Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin
“I can’t think of any either,” I say, hoping that Bruce Springsteen doesn’t make the cut.
“You sure it’s not cheesy?” she asks.
“It’s not cheesy,” I say, and then whisper, “This guy next to me is really pissing me off. He won’t give me any of the armrest.” I turn to quickly survey Crew Cut’s smug profile.
“Excuse me! Sir!” Darcy leans over my lap and pokes his arm. Once, twice, three times. “Sir? Sir!”
He casts a disdainful eye her way.
“Sir, could you please share the armrest with my friend here?” She flashes him her most seductive smile.
He shifts his arm one centimeter. I mumble thanks.
“See?” Darcy asks me proudly.
This is the part where I’m supposed to marvel at her way with men.
“You just have to know how to ask for what you want,” she whispers. My mentor in dealing with the opposite sex.
I think of Dex and July Fourth.
“I might have to try that,” I say.
My parents call my cell right after we land, to confirm that Darcy’s father picked us up and to ask if I ate on the plane. I tell them yes, Mr. Rhone showed up, and no, they stopped serving dinner on the New York to Indy flight about ten years ago.
As we pull into our cul-de-sac, I spot my father waiting for me on the front porch of our two-story, white-aluminum-sided, green-shuttered house. He is wearing a short-sleeved, peach-and-gray plaid shirt and matching gray Dockers. By any measure, it is an “outfit,” and it has my mother written all over it. I thank Mr. Rhone for the ride and tell Darcy that I’ll call her later. I am relieved that she does not ask if we can all get together for dinner. I’ve had enough wedding talk and know that Mrs. Rhone is incapable of discussing anything else.
As I cross Darcy’s yard into my own, my dad throws up his arm and gives an exaggerated, overhand wave as if signaling a far-off ship. “Hello, counselor!” he belts out, all grins. The novelty of having an attorney daughter has yet to wear off.
“Hi, Dad!” I kiss him and then my mother, who is hovering at his side, already examining me for possible signs of anorexia, which is ridiculous. I am nowhere near too thin, but my mom does not accept New York’s definition of thin.
As I field their questions about my flight, I notice that the hall wallpaper has changed. I advised my mother against wallpaper, told her paint was the way to go for a fresher look. But she stuck with wallpaper, switching from tiny floral print to slightly tinier floral print. My parents’ taste has not evolved since around the time that Ronald Reagan was shot. Our home still has lots of country touches—cross-stitched expressions of good cheer like “Back-door friends are best,” a scattering of wooden cows and pigs and pineapples, stencil borders throughout.
“Nice wallpaper,” I say, trying to sound sincere.
My mom doesn’t buy it. “I know—you don’t like wallpaper, but your father and I do,” she says, motioning me into the kitchen. “And we’re the ones who live here.”
“I never said I liked wallpaper,” my dad says, winking at me.
She shoots him a practiced look of annoyance. “You most certainly did, John.” Then she tells me in a whisper, designed for him to hear, that, in fact, my father picked the new paper.
He gives me a “Who, me?” expression.
They never tire of their routine. She plays the fearless leader, corralling her unruly husband, the good-natured fool. Although I spent much of my adolescence irritated by the monotony of it, particularly when I had friends over, I have come to appreciate it in recent years. There is something comforting about the sameness of their interaction. I am proud that they have stayed together, when so many of my friends’ parents have divorced, remarried, morphed two families into one, with varying degrees of success.
My mom points to a plate of cheddar cheese, Ritz crackers, and red grapes. “Eat,” she says.
“Are these seedless?” I ask. Grapes with seeds just aren’t worth the effort.
“Yes, they are,” my mom says. “Now. Shall I throw something together or would you rather order pizza?”
She knows that I’d prefer pizza. First, I love Sal’s pizza, which I can only get when I’m home. Second, “throwing something together” is an exact description of my mom’s cooking—her idea of seasoning is salt and pepper, her idea of a recipe is tomato soup and crackers. Nothing strikes fear in my heart like the sight of my mother strapping on an apron.
