Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin

not."
    "Well, I guess you're right, a half share is better And we have a
    lot of wedding stuff to do in the city anyway."
    The wedding is the only topic I wish to avoid more than the
    Hamptons. "Uh-huh."
    "So are you going to drive out with us or take the train?"
    "Train. I don't know if I can get out of here at a decent hour," I
    say, thinking that I do not want to be stuck in a car with her and
    Dex. I have not seen Dex since he left my apartment.
    Have not
    seen Darcy since the betrayal.
    "Really? 'Cause I was thinking that we should definitely, definitely
    drive Wouldn't you rather have a car the first weekend out? You
    know, especially because it's going to be a long weekend. We don't
    want to be stuck with cabs and stuff C'mon, ride with us!"
    "We'll see," I say, as a mother tells a child so that the child will
    drop the topic.
    "Not 'we'll see.' You're comin' with us."
    I sigh and tell her that I really should get back to work.
    "Okay. Sheesh. I'll let you go work at your oh-so-important job
    So we still on for tonight?"
    "What's tonight?"
    "Hello? Ms. Forgetful. Don't even tell me you have to work
    late you promised. Bikinis? Ring a bell?"
    "Oh, right," I say. I had completely forgotten my promise to go
    bathing-suit shopping with her. One of the least pleasant tasks in
    the world. Right up there with scrubbing toilets and getting a root
    canal. "Yeah. Sure. I can still do it."
    "Great. I'll meet you at the yogurt counter in the basement of
    Bloomie's. You know, next to the fat-women's clothes.
    At seven
    sharp."
    I arrive at the Fifty-ninth Street station fifteen minutes after our
    designated meeting time and run into the basement of Bloomingdale's, nervous that Darcy will be pouting. I do not feel
    up to cajoling her out of one of her moods. But she looks content,
    sitting at the counter with a cup of strawberry frozen yogurt. She
    smiles and waves. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that
    there is no scarlet letter on my chest.
    "Hi, Darce."
    "Hey, there! Omigod. I'm going to be so bloated trying on suits!"
    She points at her stomach with her plastic spoon. "But whatever.
    I'm used to being a fatty."
    I roll my eyes. "You're not fat."
    We go through it every year during bathing-suit weather. Hell, we
    go through it virtually every day. Darcy's weight is a constant
    source of energy and discussion. She tells me what she is weighing
    in at always hovering around the mid-to-high-onetwenties always
    too fat by her rigorous standards. Her goal is one-twenty which I maintain is way too thin for five nine. She emails
    me as she eats a bag of chips: "Make me stop! Help!
    Call me
    ASAP!" If I call her back, she'll ask, "Is fifteen fat grams a lot?" Or
    "How many fat grams equal a pound?" The thing that irritates me,
    though, is that she is three inches taller than I am but five pounds
    lighter. When I point this out, she says, "Yes, but your boobs are
    bigger." "Not five pounds bigger," I say. "Still," she'll say, "you
    look perfect the way you are." Back to me.
    I'm far from fat, but her using me as a sounding board on this
    topic is like me complaining to a blind woman that I have to wear
    contacts.
    "I am so fat. I totally am! And I chowed at lunch. But whatever. As
    long as I'm not a fat cow in my wedding dress" she says,
    finishing her last spoonful of yogurt and tossing the cup into the
    trash. "Just tell me I have plenty of time to lose weight before the
    wedding."
    "You have plenty of time," I say.
    And I have plenty of time before the wedding to stop thinking
    about the fact that I had sex with your husband-to-be.
    "I better rein it in, you know, or else I'm gonna have to shop here."
    Darcy points at the plus-size section without checking to see if any
    larger women are within earshot.
    I tell her not to be ridiculous.
    "So anyway," she says, as we ride the escalator up to the second
    floor,
    "Claire was saying that we're getting too old for bikinis. That onepieces
    are classier. What do you think of that?" Her