Something Blue

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."

"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."

"I know. I know. But you wouldn't return my calls. I needed to take drastic measures."

"I know about you and your drastic measures," he said, pointing at a futon opposite his leather sectional. "Have a seat."

"Come on, Marcus. I think we can handle sitting on the couch together. I swear, nothing's going to happen."

It was a lie, and we both knew it.

So halfway through the movie, after a few smooth moves by me, Marcus and I were making our second big "mistake." And, I have to say, I liked him even better on a dry, soft couch.