Mom?
“Will? It’s me.”
There’s a pause on his end, followed by an incredulous, “Tracey?”
“Yes!”
“I thought you must be my—What’s wrong?”
“I just wanted the phone number. For the cast house. I mean—that’s what I asked Edward to—he didn’t have to get you.”
“Tracey, what the—? What are you doing?” Another pause.
It’s my pause, I guess. Because it’s my turn, and I’m afraid to speak.
“Edward said there was an emergency phone call for me,” Will says succinctly. “I was backstage, in between songs. In two minutes I have to be back onstage singing ‘We Go Together.”’
“‘We Go Together,”’ I echo, my mind racing wildly. I’m a momentary contestant on Millionaire. And I know this one. “We Go Together.”
There! I’ve got it. “Will, you’re doing Grease!”
“Yes, I’m doing Grease. Tracey, you sound wasted. Are you wasted?”
“No!”
“Tracey, tell me…is this an emergency phone call, or what?”
“Yes!”
“What’s wrong?”
This. This is wrong. His attitude is wrong. His tone is impatient, as though he doesn’t believe me.
Why the hell wouldn’t he believe me? Edward believed me. Edward, a total stranger, believed me, and Will, my boyfriend, doesn’t.
“Tracey, for God’s sake, I have to be back onstage in a minute. What’s going on? What’s the emergency?”
He wants me to name my emergency. Is he for real?
“Tracey, speak!”
“Why are you talking to me like this?” I wail.
“Because…is this an emergency, or are you drunk?”
“I’m not drunk!” I bellow, just as the two women from before come out of the ladies’ room.
Dammit.
This is a mess.
I’m a mess.
But I’m not drunk.
That is not why I’m calling him.
That is not why I have these symptoms.
“Then what’s the emergency?” Will repeats.
He’s still impatient. Still not kind, or loving.
Still not the person I need him to be.
“It’s my heart,” I say, taking a deep breath. Shuddering, because it hurts and I can’t seem to take as deep a breath as I need to take and there’s something wrong, dammit, and Will won’t—
“What about your heart, Tracey?”
What about my heart? I’m trying to focus. To answer the question.
What about my heart?
It aches.
It’s breaking. Will is breaking my heart. I lean against the wall, my head tilted back, eyes closed. I feel limp.
He doesn’t understand.
He’s on the phone, the way I wanted. But this is not helping. This…
This is hostile.
Will is hostile.
“Tracey, I have to go,” he says shortly. “I’ve got to get back onstage.”
“But, Will…I need you.”
“You called this number and told Edward it was an emergency. This was the emergency? That you need me?”
“Why are you so angry at me?” I’m crying now. “Will, stop talking to me this way. Don’t you care?”
“Don’t I care about what?”
About me?
No.
Don’t say that.
“Don’t you care that I’m in pain?”
“Tracey…”
“No, Will, I mean real, physical pain. I’m a mess. I can’t breathe and I’m lightheaded and my heart is beating too fast….”
“That’s because you’ve been drinking.”
“No, it isn’t! Stop saying that!”
“You’re drunk, Tracey. I can tell. You’re slurring. This is pathetic. I have to go.”
“No, Will, don’t—”
“Goodbye.”
“Please, Will, don’t—”
Click.
Dial tone.
Panic.
He’s gone!
Where’s that gum wrapper?
Search your pockets.
Search your bag.
Please. It’s not here. Where is it? I need it. I need the phone number of the Valley Playhouse. I need to call him back.
But by now he’s singing “We Go Together.”
Ramma lamma ding dong.
So I’ll wait until he’s finished.
“Excuse me…”
I look up.
A stranger is standing in front of me, framed in the doorway leading to the restaurant. A strange man. A strange, blurry man is talking to me. Why?
He seems angry at me.
Oh, Christ. Him, too?
Why?
Why is everyone so angry at me?
Tears are streaming down my face.
“I need the gum wrapper,” I tell the man. “Please…can you help me find it?”
“We don’t allow smoking back here,” he says, motioning at the sign.
“I know, but my boyfriend just hung up on me, and I can’t find the gum wrapper and my heart—”
“Please put that out,” he says firmly, motioning at the butt in my hand.
“But I’m trying to explain why—”
“Please. This is not a designated smoking area.”
Who is he, this strange, blurry man, coming out of the woodwork to yell at me?
“Did they tell you I was smoking here?” I ask, realizing that those two bitchy women must have reported me. I hate them. And I hate this man.
I think I should tell him.
“I think you should leave,” he says.
“But…why? Why do I have to leave?” I cry harder.
“I’m the manager, and I think you’ve had too much to drink. Are you here alone?”
I can’t remember.
I struggle to think back to before the phone call, but my mind is as blurry as his face is, and now things are starting to spin.
“I can put you in a cab,” the man says.
Now he’s not being mean.
Now I don’t hate him.
I sob harder. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you.”
“All right, let’s just—”
Oh.
I have to throw up.
Right now.
