Something Borrowed Read Online Free PDF Page B

justification.
    So on to Plan B: I will pretend that nothing happened.
    My
    transgression was so great that I have no choice but simply to will
    the whole thing to go away. And by proceeding with business as
    usual, embracing my Monday-morning routine, this is what I seek
    to accomplish.
    I shower, dry my hair, put on my most comfortable black suit and
    low heels, take the subway to Grand Central, get my coffee at
    Starbucks, pick up The New York Times at my newsstand, and
    ride two escalators and one elevator up to my office in the MetLife
    Building. Each part of my routine represents one step further
    from Dex and the Incident.
    I arrive at my office at eight-twenty, way early by law-firm
    standards. The halls are quiet. Not even the secretaries are in yet.
    I am turning to the
    Metro section of the paper, sipping my coffee, when I notice the
    blinking red message light on my phone usually a warning that
    more work awaits me. Some jackass partner must have called me
    on the one weekend in recent memory when I failed to check my
    messages. My money is on Les, the dominant man in my life and
    the biggest jackass partner amid six floors of them. I enter my
    password, wait
    "You have one new message from an outside caller.
    Received
    today at seven-forty-two A.M" the recording tells me. I hate that
    automated woman. She consistently bears bad news and does so
    in a chipper voice. They should adjust that recording at law firms,
    make the voice more somber: "Uh-oh" with ominous Jaws music
    in the background "you have four new messages"
    What is it this time? I think, as I hit play.
    "Hi, Rachel It's me Dex I wanted to call you yesterday to talk
    about Saturday night but I just couldn't. I think we should talk
    about it, don't you? Call me when you can. I should be around all
    day."
    My heart sinks. Why can't he adopt some good old-fashioned
    avoidance techniques and ignore it, never speak of it again? That
    was my game plan. No wonder I hate my job; I am a litigator who
    hates confrontation. I pick up a pen and tap it against the edge of
    my desk. I hear my mother telling me not to fidget. I put the pen
    down and stare at the blinking light. The woman demands that a
    decision be made with respect to this message I must replay it,
    save it, or delete it.
    What does he want to talk about? What is there to say?
    I replay,
    expecting the answers to come to me in the sound of his voice, his
    cadence. But he gives nothing away. I replay again and again until
    his voice starts to sound distorted, just as a word changes in your
    mouth when you repeat it enough times. Egg, egg, egg, egg. That
    used to be my favorite. I'd say it over and over until it seemed that
    I had the altogether wrong word for the yellow substance I was
    about to eat for breakfast.
    I listen to Dex one final time before I delete him. His voice
    definitely sounds different. This makes sense because in some
    ways, he is different. We both are. Because even if I try to block
    out what happened, even if Dex drops the Incident after a brief,
    awkward telephone call, we will forever be on one another's
    List that list every person has, whether recorded in a secret spiral
    notebook or memorized in the back of the mind.
    Whether short or
    long. Whether ranked in order of performance or importance or
    chronology. Whether complete with first, middle, and last names
    or mere physical descriptions, like Darcy's List: "Delta Sig with
    killer delts"
    Dex is on my List for good. Without wanting to, I suddenly think
    of us in bed together. For those brief moments, he was just
    Dex separate from Darcy. Something he hadn't been in a very
    long time. Something he hadn't been since the day I introduced
    the two.
    I met Dex during our first year of law school at NYU.
    Unlike most
    law students, who come straight from college when they can think
    of nothing better to do with their stellar undergrad transcripts,
    Dex Thaler was older, with real-life experience. He had worked as
    an analyst