"You want me to do that?" I asked.
"No. I didn't say that. You should marry Dex." His voice was just cold enough to make me want to break him.
"What if I'm supposed to be with you?" I asked, staring purposefully into his eyes.
He looked away. "Ain't gonna happen."
"Why not?"
"Can't happen."
"Why?"
"Because." He got up and shuffled into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of orange Gatorade. "It was a mistake. One of those things."
"You have no feelings for me whatsoever?" I asked. It was a trap. He couldn't deny any feelings or he would be an asshole for sleeping with me. But if he admitted that he had feelings for me, then the door wouldn't be completely closed.
He thought for a second and skillfully replied, "Sure I like you, Darcy. We're friends."
"So you always do that with your friends?" I snapped back.
He turned the volume down one notch, crossed his arms, and looked at me. "Darce. I thoroughly… enjoyed last night… But it was a dick move. And I regret it… It was a mistake."
"A mistake?" I said, looking highly offended.
"Yeah," he said calmly. "A mistake. An alcohol-related incident."
"But it did mean something to you?"
"Yeah." He yawned, stretched, and smiled slightly. "Like I said, I enjoyed it. But it's done. Over."
"Okay. Fine," I said. "But you're not going to go out with Rachel again, are you?"
"I dunno. Maybe. Probably. Why?"
"You are?" I asked indignantly.
He just looked at me, took a swig of Gatorade. "Why not?"
"Don't you think that's sort of weird now?" I asked. "Like a conflict of interest or something?"
He shrugged, showing me that he saw no problem with it whatsoever.
"You aren't going to sleep with her, are you?" I asked, assuming, based on Rachel's track record, that he hadn't already.
He laughed and said, "Can't rule it out."
"Are you serious?" I asked, horrified. "That's just too weird. We're best friends."
He shrugged.
"Okay. Look. I gotta ask you this. One question… If I were single, who would you choose? Rachel or me?" I asked. I was pretty sure I knew the answer but wanted to hear him say it.
He laughed. "You're too much."
"C'mon. Answer me."
"Okay. Here's the truth," he said somberly. I anticipated his first soft words since our encounter. "I'd try to hook up with both of you at once."
I punched his arm and said, "Be serious."
He laughed. "You guys have never done that before?"
"No, we've never done that before! You're gross," I said. "I'm game for a lot, but I like my love one on one… So c'mon, you have to pick. Rachel or me?"
He shrugged. "Close call."
"Close because of Dex, right? But you're more attracted to me?" I asked, looking for affirmation. It wasn't so much that I wanted to beat Rachel. It was more that she had her turf—the intelligent-lawyer thing—while being hot and desired by men was my domain, my main source of self-esteem. And I wanted—and needed—the lines to stay clear.
But Marcus wouldn't grant me any satisfaction. "You're pretty in different ways," he said as he turned the volume back up on the television to show me that our conversation was over. "Now. Let's watch some Wimbledon, what do you say? How about that Agassi?"
For the rest of the weekend, as Marcus did his best to avoid being alone with me, I found myself obsessing over him. And when we all returned to the city, my preoccupation only grew stronger. I didn't necessarily want to have an affair with him, but I wanted him to want me.
But that clearly wasn't happening. Despite a barrage of e-mails and phone calls, Marcus pretty much ignored me. So about a week later, I took drastic measures and showed up at his apartment with a six-pack of beer and Pulp Fiction, a movie all men love. Marcus buzzed me up to his apartment and was standing in his open door with his arms crossed. He was wearing gray sweats with a hole in the knee and a faded, stained T-shirt. Still, he looked hot, as one can only look after you've just had forbidden sex with them in the pouring rain.
"Well? Can I come in? I brought treats," I said, holding up the beer and the video.
"Nope," he said, still smiling.
"Please?" I said sweetly.
He shook his head and laughed, but didn't budge.
"C'mon? Can we please just hang out tonight?" I asked. "I just want to spend time with you. As friends. Strictly friends. Is that so wrong?"
He made an exasperated sound and moved over just enough to let me squeeze by him. "You're a trip."
"I just want to see you again. As friends. I promise," I said, surveying his stereotypically messy bachelor pad. Clothes and newspapers were strewn everywhere. A Stouffer's frozen lasagna sat thawing on his coffee table. His bed was unmade, the bottom sheet straining to cover a ratty blue mattress. And a large fish tank, badly needing a good scrub, sat next to a plasma screen television and dozens of video games. He saw me take it all in.
"Wasn't expecting company."