"Darcy. You're on thin ice," he said. It was something he always used to say to me in jest. I felt a wave of nostalgia and wondered if he felt it too.
"Why can't we meet at the apartment?"
"Don't press your luck."
"But I have some stuff to give you."
"What stuff? I got it all."
"Just a box of stuff you left. Stuff from the filing cabinet."
"Like what?"
"Maps, instruction booklets, a few letters…"
"You can toss that stuff."
"Can't you just meet me back at the apartment? We can talk for ten minutes. I'll give you your stuff and you can go."
"No. Bring it to Session 73."
"It's too heavy," I said. "I can't lift it, let alone carry it all that way—"
"Oh. Right. You're pregnant," he said bitterly. It was a good sign; he wouldn't be bitter if he didn't still care.
"So I'll swing by your place at eight," he said. "Please have the stuff ready."
"Okay," I said. "See you tonight, Dex."
Later that afternoon, I left work and zipped over to Bendel's, where I picked up a fabulous sea-foam-green cashmere sweater that plunged in the back. Dexter was a huge fan of my back. He always told me that I had the best back and that he loved how strong it was and the way I had no fat around my bra strap. Rachel definitely had her share of back fat, I thought, as I raced across Fifth Avenue to my hair appointment at Louis Licari. After a fabulous blowout, I changed into my new sweater in the salon bathroom. In case Dex made it back to my place before I did, I wanted to be ready.
Sure enough, when I returned home, there he was, sitting on our front stoop, leafing through a document. He looked gorgeous. My heart raced just as it had when I first saw him walk into that bar in the Village so many years before. His tan had faded somewhat, but his skin still glowed. He had olive skin that would make any woman jealous. A perfect, even color, never a blemish. His sideburns were longer than usual—which gave him a sexy edge. I liked the subtle change. But with or without the sideburns, Dex was gorgeous. I had to get him back.
"Hello, Dex," I said, smiling a slow smile. "You're early."
Dex grimaced and tossed his document into his briefcase. Then he snapped it closed, stood up, and looked me straight in the eye. "Hi, Darcy."
"Come on up," I said, walking as enticingly as possible up the stairs to our third-floor apartment. Dex used to hate when I took the elevator three floors up, so I would show him that people could change. He followed me silently and then stood waiting with a grim expression as I unlocked the door. I walked inside, but he waited just outside the doorway.
"Well? Aren't you going to come in?" I asked, making my way over to the couch.
"Where's my stuff?" he asked, refusing to take another step.
I rolled my eyes. "Can't you please just come in and sit down? I want to talk to you for one second."
"I have plans at nine," he said.
"Well, it's only eight."
He glanced around nervously. Then he sighed, walked toward me, and perched on the very edge of the couch, placing his briefcase between his feet. I thought of all the times he had plopped down on that exact spot, kicked off his shoes, and reclined. We had eaten countless dinners on that couch, watched hundreds of movies and television shows there, even made love a few times in the early days. Now he looked out of place and stiff. It was weird.
I smiled at him, trying to alter the mood.
"Let's get this show on the road, Darcy. I gotta get going."
"Where are you going?"
"That is none of your business."
"Are you going out with Rachel? How are things going with her?" I asked, hoping to hear that their ill-advised romance—one based on hurt feelings and confusion—had fizzled, destroying their friendship along the way.
Dex said, "Let's not go through the charade of inquiring about each other's lives as if we're friends."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"What part didn't you get?" he said.
"The part about us not being friends?"
"We're not friends," he said.
"We date for seven years and now we're not even friends? Just like that?" I asked.
He didn't flinch. "That's right. Just like that."
"Well. Regardless of whether we're friends, why can't you tell me if you're still with Rachel? What's the big deal?" I paused, praying that he would say, Don't be ridiculous. Rachel and I don't have a relationship. That afternoon was just something that happened… or even better… almost happened. Maybe I had even imagined their tans in Crate and Barrel.
"It's not a big deal," he said. "I just think it's best if we don't discuss our personal lives." He gripped the handle on his briefcase, pushing it from side to side.
"Why? I can handle it. You can't?"
He exhaled hard, shook his head, and said, "Fine. If you insist. Things with Rachel are very good. Great, in fact."
"So you're actually dating?"
"See? That's exactly why I don't want to discuss my life with you," Dex said, rubbing his hand along his jaw.
"Fine." I sniffed. "Let's just get your things. They're in the bedroom. You remember where that is, don't you?"
"You get them. I'll wait here."