he following day Darcy finally contacts Dex. He calls me straightaway with the update.

My heart jumps. I haven't let go of the fear that Darcy will somehow get Dex back, undo her pregnancy, change her mind, rewrite history. "Tell me everything," I say.

Dex summarizes their conversation, or rather, Darcy's demands: he is to get the remainder of his stuff out in seven days—during business hours—or it will be put out with the trash. He must leave the keys. The furniture will stay, except for the table that he "bullied" her into buying, the dresser he "brought into the joke of a union," and the "ugly lamps" from Dexter's mother. He must pay her parents back for her gown and the nonrefundable wedding deposits, which include just about everything, in excess of fifty thousand dollars. She will handle return of the wedding gifts. She is keeping the diamond ring he replaced only days before their breakup.

I wait for him to finish, and then say, "Pretty skewed terms, don't you think?"

"You could say that."

"You guys should split the wedding costs," I say. "She's pregnant with someone else's child!"

"Tell me about it."

"And technically, the ring is yours," I say. "Under New York law. You weren't married. She only gets the ring if you're married."

"I don't care," he says. "It's not worth fighting about."

"And what about the apartment? It was your apartment first."

"I know… but I don't even want it now. Or the furniture," he says.

I am glad that he feels this way. I can't imagine ever visiting him in Darcy's old apartment.

"Where do you think you'll move?"

"I'm just going to live with you."

"Really?"

"It was a joke, Rach… We'll hold off on that for a little while."

I laugh. "Oh… yeah. Right."

I am a little disappointed, but mostly relieved. I feel as if I could live with Dex immediately, but I want it to work, to be right, and I see no reason to rush things.

"I called a few places this morning… I found a one-bedroom on East End. I might just hit the bid."

Hit the bid. Just as you did with me.

"How is Darcy going to pay the rent alone?" I ask, more curious than concerned, although there is a part of me that is worried about her well-being, how she will manage, what will happen to her and her baby. I can't turn off the caring-about-Darcy switch after a lifetime of looking out for her.

"Maybe Marcus is moving in with her," Dex says.

"Do you think?"

"They are having a baby together."

"I guess so. But do you really think they're going to get married?" I ask.

"I have no idea. I don't care," he says.

"You haven't heard from Marcus, have you?"

"Nope… Have you?"

"No."

"I don't think we will."

"Are you going to call him?"

"Maybe someday. Not now."

"Hmm," I say, thinking that maybe I will someday call Darcy too. Although I can't imagine it happening for a very long time. "So was that it? Did she mention me?"

"No. I was shocked. Tremendous restraint for her. She must be getting some big-time coaching."

"No kidding. Restraint is not Darcy's style."

"But enough about her," Dex says. "Let's forget about her for a while."

"I will if you will," I say.

"So what do you want to do tonight?" Dex asks. "I think I'll be able to get out of here at a decent hour. What's your schedule?"

It is five now, and I have at least four hours of work remaining, but I tell him that I can leave whenever.

"Should we meet at eight?"

"Sure. Where?"

"Let's make dinner together at your place. We've never done that."

"Okay, but… I can't cook," I confess.

"Yeah you can."

"No, I really can't. Truly."

"Cooking is easy," he says. "You just sort of figure it out as you go along."

I smile. "I can do that."

After all, that is pretty much what I have been doing lately.

An hour later, I leave my office for home, not caring if I run into Les. I take the elevator down to the lobby, then two escalators down to Grand Central Station. I pause to admire the gorgeous main terminal, so familiar and so associated with work that I somehow miss its beauty on a daily basis. I study the marble staircases at either end of the concourse, the arched windows, the dramatic white columns, and the soaring turquoise ceiling painted with constellations. I watch the people, mostly in business attire, moving in every direction toward trains bound for the suburbs, subways reaching every corner of New York, and a multitude of exits to the busy city streets. I glance at the clock in the center of the terminal, take in its intricate face. Six o'clock exactly. Early.

I walk slowly toward Grand Central Market, a food hall comprised of individual stalls selling gourmet treats, located on the east end of the concourse. I have often passed through this corridor with Hillary, buying the occasional chocolate truffle to go with our Starbucks coffee. But this evening, I am on a greater mission. I move from stall to stall, filling my arms with delicacies: hard and soft cheeses, freshly baked breads, Sicilian green olives, Italian parsley, fresh oregano, a perfect Vidalia onion, garlic, oils and spices, pasta, red, green, and yellow produce, an expensive chardonnay, and two exquisite, restaurant-perfect pastries. I exit the corridor on Lexington, passing by a makeshift cab line and throngs of harried Midtown commuters. I decide to walk home. My bags are heavy, but I don't mind. I'm not carrying a briefcase full of law books and cases; I'm carrying dinner for Dex and me.

When I get back to my apartment, I tell Jose to let Dex up when he arrives. "No need to buzz for him anymore."

He winks and hits the elevator door for me. "Aww. So it's serious! That's good stuff."

"Good stuff," I echo, smiling.

A moment later, I am arranging groceries on my counter—more food than my apartment has ever seen at one time. I put the chardonnay in the refrigerator, play some classical music, and search for the recipe book that my mother gave me at least four Christmases ago, a book I have never before used. I flip through the glossy, pristine pages, finding a salad and pasta recipe that contains my approximate ingredients. Then I find an apron—another virginal gift—and set about peeling, chopping, and sauteing. I glance at the book for guidance, but I do not follow every instruction precisely. I substitute parsley for basil, skip the drained capers.

Dinner will not be perfect, but I am learning that perfection isn't what matters. In fact, it's the very thing that can destroy you if you let it.

I change my clothes, selecting a white sundress with pink embroidered flowers. Then I set the table, begin to boil water for our pasta, light candles, and open the bottle of chardonnay, filling two glasses, sipping mine. I glance at my watch. Ten minutes to spare. Ten minutes to sit and reflect on my new life, on how it feels to be Dex's legitimate, only love. I settle into my couch, close my eyes, inhale deeply. Good smells and beautiful, clear notes fill my apartment. Peace and calm rush over me as I process the lack of any bad feelings: I'm not jealous, I'm not worried, I'm not scared, I'm not lonely.

Only then do I acknowledge that what I am feeling might actually be true happiness. Even joy. Over the past several days, when I have felt the beginning of this emotion tugging at my heart, it has crossed my mind that the key to happiness should not be found in a man. That an independent, strong woman should feel fulfilled and whole on her own. Those things might be true. And without Dex in my life, I like to think I could have somehow found contentment. But the truth is, I feel freer with Dex than I ever did when I was single. I feel more myself with him than without. Maybe true love does that.

And I do love Dex. I have loved him from the very beginning, back in law school, when I pretended to myself that he wasn't my type. I love him for his intelligence, his sensitivity, his courage. I love him wholly and unconditionally and without reservation. I love him enough to take risks. I love him enough to sacrifice a friendship. I love him enough to accept my own happiness and use it, in turn, to make him happy back.

There is a knock at my door. I stand to open it. I am ready.