Something Borrowed Read Free Page B

say. "Me too."
    Are we talking to each other or to Darcy?
    As soon as Dex leaves, I reach for the phone, still feeling dizzy. It
    takes a few minutes, but I finally work up the nerve to call Darcy.
    She is hysterical. "The bastard didn't come home last night! He
    better be laid up in a hospital bed! Do you think he cheated on
    me?"
    I start to say no, that he was probably just out with Marcus, but
    think better of it. Wouldn't that look too obvious?
    Would I say
    that if I knew nothing? I can't think. My head and heart are
    pounding, and the room is still spinning intermittently.
    "I'm sure
    he wasn't cheating on you."
    She blows her nose. "Why are you sure?"
    "Because he wouldn't do that to you, Darce." I can't believe my
    words, how easily they come.
    "Well, then, where the fuck is he? The bars close by four or five.
    It's seven-freaking-thirty!"
    "I don't know But I'm sure there's a logical explanation."
    Which, in fact, there is.
    She asks me what time I left and whether he was still there and
    who he was with the exact questions that Dex prepped me on. I
    answer carefully, as instructed. I suggest that she call Marcus.
    "I already called him," she says. "And that dumbass didn't answer
    his goddamn cell."
    Yes. We have a chance.
    I hear the click of call-waiting and Darcy is gone, then back,
    telling me that it is Dex and she'll call me when she can.
    I stand and walk unsteadily to my bathroom. I look in the mirror.
    My skin is blotchy and red. My eyes are ringed with mascara and
    charcoal liner, and they burn from sleeping in my contact lenses. I
    remove them quickly just before dry-heaving over my toilet. I
    haven't thrown up from drinking since college, and that only
    happened once. Because I learn from my mistakes.
    Most college
    kids say, "I will never do this again," and then do it the following
    weekend. But I stuck to it. That is how I am. I will learn from this
    one too. Just let me get away with it.
    I shower, wash the smoke from my hair and skin with my phone
    resting on the sink, waiting to hear from Darcy that everything is
    okay. But hours pass and she does not call. Around noon, the
    birthday well-wishers start dialing in. My parents do their annual
    serenade and the "guess where I was thirty years ago today?"
    routine. I manage to put on a good front and play along, but it
    isn't easy.
    By three o'clock, I have not heard from Darcy, and I am still
    queasy. I chug a big glass of water, take two Advil, and contemplate ordering fried eggs and bacon, which Darcy swears
    by when she's hungover. But I know that nothing will kill the pain
    of waiting, wondering what is going on, if Dex is busted, if we both
    are.
    Did anybody see us together at 7B? In the cab? On the street?
    Anyone besides Jose, whose job it is to know nothing?
    What was
    happening on the Upper West Side in their apartment?
    Had he
    gone mad and confessed? Was she packing her bags?
    Were they
    making love all day in an attempt to repair his conscience? Were
    they still fighting, going around and around in circles of
    accusation and denial?
    Fear must supersede all other emotions stifling shame or
    regret because crazily enough, I do not seem to feel guilty about
    betraying my best friend. Not even when I find our used condom
    on the floor. The only real guilt I can muster is guilt over not
    feeling guilty. But I will repent later, just as soon as I know that I
    am safe. Oh, please, God. I have never done anything like this
    before. Please let me have this one pass. I will sacrifice all future
    happiness. Any chance of meeting a husband.
    I think of all those deals I tried to strike with Him when I was in
    school, growing up. Please don't let me get any lower than a B on
    this math test. Please, I will do anything work in a soup kitchen
    every Saturday instead of just once a month. Those were the days.
    To think that a C once symbolized all things gone wrong in my
    tidy world. How could I have ever, even fleetingly, wished for a
    dark side? How