But the most striking thing my brother and I share is our relationship history, as he, too, broke his engagement mere days before his wedding. It’s crazy, really: two siblings born two years apart, both canceling weddings, also two years apart—a fact that any psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing and likely attributing to our parents’ own split. Dex believes this is the reason for their incredible support both times around; they lost thousands of dollars in wedding deposits and must have been embarrassed in front of their more traditional friends, but they seemed to believe it was a small price to pay for making sure their children got it right on their first try. Still, the joint scandals scored us some rather ruthless ribbing from my mother, who felt the need to give us both the woolliest, thickest socks for Christmas—for our cold feet, naturally. In addition, we had to endure her endless advice that we not marry on the rebound. To which Dex, in his analytical way, argued that he could more readily identify “the one” on the heels of “the wrong one”—and that he was absolutely sure about Rachel. And which I simply rebutted with a straightforward: “Butt out, Mom.”
As an aside, though, Dex’s situation was far more scandalous as Rachel was actually friends with my brother’s former fiancée—childhood friends, in fact. Moreover, I am fairly certain there was some cheating involved. This suspicion has never been confirmed, but occasionally Dex and Rachel will let a detail of their early days slip, and Nick and I will exchange a knowing glance. Not that these circumstances really matter at this point, years into their marriage, other than the fact that I think a shady genesis puts a greater burden on a relationship. In other words, if two people have an affair, they’d better stay together. If they do, they have this romantic “we were meant to be” story and a certain degree of exculpation for their sin; if they don’t, they are just a couple of cheaters.
So far, Dex and Rachel fall squarely in the former camp, still sickeningly in love after all these years. Beyond this, they are truly best friends in a way that Nick and I simply are not. For one, they do absolutely everything together—go to the gym, read the paper, watch all the same television shows and movies, eat breakfast, dinner, and sometimes even lunch together, and, remarkably, go to bed at the same time every night. In fact, I once heard Dex say that he has trouble falling asleep without Rachel—and that they never go to bed angry at one another.
This is not to say that Nick and I don’t love the time we spend together—because we really do. But we are not joined at the hip and never have been, even in the beginning. Our workout times (mine nonexistent as of late), bedtimes, and even mealtimes vary greatly. In the evenings, I am perfectly content reading a novel in bed alone, and have absolutely no trouble whatsoever falling asleep without Nick next to me.
I’m not sure that this means their marriage is superior to ours, but at times, it definitely gives me the unsettling feeling that we have room for improvement. Cate and April, with whom I’ve confided the issue, insist that I am the normal one, and that Rachel and Dex are atypical, if not completely freakish. April, especially, who has a marriage on the other end of the spectrum, maintains that Dex and Rachel are actually “unhealthy and codependent.” And when I broach the topic with Nick, whether with a wistful or worried tone, he becomes understandably defensive.
“You’re my best friend,” he’ll say, which is probably true only because Nick doesn’t really have close friends, typical of most surgeons we know. He once did—in high school and college and even a few in medical school—but hasn’t made much effort to keep up with them over the years.
More important, even if I am Nick’s best friend by default, and even if he is my best friend in theory, I sometimes feel as if I share more of my life with Cate and April and even Rachel—at least when it comes to the everyday matters that comprise my life—from the slice of cheesecake I regret eating to the killer sunglasses I found on sale to the adorable thing Ruby said or Frank did. Eventually, I get around to telling Nick this stuff, too, if it’s still relevant or pressing when we’re finally together at the end of the day. But more often, I mentally pare down the important issues and spare him the trivial ones—or at least the ones I think he would deem trivial.
Then there is the matter of Dex and Rachel’s sex life, something I know about by accident, really. The conversation began when Rachel recently confided that they’ve been trying for over a year to have a third baby. This, in and of itself, gave me a pang, as Nick has long since ruled out a third in no uncertain terms—and although I overall agree with him, I sometimes long for a less predictable, two-child, boy-girl family.
In any event, I asked Rachel if they’d been working hard at it or just casually trying, expecting her to delve into the typical unromantic strategies and methodologies of couples trying to conceive.
Ovulation kits, thermometers, scheduled intercourse. Instead she replied, “Well, nothing out of the ordinary. . . But, you know, we have sex three or four times a week—and no luck . . . I know a year of trying isn’t that long, but it happened right away with the girls. . .”
“Three or four times a week when you’re ovulating?” I asked. “Well, I’m not really sure exactly when I’m ovulating. So we just have sex four times a week, you know . . . all the time,” she said, releasing a nervous laugh, indicating that she didn’t feel entirely comfortable discussing her sex life.
“All the time?” I repeated, thinking of the old Japanese adage that if a newly married couple places a bean in a jar every time they make love during their first year, and then remove one every time they make love thereafter, they will never empty the jar.