The nausea swoops over me with a sudden violence that sends me fumbling for the ladies’ room door. I hurtle myself into a stall and vomit into the toilet.
Oh, God.
“Oh, God,” I say, and I wonder where God is when you need him.
I should have gone to church, like my mother said.
I’ve never been so miserable in my entire life.
I hurt.
I think I’m dying.
I should have gone to church.
Now it’s too late.
Because maybe I’m already dead.
Because I could swear I’m in hell.
Fifteen
“Tracey?”
“Tracey…”
“Tracey!”
“Mmm?”
“Tracey, are you okay?”
I come awake slowly, wincing at the sheer pain of being conscious.
My head is killing me.
My throat is killing me.
I open my eyes into a glare of direct sunlight.
My eyes are killing me.
And…
And there is no direct sunlight in my apartment.
I close my eyes quickly, but they still hurt.
Where am I?
“Tracey?”
Who is that?
I force my eyes to open again.
I roll over.
And gasp.
“Hi,” Buckley says, looking down at me. “You okay?”
Buckley?!
What’s he doing here?
Wait…
This isn’t my apartment.
The sunlight.
This must be Buckley’s apartment.
What am I doing here?
“I brought you home with me last night,” he says, as if he’s read my mind.
Oh, Lord. Last night.
The last thing I remember is…
Frozen drinks.
Many frozen drinks.
Many strong frozen drinks.
Did I sleep with Buckley?
I’m utterly mortified.
I close my eyes and turn my head away. The motion makes me seasick. I try to fight back the nausea, but the wave is already gagging me. I sit up, starting to retch.
Buckley shoves a bucket under my face.
I have dry heaves over it.
I see that it’s not empty.
Somebody has already thrown up in it. Why would Buckley—
Oh.
That somebody was probably me.
I sink back on the pillows in shame and exhaustion.
Buckley puts the bucket on the floor again.
“I’d say you’re all out of puke, and none too soon.”
Oddly, there’s nothing nasty about that comment. He says it dryly, yet gently. I venture a glance at him, and his eyes are kind as he looks down at me. “What happened?” I manage to croak.
“Last night? You don’t remember?”
I try to shake my head, but there’s blinding pain with the slightest movement.
I take a deep breath, and there’s a bad smell.
It’s me.
I’m the bad smell.
I want to die.
“You had too much to drink. You got sick in the bathroom. Sonja happened to go back there and she saw the manager trying to help you, and she came and got me.”
Sonja? Who the hell is…?
Oh.
Sonja.
“I brought you here because I didn’t think you should be alone.”
No.
No, I should never be alone.
Never.
There’s a lump in my throat, and this time it’s not a dry heave.
“Thank you,” I manage to tell Buckley. “You’re being so nice to me.”
“It’s okay.” His hair is all tousled and he’s wearing a T-shirt and boxer shorts. The kind of boxer shorts that are more pajamas than underwear, but still…
I see that I’m lying in a bed, and that there’s clearly only one room to this apartment, and that this is the only bed. It’s actually a futon. There is no separate bed, or couch. Nowhere for a second person to sleep.
Which means…
“I’m sorry I kicked you out of your bed,” I tell Buckley.
“You didn’t.”
I’m confused.
Then I’m not so confused.
I’m horrified.
He grins.
“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t,” he says in a sly whisper, leaning toward me.
“Oh my God,” I say, “did we…?”
He nods. “It wasn’t that great the first few times, but we hit our stride.”
“Oh…” I feel tears welling up in my eyes. I’m mortified.
“Tracey, relax.” His smile has vanished. He sits next to me. Now his face is really close to mine. “I’m just kidding. Do you honestly think I’d take advantage of you in the state you were in last night?”
“Nothing happened?” Thank you, God.
“Nothing happened. I only slept in the bed because my other option was the floor, and I’ve had a roach problem lately—but they just sprayed again,” he adds quickly. “And it’s not that I’m such a pig—all New York apartments have roaches.”
“I know….”
“Anyway, I promised nothing was going to happen when we were on the phone the other night, right? We’re strictly platonic. Remember?”
“I remember.”
Yeah, and I just remembered something else. Something he said triggered it.
The phone.
“Buckley…do you know if I called anyone last night? Before I got sick in the bar?”
He shrugs.
“Oh, no.” It’s coming back to me now. “I think I made a huge mistake.”
“Let me guess. The drunken, crying phone call to your boyfriend?”
I nod. “How do you—?”
“I’ve been in a relationship. I’ve gotten the drunken, crying phone call. I’ve made a few, too,” he admits, and there isn’t a trace of humor in his voice. “It sucks.”
“Getting the call, or making it?”
“Both.” He’s so earnest, patting my shoulder. “But you’ll get over it, Tracey. And so will he.”
“That’s easy to say. But he’s far away. It’s not like we can fix it today. We won’t even see each other until…God knows when. So I don’t know how we can get over it and move on that easily.”
“It’s just a phone call, Tracey. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“I’ll try not to,” I say, because he expects it.
