Slightly Settled

by Wendy Markham

  “Thanks,” I say shortly. “Who else?”

  I need names, here. I need to know who I should hate forever for taking Jack away from me on our home-cooked dinner night.

  “Just Pat,” he says.

  “Which one’s Pat? The one who still lives at home with his parents?”

  “Uh, yeah…that’s Pat, but he’s not the one,” Jack says. “And he’s technically living in the mother-in-law apartment above his parents’ garage now that his grandmother went into a home, so…”

  Is it my imagination, or is he hemming and hawing?

  “So who’s this Pat?” I practically spit into the phone.

  “Pat is, uh, actually Patty. She used to work at Blaire Barnett, too. But I call her Pat sometimes, so…”

  She.

  Her.

  Pat is Patty. Pat is a woman.

  And he wasn’t going to let on, the bastard. He was going to let me think Patty was Pat, one of the guys.

  “I thought you said just the guys were going to the game,” I say, stung.

  How could he do this to me?

  “It is…mostly. Patty’s like one of the guys. She’s a bigger Giants fan than the three of us put together. Plus, she’s the only one who’s got a car. We need her to drive.”

  “Oh.”

  My throat aches from trying not to burst into tears.

  My friends were right.

  He is a jerk.

  Okay, they didn’t say he was a jerk.

  I’m saying it.

  “Tracey, are you okay?”

  ‘No,” I say, “I’m not.”

  “You’re mad about the game?”

  “Yes, I’m mad about the game. We haven’t seen each other in a week. I missed you so much—”

  “I know,” he says. “I missed you, too.”

  “Yeah, right. Then how could you do this to me?”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I just…when Ben called about the tickets, I got excited. I guess I just didn’t think you’d mind. You were so great about it when I asked you before if I could watch it tonight, so I figured—”

  “You figured wrong, Jack. I can’t believe you’d just blow me off like this. I mean, the least you could have done is invited me to go, too.”

  “I told you, it’s a guy thing.”

  “What about Patty?”

  “She’s just like a guy,” he says, sounding bewildered.

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “Are you jealous of Patty?” He sounds incredulous.

  And I sound like a screaming shrew.

  “No, I’m not jealous of Patty. I’m not jealous of anyone. I’m just…I’m pissed off at you. I thought you were different. I didn’t think you were a selfish asshole like…like…”

  Like Will.

  “Well, I guess you were wrong, huh?” he asks coldly.

  No more Mr. Nice Guy.

  “I guess I was. Good thing I found out now, before…”

  But you weren’t going to move in with him anyway, remember?

  You were going to tell him no, remember?

  Shaken, I say, “Have fun at the game.”

  “Yeah,” he says curtly. “Believe me, I will.”

  I slam the phone down without a goodbye.

  It takes almost an hour for the tears to subside.

  When they finally do, I’m left with eyes that feel freshly poached and a throbbing head that might as well have been repeatedly squeezed between subway doors.

  I make my way to the bathroom, where I splash cold water on my red, blotchy face, and I tell my reflection, “You’re an idiot. A complete and total naive idiot.”

  How could I have fooled myself into thinking Jack was a great guy?

  Because you wanted so badly for him to be The One, that’s how.

  Yeah, and he put on a good act, between the talk about moving in together and the cooking and the…the peach jam.

  Oh, Lord, my mother was right.

  He really is a smooth operator.

  How did she see it from four hundred miles and two generations away, and I didn’t see it when it was right in front of my face?

  Yeah, well, I didn’t see it last time, either.

  With Will.

  When will I learn not to listen to my heart, but to my friends and family instead? Clearly, they know what’s best for me.

  And clearly, it isn’t Jack.

  I feel tears welling up in my eyes again.

  I can’t believe it.

  He seemed so genuine, I think, sniffling.

  I reach for a tissue, but the box on the back of the toilet tank is empty and has been for a couple of weeks now. I’ve been so busy with Jack that I haven’t bothered to buy more.

  I blow my nose on a wad of toilet paper.

  The roll is just about empty, and I’m all out of that, too.

  Is that the most depressing thing you’ve ever heard? That I was supposed to be at Jack’s place having a romantic dinner, but, instead, I’m going to be out buying toilet paper?

  And I can’t even lose myself in mindless TV during the long, lonely weekend that stretches—

  The phone rings.

  Startled, I glance at it.

  It’s Jack.

  Terence isn’t the only one who’s psychic.

  I’m as certain that it’s him as I’ve ever been about anything before in my life.

  He’s calling to tell me he made a mistake.

  He’s going to say that he wants me to go to the game with him.

  Or, wait, no! He’s going to say that he’s so sorry, and he gave his ticket away and he’s cooking dinner for me at his place after all.

  I stare at the phone as it rings again.

  Okay, if it’s Jack, and he says that, it’s a sign.

