But I can’t help asking, “Who?”
“Who…what?”
“Who did you talk to? About me,” I add helpfully, careful not to let the tension I’m feeling creep into my voice.
After all, it was probably John, or one of the other guys.
But it wasn’t.
“Zoe,” he says, and I’m sure I hear a reluctant note in his voice. “She says she met you.”
Zoe.
Zoe with the Pamela Anderson body and the Catherine Zeta Jones face.
Right.
“Yeah, we’ve met a few times,” I tell Will. “I didn’t realize you were friends with her.”
“Sure. I’m friends with a lot of people there.”
Uh-huh. Will and Zoe are friends like Bill and Monica were friends.
“So you’ve been making some extra money, then, huh?” Will asks.
“Yeah, the money’s great,” I say absently.
Will slept with Zoe.
I know it.
Why else would he be calling her from North Mannfield?
Why else wouldn’t he be calling me more often?
“Will…”
“You’ve got to go, don’t you?” he says. “It’s okay. I have to get to a costume fitting. Let’s plan for next weekend. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll find you a place to stay. There are a couple of bed-and-breakfasts that are close to the theater. Esme’s parents just stayed at one, and they loved it. I’ll ask her about it.”
Esme again.
Esme.
Zoe.
I hate the shards of jealousy that slice into my gut, but I can’t do anything about it. Maybe if Will were here, with me…
Or maybe if I trusted him.
But I can’t.
Why can’t I? It’s not as though I’ve ever caught him cheating on me. I’ve never even found solid evidence that he has.
It’s just this instinct I can’t ignore.
“So I’ll call you on Tuesday or Wednesday to make plans,” Will is saying.
“Okay. I’ll see if I can take off on Friday.”
“Don’t do that. Just come up Saturday.”
“But…that’s only one night.”
“I know, but Friday is opening night. It’ll be crazy for me. Opening nights always are, and this time I’m the lead. Come Saturday. Bright and early.”
What can I do? Argue?
No.
There’s nothing to do but agree.
And hang up.
I take another look in the mirror, half expecting to see my old fat, frumpy, insecure self.
The thing is, I still look good. Better than I ever have before, in fact.
But I’m not nearly as exhilarated about my appearance as I was a few minutes ago, thanks to Will. Damn him.
I was planning to go to this wedding and have a good time with Buckley, who was surprisingly agreeable when I invited him. I only did it because I realized I couldn’t possibly show up dateless after I’d already RSVP’d to the invitation saying I was bringing a guest. I’ve now worked enough catering functions to know that Brenda and Paulie would be paying for Raphael’s uneaten dinner.
Anyway, Buckley said, “Sure, sounds fun” when I asked him.
And I was looking forward to it.
Until now.
All I want to do is stay home and mope.
But Brenda is walking down the aisle in a little over an hour, and I’ve got to get my butt in gear or she’ll never forgive me.
I rush to the Port Authority, where Buckley is waiting. It takes me a moment to recognize him, because he’s wearing a suit. Somehow, I’m surprised by that, but I shouldn’t be. After all, we’re going to a wedding. I guess I just forgot amid all my despair about Will.
Now, though, I shove Will—and Zoe and Esme—firmly from my mind.
“You look amazing,” Buckley tells me.
“So do you,” I tell Buckley.
“Really? Because I was drenched in sweat, walking down here. I couldn’t get a cab.”
“I did, and it wasn’t air-conditioned. The driver was drenched in sweat.”
“Ick.” He leans toward me and sniffs the air. “Don’t worry, the fumes aren’t clinging to you. You smell like honeysuckle.”
“I do?” I am wearing honeysuckle. “I can’t believe you know what it smells like.”
He shrugs. “My mom has this honeysuckle bathroom spray.”
Oh.
We take the bus across the river. I try to focus on what Buckley’s saying as we go through the Lincoln Tunnel. But I start thinking about what happened on the bus home from Brookside the other day, and my heart starts to pound wildly.
Buckley doesn’t seem to notice. He’s telling me about his sister’s wedding—something about how the band leader got food poisoning the night before, so his brother-in-law’s cousin had to fill in and he only knew the lyrics to three songs.
The bus seems to be crawling through the tunnel even though there’s no traffic. I look at the tiled walls, counting the lights as we pass them.
“Are you okay?”
I try to take a deep breath, but I can’t. My chest is all tight again.
“Tracey?”
I look at Buckley.
He’s looking at me.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
“I don’t know.” I swallow, and the saliva seems to get caught in my throat. Why can’t I swallow? I try again. It doesn’t work. I’m over-thinking it. I have to think about something else.
But I can’t.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I say, and I can hear the note of panic in my voice.
Panic.
“I think I’m having a panic attack,” I tell Buckley.
He picks up my hand and squeezes it. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“I don’t know…” I look at his face. I look out the window, at the tiles and the lights and the other cars.
“It’s okay, Tracey. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I feel like something bad is going to happen.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I think I might…” I look at him again. His face is so kind, and I want to tell him, but he’ll think I’m crazy.
I’m not crazy.
Mental note: Stop doing this.
“You think you might…what?” Buckley nudges gently.
