"You're not gonna tell Dex, are you?" I asked.
"Are you fuckin' nuts? No way. Nobody. You're not either," he said, looking slightly panicked.
"Of course not. Nobody," I said. Rachel flashed through my mind—her expression changing from shock to hurt to piousness. Especially not Rachel.
Marcus ran his hand over my wet thigh. "We should go in. Shower."
"Together?"
"No." He let out a nervous laugh. "Not together. I think we've done enough damage tonight."
I wanted to ask him what would happen from here. I wanted to know what it had meant to him, how he was feeling, whether it was a one-time thing or whether we'd have a repeat performance. But I was starting to feel groggy, confused, and a little bit worried. We went inside, kissed good night, and took separate showers. I couldn't quite believe what had happened—and although I didn't regret it, I still cried a little under the hot water when I looked at my beautiful diamond engagement ring and thought about Dexter asleep in our bed on the Upper West Side.
After my shower, I tried to rub the grass stains out of my dress with some Woolite that I found under the sink, but it was hopeless, and I knew bleach would only ruin the delicate fabric. So I wrung out the dress, crept down to the kitchen, and stuffed it into the bottom of the plastic trash bag under a banana peel and an empty box of Trix. I wasn't about to crash and burn over a dress like some kind of Monica Lewinsky.
* * *
five
The next day I awoke with a dry tequila mouth and a searing headache. I checked my watch; it was nearly noon. The night before seemed like a blurry dream. A blurry, good dream. I couldn't wait to see Marcus again. I got up, brushed my teeth, swept my hair up in a ponytail, added a hint of pink blush to my cheeks, put on a Juicy Couture lime-green skirt and a white tank, and sauntered out to find him.
He was in the den alone, watching television.
"Hiya," I said, taking a seat next to him on the couch.
He glanced over at me, squinted, and let out a hoarse, "Morning. Or afternoon, I guess." Then his eyes returned to the TV.
"Where is everyone?" I asked.
He told me that Claire went to brunch and that Hillary, our other housemate, hadn't returned home the night before.
"Maybe she got some action too," I said to break the ice.
"Yeah," he said. "Maybe."
I tried again. "So how do you feel?"
"Like ass," he said, changing the channel and still avoiding eye contact. "Those shots weren't such a hot idea."
"Ahh. I get it," I said. "We're blaming what happened on the alcohol, are we?"
He shook his head and struggled not to smile. "Always knew you were trouble, Darcy Rhone."
I liked that that was his impression, but at the same time I didn't want him to think that I was a slut, or that I often cheated on Dexter, so I set the record straight, told him that nothing like that had ever happened before. It was, in a technical sense, the truth.
"Yeah. Well. It won't happen again. Back to reality," Marcus said.
It hurt my feelings and bruised my ego that he was treating me with no particular gentleness. We had, after all, shared a night of passion. Passion that I hadn't experienced in years. Maybe not ever. I like to think of myself as a woman of the world, and I certainly had had sex in my share of interesting spots—including, but not limited to, a church parking lot, a cornfield, and the waiting room of my father's dentist office. But the thunderstorm hookup was a first, and I was annoyed that Marcus wasn't giving our liaison its proper due.
"So you're sorry it happened?" I asked.
"Of course I am."
I sighed and tried another angle. "So you… didn't enjoy it?"
He finally cracked, looked up at me, and grinned. "Totally beside the point, Rhone."
"Don't call me Rhone," I said. "You weren't calling me Rhone last night."
"Last night," he said, shaking his head, "was fucked up. I think it's best we drop the whole thing."
"No," I said.
He looked at me. "No?"
"No. I can't drop it," I said. "It happened. We can't take it back."
"I know we can't take it back, but we gotta forget it," he said. "It was a shitty thing to do. You're engaged… and Dex is my boy… It's done."
"Right," I said, giving him a suggestive once-over.
He looked away, then crossed his legs, man-style. "It was fucked up."
It made me mad that he was worrying about Dex, instead of me. "Marcus," I said.
"What?"
"I think we should talk about what happened. I think we should talk about why it happened." I wanted to test the waters, determine how much he liked me and whether I could have him again if I wanted him. Which I sort of did. Maybe once or twice more. I mean, once you cheat, is it that much worse to cheat two or three times?
"It happened because we drank too much."
"That's not why it happened. There was more to it than that. You weren't out there with Claire."
He cleared his throat, but said nothing.
"What if I'm not supposed to be with Dex?"
"Then you better call off the wedding."