“Pizza,” my dad answers for us. “We want pizza!”
My mom pulls a Sal’s coupon off the refrigerator and dials the number, ordering a large pizza with mushrooms and sausage. She covers the mouthpiece. “Right, Rachel?”
I give her the thumbs-up. She beams, proud to have memorized my favorite combination.
Before she can hang up, she is inquiring about my love life. As though all my phone updates informing them that I have nothing going on were just a ruse, and I’ve been saving the truth for this moment. My father covers his ears with feigned embarrassment. I give them a tight-lipped smile, thinking to myself that this inquisition is the only part of coming home that I don’t like. I feel that I am a disappointment. I am letting them down. I am their only child, their only shot at grandchildren. The math is pretty basic: if I don’t have children in the next five years or so, it is unlikely they will see their grandchildren graduate from college. Nothing like a little added pressure to an already stressful pursuit.
“Not one boy out there?” my mom asks, as my dad searches for the ideal slice of cheese. Her eyes are wide, hopeful. The probe might seem insensitive, except she truly believes I have my choice of dozens, that the only thing keeping me from her grandchildren is my own neurosis. She doesn’t understand that the simple, straightforward, reciprocated love she has for my father is not so easy to come by.
“No,” I say, lowering my eyes. “I’m telling you, it’s harder to find a good guy in New York than anywhere.” It is the cliché of single life in Manhattan, but only because it’s true.
“I can see that,” my dad says, nodding earnestly. “Too many people caught up in that rat race. Maybe you should come home. At least move to Chicago. Much cleaner city. It’s because Chicago has alleys, you know.” Every time my dad visits New York, he harps on the lack of alleys; why would they make a city without alleys?
My mom shakes her head. “Everybody is married with babies in the suburbs. She can’t do that.”
“She can if she wants to,” my dad says with a mouthful of cracker.
“Well, she doesn’t want to,” my mom says. “Do you, Rachel?”
“No,” I say apologetically. “I like New York for now.”
My dad frowns as if to say, well, then there is no solution.
Silence fills the kitchen. My parents exchange a doleful glance.
“Well. There is sort of someone…” I blurt out, just to cheer them up a bit.
They brighten, stand up straighter.
“Really? I knew it!” My mom claps giddily.
“Yeah, he’s a very nice guy. Very smart.”
“And I’m sure he’s handsome too,” she says.
“What does he do?” my dad interrupts. “The boy’s looks are beside the point.”
“He’s in marketing. Finance,” I say. I’m not sure if I am telling them about Marcus or Dex. “But…”
“But what?” my mom asks.
“But he just got out of a relationship, so the timing may be…imperfect.”
“Nothing is ever perfect,” my mom says. “It is what you make of it.”
I nod earnestly, thinking that she should cross-stitch that nugget of wisdom and hang it over my twin bed upstairs.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you dread this baby shower?” Darcy asks me the next day as we drive to Annalise’s shower in my mom’s ’86 Camry, the car I learned to drive in. “Ten is total, total doomsday kind of dread. One is I can’t wait, this thing will be really fun.”
“Six,” I say.
“Why? How much do you dread it?”
She closes her compact, examines her two-point-three-carat ring, and says, “Mmmm…I don’t know…Four and a half.”
Ohhh, I get it, I think. I have more reason to dread it. I am the one going into a room full of married and pregnant women—many of whom are fellow high school classmates—without so much as a boyfriend. Only one of us is thirty and totally alone, a tragic combination in any suburb. That is what Darcy is thinking. But I make her say it, ask her why she supposes that I dread the shower by a full point and a half more.
Shamelessly and without hesitation to consider a tactful wording, she answers me. “Be-cause. You’re single.”
I keep my eyes on the road, but can feel her stare.
“Are you mad? Did I say something wrong?”
I shake my head, turn on the radio. Lionel Richie is wailing away on one of my mother’s preselected radio stations.