“Die,” I say in a small, strangled-sounding voice. “I think I might die. I feel like I’m going to die. Or something.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I know.” I exhale a shaky breath. “But I can’t quite get my brain to believe that. It wants to freak out.”
“Has this happened to you before?”
“The other night. The night I called Will, from the bar. When I was with you.” I’m trying to focus on what we’re saying, so that I won’t panic. If we could just get out of the tunnel…“And before that, too. A few times.”
I can’t believe this whole bewildering, humiliating Girl, Interrupted deal is happening to me in front of Buckley—not that he seems to mind.
“What triggers it?” he asks earnestly.
“I don’t know,” I say, not really hearing his question.
Don’t think about being in the tunnel. Don’t think about the tunnel collapsing and water crashing in. Don’t think about drowning. Don’t.
The bus lurches a little.
I gasp.
Buckley squeezes my hand. “It’s okay, Tracey,” he says. “I’m with you.” And after a while, it is okay.
The bus comes out of the tunnel.
The panic subsides.
And Buckley is with me.
Seventeen
“Tracey! Ohmygod! You look like Cindy Crawford!” Raphael shrieks on Wednesday afternoon when I meet him on the corner of Madison and Forty-eighth. We’re having lunch today.
“Shut up, Raphael,” I say through clenched teeth as several construction w
orkers eating lunch on some nearby steps turn around, check me out and obviously conclude that I look nothing like Cindy Crawford.
“No, really! I love the hair slicked back like that. What’d you do?”
“I sweated like a pig all the way over here, so I just pulled it back with a clip I had in my pocket.” A clip that happens to belong to Sonja. I forgot to give it to Buckley to give to her. Oh, well, her loss. It’s a nice clip.
“Oh, Tracey, stop,” Raphael says, draping his arm around me. “You look trés chic. I love the outfit.” I have on a plain black linen sheath that actually does look pretty good on me this summer. Last year it was too snug in the hips and kept riding up.
“You look trés chic, too,” I tell Raphael.
“Do you think? Oh, yawn,” he says, looking down at his outfit. He’s got on sunglasses with pink lenses, cropped khaki pants and some kind of vest without a shirt beneath it. Office wear, Raphael style. “I’m so ready for fall clothes, Tracey. Bright-colored sweaters are going to be all the rage.”
“Really? Black is always all the rage with me.”
“Mark my words, Tracey, you’re going to be wearing colors one of these days,” Raphael says.
“I doubt it.” I take out my pack of cigarettes and put one between my lips.
“So hurry up and tell me,” Raphael says, stealing a cigarette from my pack and taking my lighter out of my hand. “How was the wedding, Tracey?”
“It was great,” I say as he lights my cigarette, and then his. We both inhale. “We were late getting there and we missed half the ceremony, but not the best part.”
“The vows! Did you cry, Tracey?” Raphael wants to know as we sidestep a puddle left over from this morning’s thunderstorm. The sun is out now, and it’s a steamy summer day in the city, as usual.
“I cried,” I admit. “But just a little.”
“I always cry at weddings. When I have my commitment ceremony, Tracey, I’m going to be a mess. I’ll probably collapse on the floor from all the emotion.”
“When you have a commitment ceremony, Raphael, I’m going to collapse on the floor from shock.”
“Tracey!”
“Raphael. Come on. You’re just not a one-man man.”
“That’s because I haven’t met Mr. Right yet.” We stop on the corner of Fifth and wait for the orange Don’t Walk to change to a white Walk. “Are we still having sushi at that place on Forty-sixth, Tracey?”
“Definitely.” Sushi is slimming.
“What was the food like at the reception?”
“It was delicious, Raphael. There were theme stations. A fondue station. A raw bar station. A potato station. Oh, and by the way, Buckley said to thank you for ditching me because he had a great time.”
“Tracey! I didn’t ditch you!” Raphael looks horrified. “I would never ditch you.”
“Sure you wouldn’t.” I pretend to be pissed.
“Please don’t be angry, Tracey! I had forgotten all about the wedding and I had already told Wade I’d go with him to Quogue, and—”
“It’s okay, Raphael. I forgive you. How was Quogue?”
“It was fabulous, Tracey. Kate and Billy came out and joined us for dinner. Wade cooked. He made a spectacular seafood risotto. I thought it was a little heavy on the oregano, but Kate really liked it.”
“What about Billy?”
He shakes his head. “Tracey, you’ve met him, right?”
I nod.
“What did you think?” he asks ominously.
“That I’d expect nothing less from Kate. I don’t know him well, but from what I saw, he’s superintelligent. Drop dead gorgeous. And rich as—”
“Tracey, I hate to say it, but Wade thinks he’s an ass.”
“Really?” Having never met Wade, it’s hard to say whether this bombshell is meaningful or not. Maybe Wade thinks everyone is an ass.
We’ve made it to the restaurant. Every table is taken, but we manage to find two seats at the sushi bar.
“What did you think of Billy?” I ask Raphael as we wipe our hands with the hot, steaming wet towels the waitress has brought on a tray.
“To be honest, Tracey, I thought he was hot.”
“Please. You think everyone is hot.”
