hen I return home from the shower, my mother follows me into the family room and bombards me with questions. I give her the highlights, but she is insatiable. She wants to know every detail about every guest, gift, conversation. I have a flashback to high school, when I'd come home, exhausted from a day of academic and social pressure, and she would inquire about Ethan's debate-team performance or Darcy's cheerleading tryout or what we talked about in English class. If I wasn't forthcoming enough, she would fill in the gaps, rambling about her part-time job at the orthodontist's office or what rude thing Bryant Gumble said on the Today show or how she ran into my third-grade teacher in the grocery store. My mother is an open-book chatterbox and she expects everyone to be just like her, particularly her only child.

She finishes her inquisition on the shower and moves on to—what else?—the wedding.

"So has Darcy decided on a veil?" She straightens a pile of Newsweeks on our coffee table, waiting for an in-depth answer.

"Yes."

She moves closer on our couch. "Long?"

"Fingertip."

She claps excitedly. "Oh. That will be beautiful on her."

My mother is, and has always been, a big Darcy fan. It didn't make sense back in high school given the fact that Darcy never put a premium on studying and promoted a certain unwholesome boy craziness. Yet my mother just plain old loved Darcy, perhaps because Darcy supplied her with the details of our life that she so craved. Even past the perfunctory parental pleasantries, Darcy would talk to my mother as a peer. She would come over to my house after school, lean against our kitchen counter, eating the Oreos my mother had set out for us while she talked and talked. Darcy would tell my mom about the boys she liked and the pros and cons of each. She'd say things like, "His lips are too thin; I bet he can't kiss," and my mom would become delighted and elicit more, and Darcy would give it, and I would end up leaving the room to start my geometry homework. Now what's wrong with that picture?

I remember once in the seventh grade, I refused to participate in the annual talent show, though Darcy incessantly heckled me to be one of her two backup dancers in her outlandish rendition of "Material Girl." Despite her own shyness, Annalise folded quickly, but I refused to succumb, didn't care that Darcy's choreography called for a three-girl act, didn't care that she said I was ruining her chances of a blue ribbon. Often I would let Darcy talk me into things, but not that one. I told her not to waste her breath, I had no intention of ever setting foot on a stage. After Darcy finally gave up and invited Brit to take my place, my mother lectured me on becoming more involved in fun activities. "Aren't straight As enough for you?" I asked her. "I just want you to have fun, honey," she said. I lashed out, saying, "You just want me to be her!"

She told me not to be ridiculous, but part of me believed it. I feel the same way now. "Mom, no offense to you or the second daughter you never had, but—"

"Oh, don't start with that nonsense!" She pats her ash-blond hair which she has been coloring with the same Clairol hue for the past twenty years.

"All right," I say. "But truly, I have had it up to here with Darcy's wedding." I hold my hand four inches above my head and then raise it even higher.

"That's no attitude for a maid of honor." She purses her lips and scrapes one index finger across the other.

I shrug.

My mom laughs, the good-natured parent, refusing to take her only daughter too seriously. "Well, I should have known Darcy would be a handful as a bride. I'm sure she wants everything to be perfect…"

"Yeah, she deserves it," I say sarcastically.

"Well, she does deserve it," my mom says. "And so do you… your time will come."

"Uh-huh."

"Is that why you're sick of this?" she asks, with the accomplished air of a woman who has watched far too many talk shows on confronting your feelings and nurturing your relationships.

"Not exactly," I say.

"Then why, exactly? Is she being a pain in the you-know-what? What am I asking—of course she is! That's Darcy!" Another fond chuckle.

"Yeah."

"Yes, what, sweetie? What's on your mind?"

"Yes, she's being a pain in the ass," I say, reaching for the remote control to unmute the television.

"What is she doing?" my mom persists calmly.

"She's being Darcy," I say. "Everything is about her."

My mom gives me a sympathetic look. "I know, honey."

Then I blurt out that she doesn't deserve Dexter, that he is too good for her. My mother looks at me circumspectly. Oh shit, I think. Does she know? Ethan and Hillary are one thing—my mother's quite another. I

was unwilling to tell her which boys I thought were cute in high school, so this one is certainly off the table. I can't stand the thought of letting her down. I am thirty, but still very much a parent-pleaser. And my mother, a woman who finds the keys to life in cross-stitched blurbs, would never understand this breach of friendship.

"She's driving him crazy too. I'm sure of it," I say, trying to cover.

"Did Dexter tell you this?"

"No, I haven't discussed this with Dex." Technically this statement is true. "You can just tell."

"Well, be patient with her. You'll never regret being a good friend."