Darcy turns the volume down. “I didn’t mean that that was a bad thing. I mean, you know that I totally value being single. I never wanted to marry before thirty-three. I mean, I’m talking about them. They are so narrow, you know what I mean?”
She has just made it worse by telling me that she didn’t even want this whole crazy engagement. She would have preferred another three-plus years of bachelorettehood. And lo and behold, it all just fell in her lap. What’s a girl to do?
“They’re so narrow that they don’t even know they’re narrow,” she continues.
Of course she is right about this. This group of girls, of which Annalise has been a member since the day she left college, lives like women in the fifties. They picked out china patterns before their twenty-second birthdays, married their first boyfriend, bought three-bedroom homes within miles, if not blocks, of their parents, and went about the business of starting a family.
“Right,” I mumble.
“So that’s all I meant,” she says innocently. “And deep down inside, they are so jealous of you. You’re a big-time lawyer at a big-city firm.”
I tell her that is crazy—not one of those girls longs for a career like mine. Most don’t work at all, in fact.
“Well, it’s not only the career. You are free and single. I mean, they watch Sex and the City. They know what your life’s all about. It’s glamorous, full of fun, hot guys, cosmopolitans, excitement! But they won’t let you see their insecure side. Because it would make their own lives that much more pathetic, you know?” She smiles, pleased with her pep talk. “Yeah. Your life is totally Sex and the City.”
“Yes. I am a lot like Carrie Bradshaw,” I say flatly.
Minus the fabulous shoes, incredible figure, and empathetic best friend.
“Exactly!” she says. “Now you’re talking.”
“Look. I don’t really care what they’re thinking,” I say, knowing it is only half true. I only care to the extent that I agree. And part of me believes that being thirty and alone is sad. Even with a good job. Even in Manhattan.
“Good,” she says, slapping her thighs with encouragement. “Good. That’s the spirit.”
We arrive at Jessica Pell’s—a fringe friend of ours from high school—exactly on time. Darcy consults her watch and insists on driving around for a few minutes, to be fashionably late.
I tell her it’s not necessary to be fashionably late to a baby shower, but I oblige, and at her request, I take her through the McDonald’s drive-through. She leans over me and yells into the speaker that she “would love a small diet Pepsi.” Now, I know that she knows that McDonald’s has Coke, not Pepsi. She has told me before that she likes to test them, see if they’ll ask. That the Pepsi people always ask if you order the Coke, but the Coke people don’t always ask.
But it is an opportunity to make a stir, create an exchange. Pimply Suburbanite meets Big-City Supermodel.
“Is diet Coke awright?” the boy mumbles into his microphone.
“Guess it’ll have to do,” she says with a good-natured chuckle.
She finishes her diet Coke as we pull up to Jessica’s house. “Well. Here goes nothing,” she says, fluffing her hair, as if this shower were all about her instead of Annalise and her unborn child.
The other guests have already assembled in Jessica’s well-coordinated blue-and-yellow living room when we arrive. Annalise screams, waddles over to us, and gathers us in a group hug. Despite the uncommon ground, we are still her best friends. And it is clear that we are the honored invitees, a role that makes me somewhat uncomfortable and Darcy bask.
“It’s so good to see you guys! Thank you so much for coming in!” Annalise says. “You both look amazing. Amazing. You get more stylish every time you come home!”
“You look great too,” I say. “Pregnancy agrees with you. You have that glow.”
Like my parents’ house, Annalise resists change. She still has the same hairstyle—shoulder-length with curled-under bangs—that was great in the eighties, horrible in the mid-nineties, and through sheer luck, slightly less awful now. It passes as a nice motherly cut. And her face, always round as a persimmon, no longer looks chubby, but simply part of the cute, pregnant package. She is the sort of pregnant woman that people gladly relinquish their seats to on the subway.
Darcy rubs Annalise’s stomach with her jeweled left hand. The diamond catches the light and flashes in my face. “Oh my,” Darcy coos. “There is a little naked person in there!”