  It’s a sign that we’re meant to be together.

  I take a deep breath, cross myself for good measure and pick up the receiver.

  “Tracey?”

  It’s not Jack.

  It’s not a sign.

  I deflate. “Hi, Will.”

  “I was just thinking—I have to be in the Village later this afternoon to pick up some sheet music from my voice teacher. Why don’t I just drop off your clothes then?”

  Why doesn’t he just drop off my clothes then?

  Because I told him to throw them away, that’s why not.

  Why doesn’t he get the hint?

  “Will—”

  Wait a minute.

  There’s no reason Will shouldn’t come over here to drop off my clothes.

  No reason at all.

  What am I so afraid of?

  It’s just Will.

  It’s just clothes.

  “Come on, Tracey, I’ll be right in the neighborhood,” he says. “I know you said you’re busy, but I thought that wasn’t until later.”

  He wants me, I realize. He wants me because he can’t have me. The tables have turned. Now he’s the one who’s jealous and cajoling, and I’m the one who’s elusive and evasive.

  It should feel good, but it doesn’t. Nothing could possibly feel good right now.

  He asks again, “So can I stop over?”

  Hatred reels through me. Hatred toward Jack for canceling our plans, hatred toward Will for all the hurtful things he ever did to me.

  But I hate myself most of all.

  And I know Will doesn’t want to come over here because of the clothes I left in his apartment.

  I know it, and he knows it, too.

  I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell.

  Instead, I tell him to come on over to my place.

  And anyway, at the moment, that’s kind of the same thing.

  I spend the next hour rushing around cleaning my apartment, and the hour after that taking a shower, putting on makeup, fixing my hair, getting dressed.

  I might be sick to my stomach and heartbroken over Jack, but on the outside, I’ve never looked better.

  Now there’s nothing to do but sit here and wait. Will won’t be here for ano
ther forty-five minutes.

  I pace over to the window and look out.

  The late-afternoon sky hangs low with storm clouds. Good. Maybe it’ll rain on Jack at the Meadowlands. Or maybe it’ll snow.

  Snow would be better, because snow might remind him of me and that night at Rockefeller Center.

  No, it won’t.

  That was fake. He wasn’t feeling anything then, so why would he remember? It was all a part of his Nice Guy act.

  There’s that damned lump again, rising in my throat.

  Because the thing is…

  It didn’t feel fake.

  Nothing about him felt fake.

  When I look back over the last six weeks with Jack, I try to find evidence that he’s a selfish jerk, but there isn’t any.

  There’s nothing but—

  The intercom by my door buzzes.

  Startled, I look at the clock.

  Will is early. Way too early.

  Oh, well, it’s not like I have anything else to do, besides sit here and wallow in self-pity.

  I stand up and go over to the panel by the door to buzz him in.

  I take one last look in the mirror as I wait for him to climb up four flights of stairs.

  I’m wearing a red dress.

  Not the one from the party. That’s too fancy.

  This is a red sweater-dress, one that hugs my curves. The deep shade of crimson makes my hair look darker and my eyes look bigger.

  When Will sees me in this dress, he’s going to want me.

  But…

  But I don’t want him.

  Not anymore.

  The truth washes over me like a refreshing wave on a stifling day, taking my breath away.

  I don’t want him.

  I’m not going to do this.

  I’m going to tell Will what I should have told him long ago: To get the hell out.

  Out of my apartment, out of my life.

  I’d rather be alone….

  And you know what?

  I’ve always been alone.

  How’s that for a bombshell revelation?

  I was more alone than ever when I had Will.

  And you know what else?

  I never “had” Will. If I had listened to my heart when I was with him, I would have realized that.

  I’d have understood that what I felt for Will wasn’t love.

  It was infatuation.

  Love is…

  Love is…

  Okay, I don’t know what love is. But I definitely know what it isn’t.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  I steel myself and reach out to open it.

  Jack.

  “Dianne’s right,” he says. “I am an asshole.”

  I just stare at him.

  He’s wearing a down jacket, and under it, a Giants jersey and jeans. He’s holding a brown paper bag in one arm, with leafy greens sticking out the top. In the other arm is the biggest bouquet of red roses I’ve ever seen.

  “These are for you,” he says, thrusting them into my hands.

  “But…”

  He can’t afford them. They must have cost him a month’s worth of utility bills.

  “So are these,” he says, holding up the grocery bag. “But they’re heavy, so I won’t hand them over. Your stove works, right? And you have pots and pans?”

  I nod. My heart is pounding; my thoughts are racing. I just stand there clutching the roses, staring at him.

  This is the sign, I think.

  The sign I was looking for.

  The sign that it’s meant to be.

