Only once did I come close to divulging the full truth. It was after I misplaced my ring in Marcus's apartment and accused his maid of stealing it. I was in a panic, worried about getting a replacement before the wedding, worried about telling Dex that the ring was missing, and suddenly worried about whether I should marry Dex at all. So in desperation, I turned to Rachel for guidance. She had always been my decision maker on even the most trivial matters, like whether to buy the chocolate or tan raw leather Gucci boots (although at the time, that didn't feel very trivial), so I knew she'd rise to the occasion in my hour of need. I confessed my affair, but downplayed its importance, telling her that it had only happened once. I also told her that I had slept with a guy from work—rather than Marcus. I just wanted to spare her feelings because at that point I didn't think the full truth would ever emerge.
As always, Rachel gave sound advice. Over Chinese delivery, she convinced me that the affair was simply a manifestation of cold feet, the cold feet that only a man—or a woman with endless options—can understand. She made me see that although the initial passion of an intense affair is hard to pass up, what I had with Dex was better, more enduring. I believed her, and decided that I was going to marry Dex.
Then, one night in August, about three weeks before my wedding, something happened that made me question my decision. I had a client dinner that was canceled at the last minute, so I showed up at Marcus's apartment to surprise him. He wasn't yet home, but I convinced his doorman to give me his spare key so I could wait inside for him. Then I went upstairs, got undressed except for a pair of leopard-print heels, and sprawled out on his couch, anxious for him to come find me.
About an hour passed, and just as I was dozing, I heard unmistakable female giggling in the hallway and Marcus's low voice, obviously cracking up his companion. I scrambled to get dressed, but couldn't do so before Marcus and a blonde—who vaguely reminded me of Stacy from Aureole—walked inside. She had a pretty face but was pear-shaped, and worse, wearing Nine West footwear from about three seasons ago. The three of us stood there, mere feet apart. I was still completely naked but for my Blahniks.
"Darcy—you scared the shit out of me," Marcus said, looking not nearly scared enough as far as I was concerned. "My doorman didn't tell me you were up here."
I managed to throw on one of Marcus's dirty T-shirts that was draped over the back of his couch, but not before I caught the girl giving me an envious once-over. "I guess he forgot," I hissed.
"I'll leave," the blonde said, backing up like a trapped doe.
"You do that," I said, pointing at the door.
Marcus said, "Bye, Angie, I'll—"
"He'll call you tomorrow, Angie," I spit out caustically. "Toodle-oo."
As soon as the door closed, I tried to hit him, while screaming at him: You bastard, you liar, you tainted my engagement, you ruined my life.
I knew deep down that I had no right to be so enraged, that I was only a few weeks away from marrying somebody else. And yet, at the same time, I felt that I had every right. So I kept delivering inept blows while he effortlessly blocked each one with his hands or forearms just as my personal trainer does during a kickboxing session.
This battery went on for some time, until finally Marcus got angry.
He grabbed my wrists, shook me a little, and shouted, "What did you think was going to happen, Darcy?"
"With Angie?" I said, hoping that he was about to tell me that he and Angie were strictly friends, that nothing was going to happen.
"No," he said with disgust. "What did you think was going to happen after you got married? Have you even stopped to think about that?"
Of course I had, I told him, suddenly on the defensive. I hadn't expected this line of questioning.
"And?"
"I don't even know if I am getting married," I said. Of course, I had every intention of getting married but thought I had a greater right to be indignant if my nuptials were up in the air.
"Well, assuming you do," Marcus said. "Did you think we'd keep seeing each other?"
"No," I snapped back self-righteously.
"I mean, Jesus Christ, Darcy," he shouted. "It's bad enough that I've been seeing my friend's fiancee for almost two fucking months. But, you know, I draw the line there. I'm not gonna sleep with his wife in case that's what you had in mind."
"I did not have that in mind," I said. If he was going to take the high ground, then so would I—although the high ground was eroding quickly.
"So what then? Did you think I was going to be celibate after you got married? Pine away after you for the rest of my life? Hang out with you and Dex all the while thinking, 'Gee whiz, what a lucky guy he is. How I wish I could be him.'?"
"No," I said, although I did like the whole star-crossed lovers theme. Who doesn't? I mean, there is a reason why Romeo and Juliet is such a beloved tale.
"Then Christ, Darcy, what do you want from me?" he shouted louder, now pacing back and forth across his apartment.
I considered this for a moment and then said, in a pitiful, small voice with my dying-calf-in-a-hailstorm expression, "I want you to love me."
He made apuh sound and looked at me, disgusted. Everything was backfiring. Why was I suddenly the bad guy?
I sat down, pulling his T-shirt over my knees. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Crying always worked with Dex. But Marcus didn't fold. "Oh, stop crying!" he said. "Stop it now!"
"Well, do you love me?" I pressed, hopeful.
He shook his head. "I'm not playing your manipulative little games, Darce."