Annalise laughs and says, “Well yes, that is one way of looking at it!” She introduces us to some of the guests, fellow teachers and guidance counselors from the school where she teaches, and other neighborhood friends. “And of course, you know everybody else!”
We exchange hugs with Jess and our other high school classmates. There is Brit Miller (who shamelessly worshiped and copied Darcy in high school). Tricia Salerno. Jennifer McGowan. Kim Frisby. With the possible exception of Kim, who was a bubbly cheerleader and, miraculously, also in the advanced science and math classes, none of the girls were particularly smart, interesting, or popular in high school. But as wives and mothers, their mediocrity matters no longer.
Kim slides down on the sofa and offers me a spot next to her. I ask her how Jeff (who also graduated in our class and played baseball with Brandon and Blaine) and her boys are doing. She says they are all doing great, that Jeff just got promoted, which was exciting, that they are buying a new house, that the boys are just perfect.
“What does Jeff do again?” I ask.
She says sales.
“And you have twins, right?”
Yes, boys. Stanley and Brick.
Now, I know Brick is her mother’s maiden name, but I wonder again how she could have done that to a child. And Stanley? Who calls a baby Stanley, or even Stan? Stanley and Stan are man names. Nobody should have that name under the age of thirty-five. And even if the names were tolerable in their own right, they do not go together, my pet peeve in name selection. Not that you should choose rhyming names for twins, or even names beginning with the same letter, like Brick and Brock or Brick and Brack. Go with Stanley and Frederick—both old-man names. Or Brick and Tyler—both pretentious surnames. But Stanley and Brick? Please.
“Did you bring photos of the boys?” I ask the obligatory question.
“As a matter of fact I did,” Kim says, whipping out a small album with “Brag Book” written on the cover in big, purple bubble letters. I smile, flipping through the pages, pausing for the requisite time before I go to the next. Brick in the tub. Stanley with a Wiffle ball. Brick with Grandma and Grandpa Brick.
“They’re precious,” I say, closing the album and handing it back to her.
“We think so,” Kim says, nodding, smiling. “I think we’ll keep them.”
As she returns the album to her purse, I overhear Darcy telling her engagement story to Jennifer and Tricia.
&nb
I had forgotten about the roses—perhaps blocked them out since the arrival of my own.
“Yes, a dozen red roses,” Darcy is saying. “He had them waiting in the apartment for me after he proposed.”
Not two dozen.
“Where did he ask you?” Tricia wants to know.
“Well, we went out for a really nice lunch, and afterward he suggested that we take a walk in Central Park…”
“Did you suspect it?” two girls ask at once.
“Not at all…”
This is a lie. I remember her telling me two days before Dex asked that she knew it was coming. But to admit this would detract from the drama of her tale, as well as diminish her image as the one pursued.
“Then what did he say?” Brit asks.
“You already know the story!” Darcy laughs. She and Brit still keep in touch occasionally due to Brit’s diligence; her fascination for her teen idol has never eroded.
“Tell it again!” Brit says. “My engagement story is so lame—I picked out the ring myself at the mall! I have to live vicariously through you.”
Darcy puts on her pretend-modest face. “He said, ‘Darcy, I can’t think of anything that would make me happier than having you as my wife.’”
Except being with your best friend.
“Then he said, ‘Please share your life with me.’”
And share your best friend with me.
A chorus of oohs and ahhs follow. I tell myself that she is embellishing the tale, that he really just uttered the standard “Will you marry me?”
“Take off your ring,” Brit clamors. “I want to try it on.”
Kim says that it is bad luck to remove your ring during the engagement.
Take it off!
Darcy shrugs to demonstrate that her free spirit is still very much intact. Or perhaps to point out that when you are Darcy Rhone, you don’t need luck. She slips off her ring and passes it around the circle of eager women. It ends up in my hands.
“Try it on, Rach,” Brit says.
It is a married girl’s fun trick. Make the single girl try on the diamond ring so she can, if only for a moment, get one step closer to the unknown euphoria of betrothal. I shake my head politely as though I’m declining a second helping of casserole. “That’s okay,” I say.