  Jack looks down at the floor, then back at me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Really, really, really sorry. I don’t know what the hell got into me. I just…I really wanted to go to that game, and I’m not used to stopping to think about anybody else’s feelings first. I know it makes me sound like an insensitive clod, but…that’s what I am.”

  “No,” I say, and swallow hard. “You aren’t.”

  “Yes, I am. But I’m going to try really hard not to be, from now on.”

  “But…what about the game tonight?”

  He shrugs. “We got as far as the other side of the Lincoln Tunnel before I came to my senses. So I got out of the car and I walked until I found a bus stop, and when the bus came, I took it back to Manhattan. I would’ve been here sooner, but it was running on a Saturday schedule. So was the subway. Plus I had to stop at the florist and the grocery store.”

  “For me,” I murmur. “You did all that for me.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’d do anything for you, Tracey.”

  “Even give up the Giants? Because my cable is still turned off, so if you stay—”

  “I know. I can’t see the game. It’s fine.”

  “It is?”

  He shrugs. “I’ll catch them in the Super Bowl.”

  “They might not make it.”

  “I might never have another chance with you. Will you forgive me?”

  Remember how I vowed to stop listening to my heart?

  Remember how I concluded that I don’t know what’s best for me?

  Well, I was wrong.

  It’s time to start trusting Tracey.

  It’s time to start taking chances.

  It’s time to start doing what I want to do, and the hell with what everybody else wants me to do.

  And what I want to do is…

  Take a chance on Jack.

  He’s not perfect. Nobody’s perfect. Not Jack. Not me. And not our relationship.

  But it’s what I want. I don’t have to try being alone.

  Been there, done that.

  Time to move on.

  So I tell Jack, “Yes. I forgive you.”

  He steps into my apartment, sets down the groceries and opens his arms.

  I close the door and step into them.

  We kiss for a long time.

  When we’re done kissing—at least for now—he says, “I have something else for you,” and he reaches into the pocket of his coat.

  He pulls out a flat, rectangular gift-wrapped package and hands it to me.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A present. Something that you need.”

  I tear off the wrapping with trembling fingers.

  “A picture frame,” I say, a bit puzzled. “It’s…it’s really nice.”

  “Yeah,” he says, dimples deepening.

  And then it dawns on me.

  “It’s for the picture of us!” I tell him, and he grins and hugs me.

  For a split second, I’m elated. And then I remember.

  Twinge of guilt.

  Shred of doubt.

  “Jack,” I say, because I have to. Because it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “What is it?” He pulls back to look down at me, concern in his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

  “I lied,” I say.

  “About what?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Remember the morning you saw the picture of us in the frame? And I told you that one of my friends put it there as a prank?”

  “There was no friend. You did it yourself.”

  Stunned, I ask, “How did you know?”

  He tilts his head. “I just figured.”

  “But…I thought you believed me. You said—”

  “I didn’t want to embarrass you. I knew you were mortified.”

  “And it didn’t scare you off? Knowing that I’d done something like that? Knowing that I wanted you to be my boyfriend so badly I framed a picture of us?”

  “Maybe it scared me for a split second,” he admits.

  Then he says, “Okay, for a little longer than that, since we’re being totally honest here. But then I realized I missed you. And that maybe I wanted you to be my girlfriend. And I still do. I still mean what I said about living together, Tracey.”

  “You still want to do it?”

  He nods. “Do you?”


  Yes.

  I do.

  But just to be safe, I say, “Can I think about it for a few months?”

  “Sure. My lease isn’t up until April.”

  “Okay.”

  We smile at each other.

  A lot can happen in a few months.

  A lot just did.

  As if to punctuate the realization, the door buzzes.

  Jack asks, “Are you expecting somebody?”

  So Will actually showed. Imagine that.

  “No,” I tell Jack. “I wasn’t expecting anybody.”

  “So do you still have that picture?” Jack asks.

  I nod.

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s in the drawer.”

  The door buzzes again.

  Jack asks, “Do you want to check and see who that is?”

  “I’m sure it’s not for me. Ignore it.”

  He shrugs. “Okay. So…do you want to get the picture out of the drawer?”

  I do want to, and I do get it.

  He puts it into the frame and carries it over to the windowsill.

  The door buzzes again.

  I smile, watching as Jack gently but firmly moves aside the other pictures—the ones of Raphael, and Kate, and my work friends and my family.

  He puts the picture of the two of us right in the center.

  “There,” he says. “How does that look?”

  Like it’s right where it belongs, my heart tells me.

  And this time…

  I listen.

  SLIGHTLY SETTLED

  A Red Dress Ink novel

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-3367-0

  © 2004 by Wendy Corsi Staub.

  All rights reserved. The reproduction, transmission or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission. For permission please contact Red Dress Ink, Editorial Office, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imaginaton, and are not to be construed as real. While the author was inspired in part by actual events, none of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

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