"I know."

He lifts his glass. "To eluding Dex and Darcy. No sharing details of tonight with those nosy bastards."

I laugh. "No matter how great-or how bad-our date is!"

Our glasses touch and we sip in unison.

"This date is not going to be bad. Trust me on that."

I smile. "I trust you."

I do trust him, I think. There is something disarming about his sense of humor, and easy, Midwestern style. And he's not engaged to Darcy. A nice bonus.

Then, as if on cue, Marcus asks me how long I've known Darcy.

"Twenty-some years. First time I saw her she was all dressed up in this fancy little sundress, and I was wearing these dumb Winnie-the-Pooh shorts from Sears. I thought, now there's a girl with style."

Marcus laughs. "I bet you looked cute in your Pooh shorts."

"Not quite…"

"And then you were the one who introduced Darcy and Dex, right? He said you were good friends in law school?"

Right. My good friend Dex. The last person I slept with.

"Uh-huh. I met him first semester of law school. I knew right away that he and Darcy would make a good match," I say. A bit of an exaggeration, but I want to set the record straight that I never considered Dex for myself. Which I didn't. And still don't.

"They even look alike… No mystery as to how their kids will turn out."

"Yes. They will be beautiful." I feel an inexplicable knot in my chest, picturing Dex and Darcy cradling their newborn. For some reason, I had never thought beyond the wedding in September.

"What?" Marcus asks, obviously catching my expression. Which doesn't mean that he is perceptive, necessarily; my face is just less than inscrutable. It is a curse.

"Nothing," I say. Then I smile and sit up a bit straighter. It is time for a transition. "Enough about Dex and Darcy."

"Yeah," he says. "I hear you."

We start the typical first-date conversation, discussing our jobs, our families and general backgrounds. We cover his Internet start-up that went under and his move to New York. Our food arrives. We eat and talk and order another bottle of wine. There is more laughter than silence. I am even comfortable enough to take a bite of his lamb when he offers it to me.

After dinner, Marcus pays the bill. It is always an awkward moment for me, although offering to pay (whether sincerely or with the fake reach for the wallet) is so much more awkward. I thank him, and we make our way to the door, where we decide to get another drink.

"You pick a place," Marcus says

I choose a new bar that just opened near my apartment. We get in a cab, talking the whole way to the Upper East Side. Then we sit at the bar, talking more.

I ask him to tell me about his hometown in Montana. He pauses for a beat and then says he has a good story for me.

"Only about ten percent of my senior class went to college," he starts. "Most students don't even bother with SATs at my high school. But I took the thing, did fine on it, applied to Georgetown, and got in. Of course, I didn't mention it to anyone at school-just went about my business, hanging with my boys and whatnot. Then the faculty catches wind of the Georgetown thing and one day my math teacher, Mr. Gilhooly, takes it upon himself to announce my good news to the class."

He shakes his head as if the memory is painful. "So everyone was like, 'So what? Big fucking deal.'" Marcus imitates his bored classmates by folding his arms across his chest and then patting his mouth with an open hand. "And I guess their reaction pissed Mr. Gilhooly off. He wanted them to truly grasp the depth of their inadequacies and future doom. So he proceeded to draw this big graph on the board showing my earning potential with a college degree versus their earning potential bussing tables at Shoney's. And how the gap would get worse and worse with time."

"No way!"

"Yeah. So they're all sitting there like, 'Fuck Marcus,' right? Like I think I'm hot shit 'cause I'm going to make six figures someday. I wanted to kill that dude." Marcus throws up his hands. "Thanks for nothing, Mr. Gilhooly. Way to win me some friends."

I laugh.

"So what the fuck am I supposed to do now? I gotta fight the image of dork gunner boy, right? So I go out of my way to show everybody I don't give a shit about academics. Started smokin' weed every day, and never stopped the practice in college. Hence, well, you know, my finishing next to last at Georgetown. I'm sure you've heard about the remote?" he asks, peeling the label off his Heineken.

I smile and tap his hand. "Yeah. I know the story. Except the version I heard was that you were dead last."

"Aww, man!" Marcus shakes his head. "Dex never gets that shit right. My one-point-six-seven beat someone out! Next to last, dude! Next to last!"