I consider this gemstone from my mother. One would be hard-pressed to disagree with it. In fact, it is the way I have lived my entire life. Avoiding regret at any cost. Being good no matter what. Good student. Good daughter. Good friend. And yet I am struck by the sudden realization that regret cuts two ways. I might also regret sacrificing myself, my own desires, for Darcy's sake, in the name of friendship, in the name of being a good person. Why should I be the martyr here? I imagine myself alone at thirty-five, alone at forty. Or even worse, settling down with a dull, watered-down version of Dex. Dex with a weaker chin and twenty fewer IQ points. I would be forced to live with "What if" forever.

"Yeah, Mom. I know. Do unto others. Blah blah blah. I'll be a good friend to precious Darcy."

My mom looks down at her lap, smoothes her skirt. I hurt her feelings. I tell myself that I must be nice for one more evening. It is the least I can do. I don't have a sibling to pick up the slack and be the good child when I am off my game. I smile and change the subject. "Where's Dad?"

"He went to the hardware store. Again."

"For what this time?" I ask, indulging her in the "Dad can't get enough of hardware stores and car dealerships" joke.

"Who knows? Who ever knows?" She shakes her head, happy again.

I am half asleep, thinking about Dex, when my cell phone rings. I have it next to my bed, the battery fully charged and the ringer on high, hoping Dex will call. His number lights up my phone screen. I press it to my ear.

"Hi, Dex."

"Hi, there," he says, his voice low. "Did I wake you up?"

"Urn, sort of. But that's okay."

He doesn't apologize, which I like.

"God, I miss you," he says. "When are you coming home?"

He knows when I'm coming home, knows that his fiancée has the identical itinerary. But I don't mind him asking. This question is for me. He wants me—not Darcy—back in his time zone.

"Tomorrow afternoon. We land at four."

"I'm coming over to see you," he says.

"Good," I say.

Silence.

I ask him where he is now.

"On the couch."

I picture him in my apartment, on my couch, although I know he is on their Pottery Barn pullout, the one that Darcy plans to replace with "a more high-end piece" as soon as they are married.

"Oh," I say. I don't want to hang up, but in my sleepy state, can think of nothing to say.

"How was the shower?"

"You didn't get a report?"

"Yeah. Darcy called."

I am glad he told me that she called him, wonder if he added this detail on purpose.

"But I was asking you how the shower was," he says.

"It was great to see Annalise… But it was miserable."

"Why's that?"

"Showers are just that way."

Then I tell him that I wish he were next to me. It is the kind of thing I don't usually say, unless he says something like it first. But the dark and the distance make me bold.

"You do?" he asks in the tone I use when I want more. Guys aren't so different from us, I think, which no matter how many times I think it will always seem like a remarkable revelation.

"Yeah. I wish you were right here with me."

"In your bed at home, right there with your parents in the next room?"

I laugh. "They're open-minded."

"Wish I were there, then."

"Although I have a twin bed," I say. "Not a lot of room."

"A twin bed with you is not a bad thing." His voice is low and sexy.

I know we are both thinking the same thing. I can hear him breathing. I say nothing, just touch myself and think of him. I want him to do the same. He does. My phone is hot against my face and, as usual when I'm on my cell, I wonder about the radiation I could be getting. But tonight, I don't care about a little radiation.

The next day Darcy and I share a cab home from LaGuardia. I am dropped off first. I phone Dex the second I hit the pavement, finding him at the office, working, waiting for my call. I am ready for you whenever, I say, happy that I already shaved my legs back in Indiana. He says he'll be right up as soon as she calls his office. You know, he says, sounding embarrassed by his newly acquired tactics. I understand. For a second, I feel bad that my life consists of these sleazy, adulterous strategies. But only for a second. Then I tell myself that Dex and I aren't in that camp. That in Hillary's words, life's not black-and-white. That sometimes the end justifies the means.

That evening, after Dex and I have been together for several hours, I realize that our visits are starting to run together in one delicious blur of talking, touching, dozing, and simply existing together in a warm, easy silence. Like the perfect beach vacation, where the routine is so blissfully uneventful that when you return home and friends ask how your trip was, you can't really recall what exactly you did to fill up so many hours. That is what being with Dex is like.

I have stopped counting our lovemaking but know that we are well past twenty. I wonder how many times he's been with Darcy. These are the things I think about now. So to say that she has nothing to do with us is not true. To say that it's not a contest is ludicrous. She is the measuring stick; I hold myself up against her. When we are in bed, I wonder, does she do it like this? Is she better? Do they follow a script by now or does she keep things fresh? (My vote, sadly, is fresh. And even more sadly, when your body is a ten, does it really matter if the sex is stale missionary?) I think of her afterward, too, when I often feel self-conscious about my body. I suck in my stomach, arrange my breasts when his back is turned, and never saunter around my apartment naked. I wonder how many times we'd have to be together before I would give up the pretty lingerie routine in favor of my gray sweats or flannel Gap pajama bottoms that I wear when I am alone. We probably don't have time for that stage to develop. At least not before the wedding. Time is running out. I tell myself not to panic, to savor the present.

