Free Something Blue by Emily Giffin Page A

detailing exactly how sorry she was. And if i she begged long enough, talked of our friendship with enough passion, I might eventually let her back into the fold. But it would take a long, long time for her to win back the accolade of best friend.
    I turned to look at Marcus again, now sleeping with one hand tucked behind his head, the other hanging off the bed. His brow was furrowed as if he were doing long division in his sleep. Then his lips curled into a sexy pout, accentuating the cleft in his chin. Suddenly his face morphed into Dexter’s, like the faces at the end of Michael Jackson’s “Black or White” video.
    “Marcus, wake up,” I said, shaking his arm. “I’m starting to freak out.”
    He kept snoring. I leaned over and kissed him. He made a low, throaty noise, opened one eye, and mumbled, “Mornin’, Darce.”
    “Do you think they’re together right now?” I asked.
    “I told you already,” he said. I guess he was referring to the no that he’d given a dozen times the night before. I ell me again.
    “Nah… I highly doubt it. I’m sure you ruined the mood, and he probably left.”
    I decided to believe him. “Okay… But even so, I don’t think I can go to work today. I’m too distracted. You wanna call in sick with me?”
    In the seven years I had dated Dex he had never once called in sick unless he truly was extremely ill. Things were going to be different with Marcus. Our life was going to be so much more spontaneous and fun.
    Sure enough, Marcus said, “All right, you twisted my arm. I’ll sleep in.”
    I felt a fleeting sense of victory, but then realized that in some twisted way, I was actually looking forward to the wave I was about to create at work, so I said with a martyr’s sigh, “I guess I should go in and get it over with.”
    “Get what over with?”
    “You know… telling everyone that the wedding is off.”
    “Hmm-mmm.”
    “What exactly should I say?”
    No response.
    “Marcus!”
    “You don’t have to tell anyone anything,” Marcus said, rolling over toward me. “It’s nobody’s business.”
    “Of course I have to tell them. They think I’m getting married on Saturday. Some of them are invited.”
    I admired Marcus’s laid-back approach to life, but this was a perfect example of him underestimating the requisite effort something would take. It might even prove to be problematic later, if he underestimated my desire to have nice things on my birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s, and randomly throughout the year. Dex knew the drill: flowers arrived like clockwork every other month, which meant a standing order rather than a rush of emotion, but that was fine with me. Attention was attention. Nice things were nice things.
    But Marcus could be trained, I was sure of it. Every man can be trained. I welcomed the challenge of molding my new boyfriend into a responsible—but still sexy and spontaneous—husband and father. For now, I had to make him understand that breaking the news to my colleagues was going to be a huge, emotional ordeal and that I would need his support—i.e., phone calls and e-mails during my trying day. Maybe even a luxury good waiting for me upon my return to his apartment. I imagined him coming through the door with an orange Hermes box and a doting smile.
    “I know you have to tell the people you invited,” Marcus said. “I just think it’s unnecessary to explain the whole thing in detail. Just send a mass e-mail and be done with it.”
    “But they’re going to ask what happened,” I said, thinking that I’d be disappointed if they didn’t. “People want details.”
    “I know you would, you little information hound, but not everyone is like you.”
    “Everyone is like me in the world of public relations. Trust me. It’s our business to gather, hoard, and disperse juicy details. And this is big-time juicy.”
    “Well, I’m just sayin’ that it’s your prerogative to tell people to mind their own fuckin’ business,” Marcus