Something Blue by Emily Giffin Read Free Book Online

important thoughts—about what I was doing, what it meant in the scheme of my life, the impact it would have on my engagement, my relationship. But no, it was more like, Am I better than his other girls? Will Dex ever find out? Will Marcus ever go out with Rachel again? Why does this feel so damn good?
    We lasted a long time together, perhaps because of all that we had had to drink, but I decided that it had more to do with perfect chemistry and with Marcus’s sexual prowess. Afterward, we rolled onto our backs, catching our breath, our eyes mostly closed. The rain came to a sudden stop, but we were both soaking wet.
    “Wow,” he said, moving a stick from under his back and flinging it several feet away from us. “Fuck.”
    I could tell I had made an impression, so I smiled to myself.
    “We shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
    “Too late,” I said, intertwining my fingers with his.
    He squeezed my hand. “Way too late… Ffffuck .”
    “You’re not gonna tell Dex, are you?” I asked.
    “Are you fuckin’ nuts? No way. Nobody. You’re not either,” he said, looking slightly panicked.
    “Of course not. Nobody,” I said. Rachel flashed through my mind—her expression changing from shock to hurt to piousness. Especially not Rachel.
    Marcus ran his hand over my wet thigh. “We should go in. Shower.”
    “Together?”
    “No.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Not together. I think we’ve done enough damage tonight.”
    I wanted to ask him what would happen from here. I wanted to know what it had meant to him, how he was feeling, whether it was a one-time thing or whether we’d have a repeat performance. But I was starting to feel groggy, confused, and a little bit worried. We went inside, kissed good night, and took separate showers. I couldn’t quite believe what had happened—and although I didn’t regret it, I still cried a little under the hot water when I looked at my beautiful diamond engagement ring and thought about Dexter asleep in our bed on the Upper West Side.
    After my shower, I tried to rub the grass stains out of my dress with some Woolite that I found under the sink, but it was hopeless, and I knew bleach would only ruin the delicate fabric. So I wrung out the dress, crept down to the kitchen, and stuffed it into the bottom of the plastic trash bag under a banana peel and an empty box of Trix. I wasn’t about to crash and burn over a dress like some kind of Monica Lewinsky.

----
    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.