“I don’t think he’s hot,” Raphael says in a stage whisper behind his hand, motioning toward the portly, unshaven businessman slurping miso soup on the seat to his right.
“That’s a first.” I place my hot towel on the tray and pick up my menu.
“Speaking of hot, Tracey, did Buckley come out to you on Saturday night?”
“No!”
“Oh.” Raphael looks disappointed as he surveys the á la carte list.
“Raphael, Buckley can’t come out because he isn’t in, because he isn’t gay.”
Raphael gives a maddening shrug.
“Trust me, Raphael. He’s straight.”
“How do you know? Have you slept with him?”
“Absolutely.”
Raphael drops his menu.
The portly soup slurper retrieves it for him.
Raphael thanks him with a kittenish giggle, then whispers to me, “You know, there is something enticing about him in a rugged, manly kind of way.”
“Raphael, are you on crack?”
He gets back to the business at hand, clearly stunned as he asks, “You’ve slept with Buckley?”
“Yep.” I nod vigorously. “In the same bed. Twice.”
“Tracey! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was no big deal. Unlike you, Raphael, I can share a bed with an attractive man with no sex involved.”
“Tracey! I can do that.”
“Only if the attractive man happens to be a blood relative, Raphael.”
He nods in unabashed agreement. “Tracey, I haven’t got all day here—” Which is bullshit, since Raphael is known at She for his three-hour lunches “—so hurry and tell me, when did you sleep with him?”
“The first time was last week, after we went out. I drank too much and slept it off at his place.” That sounds suitably tamer than the stark, smelly, spewing, sobbing reality. “The second time was Saturday night, after the wedding. It was so hot when we got back to the city, and so late…and I don’t have air conditioning. So when he told me I should stay over, I took him up on it.”
“And nothing happened between you.”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Tracey, I rest my case,” Raphael says with his best smug Camryn Mannheim imitation. “He’s just not ready to come out of the closet.”
“Raphael, I have a boyfriend. That’s why nothing happened with Buckley. We’re just friends. The whole night was completely platonic.”
And I’m telling the complete and utter truth…
Except for one thing.
At one point, we were on the dance floor at the wedding. One minute, we were doing the Electric Slide. The next, the DJ had gone into a slow dance.
It was this old song, “I Could Not Ask For More,” by Edwin McCain. I told Buckley that I loved it, and he grabbed my hand and pulled me into his arms, saying, “Then let’s dance.”
Everyone else was slow dancing…the bride and groom, Yvonne and Thor, Latisha and Anton.
Buckley and I had already danced a few slow songs—but it was different music. Jazzier. Like “The Way You Look Tonight” and “Summer Breeze.” We danced to those songs like I danced to them with my father and my uncle Cosmo at the anniversary party—jaunty steps, spinning turns, body contact limited to one arm around each other’s waists, the opposite elbow bent, hands clasped.
This was different.
This was romantic.
Buckley just kind of wrapped his arms around me and held me close and we swayed with full body contact.
The way you do when you’re in high school.
Rather, the way everyone else did when I was in high school. I was hardly ever asked to dance back then.
The thing about slow dancing with Buckley—
aside from the fact that it became, let’s just say, obvious he’s at least mildly attracted to me—was that for a few minutes, I almost forgot that he wasn’t my boyfriend. And when the song was over and I remembered, I found myself wondering what it would be like if he was.
Because Buckley is always so nice to me.
And Will…
Well, sometimes, he’s not.
But that’s because Buckley and I barely know each other. Will and I are in a relationship, and all relationships have problems.
Anyway, after that slow dance, the DJ played the Tarantella. Naturally, Brenda and Paulie made sure everyone joined in. After that, Buckley and I were right back to being platonic, and the mood lasted for the rest of the night.
We were especially platonic the next morning when I left for home and Buckley left for his Rollerblading date with Sonja.
I pick up one of the small pencils in a cup on the glass-topped counter to begin marking the boxes next to my choices. I opt for sashimi, which is slices of raw fish without rice. I’m down another two pounds and I’m determined to lose more before I see Will on Saturday.
“Did I tell you I’m going to see Will this weekend?” I ask Raphael after we’ve handed our orders to one of the guys behind the counter.
“No! Tracey, that’s great!”
“I hope so.”
“Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “It’s just that Will has been kind of distant since he left…and I’m worried things won’t be the same when I see him again.”
Actually, I’m worried that things will be the same.
But I don’t want to admit that to Raphael.
Or even to myself.
I have to make things work with Will.
I’m not ready to let go.
I’ll never be ready to let go. I love him.
After lunch, I go back to the office. Jake’s left a yellow Post-it note stuck to my computer screen. It says See Me.
I go into his office.
“You’re back,” he says, not looking up from the yellow legal pad he’s writing on.
“I’m back.”
“I need you to make sure you keep your lunches to an hour, Tracey.”
I check my watch. I was gone an hour and ten minutes. “Sorry,” I say.
He nods.
He’s been like this with me ever since the chocolate episode last week. I don’t think it helped that I called in sick the next day. In fact, when I got back on Friday, he barely spoke to me all morning.
Slightly Single Page 21