But I can sense a recent shift. I allow myself to think of the future now. I've stopped feeling sick when I imagine Dex canceling the wedding. I've stopped feeling that my loyalty to Darcy should always come before all else, namely what I want. I'm still not sure where things will go, where I want them to go, but my fear of breaking the rules has dulled somewhat, as has my instinct to put Darcy above myself.

Tonight Dex talks about work. He often tells me about his deals, and although I am interested in the mechanics of it all, what I really like is the color that Dex provides about the major players at his firm, the people who fill his daily life. For example, I know that he likes working for Roger Bollinger, the head of his group. Dex is Roger's golden boy and Roger is Dexter's role model. When he tells a story about Roger, he imitates Roger's Boston accent in a way that convinces me that if I ever meet Roger it will seem as though Roger is imitating Dex imitating Roger. Roger is barely five feet four (my question—guys usually don't supply details on the appearance of other guys and are far more likely to report on wit or intelligence) but it doesn't hurt him with women, according to Dex. Incidentally, Dex reported this tidbit matter-of-factly, not admiringly, which reassures me that Dex does not have womanizing tendencies. Womanizers feel either (a) impressed by or (b) competitive with fellow womanizers.

He finishes telling me a story about Roger and then asks, "Did I tell you that Roger was engaged twice?"

"No," I say, thinking that he knows he hasn't. It's not the kind of thing you forget sharing, particularly given our circumstances. I feel suddenly chilly, and pull the sheet up over both of us.

"Yeah. He broke it off both times. He keeps saying things to me like, 'It's not ovah till it's ovah' and 'The fat lady hasn't sung yet.' "

I wonder if Roger knows anything about me, or if he's just doing the typical bachelor banter. "When?" I ask Dex.

"When does the fat lady sing?" Dex curls his body around mine.

"Well, yeah. Sort of." We are getting into sensitive territory, and I am thankful he can't see my eyes. "When did he break off the engagements?"

"Not sure about the first time. But the second time was right before the ceremony."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope. The bride was getting dressed when he went to her room. Knocked on her door and gave her the news right in front of her mother, her grandmother, and her ninety-five-year-old great-grandmother."

"Was she surprised?" I ask, realizing that it's a dumb question. Nobody expects the groom to barge in and call off the wedding.

"Apparently. But she shouldn't have been that surprised… She must've known he had done it once before."

"Was there somebody else?" I ask tentatively.

"Don't think so. No."

"Then why did he do it?"

"He said he couldn't see it lasting forever."

"Oh."

"What are you thinking?"

He must know what I'm thinking.

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

The dialogue of the new relationship. After a couple is established, the question becomes a relic.

"I'm thinking that I don't believe in that wedding-day, Julia Roberts Runaway Bride—or groom—routine."

"You don't believe in it?"

I am treading carefully. "I just think it's unnecessary… needlessly mean," I say. "If someone is going to call it off, they should do it before the wedding day."

My message isn't exactly subtle.

"Well, I agree, but don't you think it's better to pull the cord than make a mistake? Don't you owe it to the other person and yourself and the whole institution of marriage to say something, even if you come to the realization late in the game?"

"I'm in no way advocating the making of that sort of mistake. I'm just saying you should figure it out before the wedding day. That's what engagements are for. And in my book, by the wedding day it's a done deal. Suck it up and make the best of it. That's a cold move, telling her when the gown is on."

I picture Darcy in this humiliating scenario, and my empathy for her is unequivocal.

"You think? Even if it just ends up in a divorce?" he asks.

"Even if. You ask that girl if she'd rather be divorced or dissed in her dress in front of all those people."

He makes a noncommittal "hmmm" sound so I can't tell whether he agrees. I wonder what it all will mean for us. If he's even thinking about us at all. He has to be. I feel my muscles tense, my foot twitch nervously. I tell myself that it's not July Fourth yet. I don't want to think about it anymore at all.

I reach over Dex and turn up my stereo. Creedence Clearwater Revival is singing "Lookin' Out My Back Door." Talk about an upbeat song. It is exactly what I need to block out images of Dex and Darcy's wedding.

Instead, I picture a road trip with Dexter. We are in a white convertible with the top down, sunglasses on, trucking along a stretch of highway with no other cars in sight.

Bother me tomorrow, today I'll buy no sorrow. Doo, doo, doo, lookin' out my back door.