But it wasn’t just a phone call.
There was something wrong with me.
Aside from the drinking.
I was having some kind of—well, if not a heart attack, then it was some kind of attack.
It wasn’t the first time. And I’m scared. So scared that I expect it to happen again, right here and now.
I brace myself for my heart to start pounding.
But it doesn’t.
“Are you okay?” Buckley asks.
“Yeah.” I close my eyes and turn away. “I just can’t believe I made such a fool out of myself. Not just with Will. The people at the bar…And Sonja, and Mae—thank God I’ll never see them again.”
“Don’t worry about them. They completely understood,” Buckley says. “Actually, they helped me get you back here after we left. It’s only two blocks—too close for a cab—so we walked.”
“I don’t remember.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” He pauses. “We pretty much carried you.”
God, every new detail elevates the scenario to disastrous new heights. I bury my head in the pillow. “I’m so humiliated.”
“Don’t be. Sonja and Mae were really nice about it. And Sonja even used her own hair clip to pull your hair back so you wouldn’t get—you know.”
Yeah, I know. So I wouldn’t get barf in it.
I reach up and feel my head. I’m sporting a big barrette directly over my forehead, which means Sonja clipped all my hair, including my bangs, straight back from my face.
How could she?
Every woman knows that this, hands down, is the most unflattering style in the history of hair. Unless you happen to be a toddler. Or a supermodel.
“That was sweet of her,” I tell Buckley, who seems to agree wholeheartedly, oblivious to the fact that Sonja has clearly sabotaged my appearance.
In fact, he tells me he’ll give Sonja her hair clip back when he sees her on Sunday. It seems they have a date to go Rollerblading in Central Park.
This bothers me because:
A.) I can’t Rollerblade. I will never be able to Rollerblade, due to the notoriously weak Spadolini ankles.
B.) Buckley was apparently scamming a date with Sonja while I was lying in a pool of vomit.
Don’t get me wrong. Buckley can date Sonja if he wants. He can date anyone his heart desires—aside, of course, from platonic me. And I’m not interested in dating him. I’m only interested in repairing my relationship with Will.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t mind the fact that Buckley has now seen me at my absolute, rock-bottom worst—forehead hair clip, dragon breath, vomit and all.
This situation couldn’t possibly be any more mortifying.
Oh, yes, it could.
Because it has just occurred to me that I have to go to the bathroom.
Now.
Which means I have to get out of this bed. Which means I have to pull down the navy-blue cotton blanket Will must have covered me with last night.
What if I’m naked under there?
For all I know, he stripped off my disgusting clothing last night. That’s what always happens in
the movies—the guy tells the hungover girl that he had to help her get undressed while she was out of it. And she realizes he must have seen her naked.
In the movies, this is always a titillating thing.
In the movies, the drunk female is free of flab, cellulite and ancient, unsightly cotton underwear with worn-out elastic.
In the movies, there is no puke.
In the movies, a drunk female is silly and adorable and sweetly vulnerable. Think Julia Roberts in My Best Friend’s Wedding.
Okay, maybe there aren’t that many movies in which this type of thing happens, but there are a few.
At least two.
I know I saw one.
Anyway, this, my friends, is so not the movies. And it will send me over the edge if I find out that I’m not wearing anything under this blanket.
I lift the blanket and take a peek.
What a relief. I’m still fully dressed.
Still fully dressed in clothes that are caked with dried throw-up. Charming.
“The bathroom?” I inquire of Buckley, who is already standing and leading the way.
As we cross the room, I notice details about his apartment. The overflowing bookshelf. The open bag of Lays Barbecue chips on the counter. The clothes he wore last night, heaped on one of those wood-and-canvas director chairs you can buy dirt cheap at Ikea.
There are no plants. There are no show-tune CDs. There is no exercise equipment.
Buckley’s apartment is nothing like Will’s apartment.
Buckley is nothing like Will.
I try to imagine Will nursing me through my drunken blitz, but I cringe just imagining what he would have been thinking.
Buckley doesn’t seem the least bit fazed.
“Hang on a second,” he says, opening the bathroom door for me.
I lean weakly against the door, feeling sick.
A few seconds later, he’s handing me a towel, a sloppily folded T-shirt and a pair of lightweight jersey-sweatpant-things.
“Take a shower, then put this stuff on,” Buckley advises. “You’ll feel better. I’ll run down to the deli and get us a couple of bagels and some coffee.”
“Coffee,” I echo, trying to decide whether the thought of it makes me crave a cup, or feel sicker. I guess it’s a little of both.
“And bagels. You need food.”
“Yeah…but can you have them do mine with fat-free cream cheese?”
“Fat free.” Buckley rolls his eyes. “Why bother? That stuff tastes like someone added water to ground-up chalk.”
“Shut up. I’m on a diet.”
Buckley looks me up and down in all my vomit-covered glory. “Yeah, I thought you looked like you lost weight. I meant to tell you last night.”
Slightly Single Page 19
