Slightly Single

by Wendy Markham

  Will McCraw, as George, is a comely addition to the Valley Theater cast, but brings little energy to the challenging role.

  Oh. No wonder he’s upset.

  I keep reading, my mind already racing for words of comfort.

  His lackluster performance could not begin to capture the brooding enigma that embodies his character, a passionate artist. His thin, incapable voice frequently seemed to lack the necessary range. However, the dazzling Esme Spencer was perfectly cast as the beguiling Dot, who is head over heels over the career-obsessed George and must ultimately decide whether it’s time to “Move On” in the show’s most haunting musical number. To her credit, Spencer managed to consistently create convincing romantic sparks in her onstage moments with the hapless eye candy that is McCraw.

  I feel like somebody just dropped a hair dryer into my bathtub.

  The dazzling Esme Spencer.

  So she’s his leading lady.

  So their onstage romantic sparks were convincing.

  Don’t do this.

  That comes from a cautionary voice somewhere deep inside of me.

  It’s as effective as the Patrons Only sign on the rest rooms of the Grand Hyatt hotel on Forty-Second and Lex.

  I turn to Will.

  Will is now the brooding enigma that is his character, a passionate artist.

  His arms are folded across his chest, his jaw is stiff, and he glares through the still-smudged windshield.

  In other words, this probably isn’t a good time to bring up our relationship.

  But it can’t wait any longer.

  This has been building for the past few hours, since I got here.

  No, the past few days, since he called me collect from a bar.

  No, the past few weeks, since he left.

  Oh, hell, it’s been building since I’ve known him.

  I take a deep breath and let it all spill forth at last, to my credit having the presence of mind to open with an obligatory, “Will, I’m sorry about the sucky review. But it’s only one critic, and what does she know? The thing is, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come to realize that I need to ask you a question, and I need you to answer it honestly for me.”

  He hasn’t even flinched.

  I wonder if he’s even listening.

  I rush on, “It’s just this feeling that I’ve had, and maybe it’s completely off-base. I mean, it might just be me—just my insecurity, and my imagination—but I need to know…Will, have you been faithful to me?”

  Now he’s flinching.

  Not only is he flinching, he’s turning on me in a rage. “What? You’re asking me this now?”

  My own anger bubbles promptly from the depths. My previously carefully controlled voice erupts into a shrill, “Well, when else am I supposed to ask you? You’ve been gone for a month. And you never call, so I can’t ask you over the phone.”

  “I never call?”

  “A couple of times, in the middle of the night. I’m supposed to work with that? Will, you’re not being fair.”

  “I’m not being fair?” He gives a bitter laugh. “You’re obviously celebrating Kick Will While He’s Down day, and I’m not being fair.”

  “I know, it’s not the best timing…and I said I was sorry about the goddamn review. But, Will, this is important.”

  “Tracey, right now, in my life, nothing is as important as this. Nothing.”

  “Including me,” I say flatly, my insides churning.

  He says nothing, just lifts his chin slightly and glares into my eyes.

  “Take me to the bed-and-breakfast,” I blurt, feeling the tears coming on.

  He starts the engine.

  But he doesn’t take me to the bed-and-breakfast.

  Sobbing in my seat, my face turned blindly to the open window, I don’t realize where we are until we’re pulling up with a violent jerking stop in front of it.

  The bus station.

  I turn to look at him, incredulous.

  “Just go,” he says, disgusted.

  “You want me to leave…?”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it.”

  “Will…”

  But there’s nothing left to say.

  Nothing left to do.

  Nothing but leave.

  Nineteen

  When the bus gets back to New York, it’s raining. Thunder, lightning, torrential downpour—the works.

  I descend into the depths of the Port Authority and find the dank, malodorous subway platforms mobbed with stranded passengers and the loudspeakers blaring with garbled, indecipherable announcements.

  Rather than wedge my sobbing self and my oversize luggage into the fetid swarm of humanity, I robotically ascend to the street.

  Even now, I barely notice the weather for the first block I walk after exiting the Port Authority.