After two drinks, I glance at my watch and say it's getting late.

"Okay. I'll walk you home?"

"Sure."

We stroll over to Third Avenue and stop in front of my apartment.

"Well, good night, Marcus. Thank you so much for dinner. I had a really nice time," I say, meaning it.

"Yeah. So did I. It was good." He licks his lips quickly. I know what is coming. "And I'm glad we're in the same house this summer."

"I am too."

Then he asks if he can kiss me. It is a question I don't usually like. Just do it, I always think. But for some reason it doesn't bother me coming from Marcus.

I nod and he leans over and gives me a medium-long kiss.

We separate. My heart isn't palpitating, but I am content.

"You think Darcy and Dex bet on that?" he asks.

I laugh because I had been wondering the same thing.

"How did it go?" Darcy yells into the phone the next morning.

I am just out of the shower, dripping wet. "Where are you?"

"In the car with Dex. We're on our way back to the city," she says. "We went antiquing. Remember?"

"Yes," I say. "I remember."

"How did it go?" she asks again, smacking her gum. She can't even wait until she gets home to get the scoop on my date.

I don't answer.

"Well?"

"We have a bad connection. Your cell is breaking up," I say. "I can't hear you."

"Nice try. Give me the goods."

"What goods?"

"Rachel! Don't play dumb with me. Tell me about your date! We're dying to know."

I hear Dex echo her in the background. "Just dying!"

"It was a lovely evening," I say, trying to wrap a towel around my head without dropping the phone.

She squeals. "Yes! I knew it. So details! Details!"

I tell her that we went to Gotham Bar and Grill, I ordered the tuna, he had lamb.

"Rachel! Get to the good stuff! Did you hook up?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Why not?"

"I have my reasons."

"That means you did," she says. "Otherwise you'd just say no."

"Think what you want."

"C'mon, Rachel!"

I tell her no way, I am not going to be her car-ride entertainment. She reports my words to Dex and I hear him say, "Bruce is our car-ride entertainment. Tell her that."

Tunnel of Love is playing in the background.

"Tell Dexter that's Bruce's worst album."

"They're all bad albums. Springsteen sucks," Darcy says.

"Did she just say this album is bad?" I hear Dex ask Darcy.

Darcy says yeah and a few seconds later "Thunder Road" is blaring. Darcy shouts at him to turn it down. I smile.

"So?" Darcy asks. "Are you going to tell us or not?"

"Not."

"If I promise not to tell Dex?"

"Still not."

Darcy makes an exasperated sound. Then she tells me that she will find out one way or another and hangs up.

The next I hear from Dex is on Thursday night, the day before we are scheduled to leave for the Hamptons.

"Do you want a ride? We have room for one more," he says. "Claire's coming with us. And your boyfriend's in."

"Well, in that case, I'd love a ride," I say, trying to sound breezy and casual. I need to show him that I've moved on. I have moved on.

At five o'clock the next day, we are assembled in Dexter's car, hoping to get ahead of the traffic. But the roads are already clogged. It takes us an hour to get through the Midtown Tunnel and nearly four hours to make the 110-mile drive to East Hampton. I sit in the backseat between Claire and Marcus. Darcy is in a giddy, hyper mood. She spends most of the car ride facing the three of us in the backseat, raising various topics, asking questions, and generally carrying the conversation. She makes things feel celebratory; her good moods are as infectious as her bad ones are contaminating. Marcus is the second most talkative in our group. For a thirty-mile stretch, he and Darcy are a running comedy routine, making fun of each other. She calls him lazy, he calls her high maintenance. Claire and I chime in occasionally. Dex says virtually nothing. He is so quiet that at one point Darcy yells at him to stop being such a bore.

"I'm driving," he says. "I need to concentrate."

Then he looks at me in the rearview mirror. I wonder what he's thinking. His eyes give nothing away.

It is getting dark when we stop for snacks and beers at a gas station on Route 27. Claire sidles up to me in front of the chips, loops her arm through mine, and says, "I can tell he really likes you." For a second I am startled, thinking that she means Dex. Then I realize she is talking about Marcus.

"Marcus and I are just friends," I say, selecting a can of Pringles Light.

"Oh, c'mon now. Darcy told me about your date," she says.