.

"Well, actually, yes. She's talentless. Now you do one."

"Um... I can't think. You do another one."

"Fine. Water beds."

"So tacky. I hate them," I say. I'm not on the fence with that one.

"I do as well. Your turn."

"Okay... Bill Clinton."

"Love him," James says.

"Me too."

We keep playing the game as we finish our wine.

As it turns out, we both hate (or at least hate more than we love) people who keep goldfish as pets, Speedos, and Ross on Friends. We both love (or love more than we hate) Chicken McNuggets, breast implants (I lie here, just to be cool, but am surprised that he does not lie in the other direction-maybe he fears that I have them), and watching golf on television. We are split on rap music (I love; it gives him headaches), Tom Cruise (he loves; I still hate for dumping Nicole), the royal family (I love; he says he's a republican, whatever that means), and Las Vegas (he loves; I a.s.sociate it with c.r.a.ps, dice-rolling, Dex).

I think to myself that I like (I mean, love) the game. Being extreme. Clear-cut. All or nothing. I do Dex in my mind, flip-flopping my decision twice-hate, love, hate, love. I remember that my mother once told me that the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference. She knew what she was talking about. My goal is to be indifferent to Dex.

James and I finish our dinner, decide to skip dessert, and go back to his place. He has a nice flat-larger than Ethan's-full of plants and cozy, upholstered furniture. I can tell that a woman recently moved out. To this point, half of the bookshelf is bare. The whole left side. Unless they kept their books segregated all along, which is doubtful, he has pushed all of his to one side. Maybe he wanted an exact percentage of how much more empty his life is without her.

"What was her name? Your ex?" I ask gingerly. Maybe I shouldn't be bringing her up, but I'm sure he a.s.sumes that Phoebe told me his situation. I'm sure she filled him in on mine as well.

"Katherine. Kate."

"How are you doing?"

"A bit sad. More relieved than anything. Sometimes downright euphoric. It's been over a long time."

I nod, as if I understand, although my situation could not be more different. Maybe Dex and I saved ourselves years of effort and pain if we were only going to end up like James and Kate anyway.

"And you?" he asks.

"Phoebe told you?"

I can tell that he is considering a fib, and then he says, "More or less... yes... How are you?"

"I'm fine," I say. "It was a short-lived situation. Nothing like your breakup."

But I don't believe my words. I have a flashback to July Fourth and feel a wave of pure, intense grief that catches me off guard with its intensity. I panic, thinking I'm going to cry. If James asks another thing about Dex, I will. Luckily, serious conversations seem not to be James's thing. He asks if he can get me something to drink. "Tea? Coffee? Wine? Beer?"

"A beer would be great," I say.

As he leaves for the kitchen, I breathe deeply and force Dex from my mind. I stand and survey the room. There is only one photograph in view. It is of James with an attractive, older woman who appears to be his mother. I wonder how many photographs of Kate and James were uprooted with the breakup. I wonder if he threw them away or saved them. That fact can tell you a lot about someone. I wish that I had a few photos of Dex. I have none of us together, only a few of him with Darcy. I'm sure I'll have a lot more after the wedding. Darcy will force me to order some, maybe even give me one in a frame, as a wedding keepsake. How will I ever get through it?

James returns with linen c.o.c.ktail napkins, two beers poured into mugs, and a small gla.s.s bowl of mixed nuts. All nestled neatly on a square pewter tray. Well trained by Kate.

"Thanks," I say, sipping one of the beers.

We sit close to each other on the couch and talk about my job, his writing. It's not perfectly comfortable, but not horrible. Probably because we are in a dead-end situation. There will be no second date, so there is no pressure to perform. No expectations. We will never have to deal with that awkward period after all the getting-to-know-you topics are covered, the lulls in conversation that usually come on the second date, at which point both people must decide whether to fight their way through to the comfort zone or throw in the towel. Of course, Dex and I didn't have to deal with that. Another great thing about Dex. We were friends first. Don't think about Dex. Think about now, being here with James!

James leans in and kisses me. He uses a little too much tongueworking it in frantic circular motions-and his breath smells vaguely of cigarettes, which is odd because he didn't smoke this evening. Maybe he had one in the kitchen. I kiss him back anyway, faking enthusiasm. I even moan softly at one point. I don't know why.