  My mind is a squall in itself, crackling with coulda-shoulda-wouldas, whirling with disbelief, sodden with wrenching grief.

  But when I reach the corner of Forty-Second and Seventh, I realize that it’s hardly a stroll-friendly summer evening.

  The apocalyptic reality: arroyo-like gutters, steam rising from freshly baked pavement, cacophonous traffic clogging semi-flooded streets.

  I’ve been walking blindly, lugging my bag, smoking a soggy cigarette that has finally been extinguished by the deluge from above.

  The rain that soaks my hair and my clothes mixes with the tears that have been pouring down my face for the past three hours. My head aches almost as badly as the hollow above my eye sockets, and my cheeks feel raw.

  I stop on the corner and I drop my heavy bag at my feet, into a disgusting, warm, polluted urban puddle that pools over my feet in their black summer flats and splashes up against my bare ankles.

  This is it.

  I’ve reached the end.

  I can’t go any farther than this. I don’t care what happens to me now. If a wayward yellow cab hydroplanes me down, it will be a blessing.

  Because Will sent me home.

  Because Will hates me.

  Because there’s no way our relationship can be salvaged after this.

  And the thing is…

  There are two things.

  The first thing is that this was inevitable.

  The second thing is that I still want him.

  I want him so badly that for an insane moment it seems logical to go back to the Port Authority, catch the next bus north and try to work things out with him.

  I wipe my streaming eyes with the back of my hand as I’ve been doing for hours, and happen to glance down to see that streaks of black mascara and eye liner have stained my wrist.

  Okay.

  Clearly, at this point I look like Marilyn Manson. Somewhere in the midst of my misery and hysteria, I comprehend that going back to North Mannfield to win back Will’s love is probably not a good idea right now. That it might, in fact, be a bad idea.

  What I need right now is another cigarette.

  Another cigarette, and a stiff drink.

  Another cigarette, a stiff drink and shelter.

  Another cigarette, a stiff drink, shelter and a shoulder to cry on.

  I need another cigarette, a stiff drink, shelter, a shoulder to cry on, and…

  Five golden rings.

  No.

  This isn’t funny, not even in a bitter, dark, ironic way. But…

  Five golden rings?

  Uh-uh.

  One golden ring?

  Yes, that will do.

  And the chances of one golden ring from Will—ever—are now slim to none.

  Okay, none.

  But you knew that, Tracey. You knew it all along.

  Come on, Tracey…

  Didn’t you know that?

  I’m walking again.

  Uptown.

  Because maybe this isn’t the end.

  Maybe it’s a crossroads.

  Meaning there’s a path to be chosen…

  And I’ve chosen my path.

  Maybe what I truly ne
ed right now…

  In addition to a cigarette, a stiff drink, shelter, a shoulder to cry on and one golden ring…

  Is Buckley O’Hanlon.

  Even if Kate or Raphael were available this weekend—which is unlikely now that Billy and Wade are on the scene—I’m not in the mood for I Told You So, or You’re Better Off Without Him, or Hey, Wasn’t That Mascara Supposed To Be Waterproof?

  Buckley will comfort me without asking too many questions or offering advice. Unlike Kate, he won’t do most of the talking. He’ll listen in that quiet, guy way—a skill Raphael unfortunately lacks despite his gender.

  Buckley will let me smoke and drink and cry, and in the end I’ll feel better, and he won’t have minded.

  I know all of this instinctively, somehow, even though he’s been my friend for less than a month and my acquaintance for only slightly longer.

  When I reach Buckley’s apartment building it occurs to me that maybe I should have called first.

  I press the buzzer next to his name and wait.

  Buckley’s voice comes over the barely functioning intercom, a single, blasted, inscrutable syllable.

  Is he grouchy? Or is it just the intercom distorting his mood?

  I hesitate only long enough to realize that I’ve outgrown ringing doorbells and running. I say, “It’s me, Tracey.”

  The door buzzes open.

  I make my way through the dimly lit, shabby vestibule and up three flights of stairs. The second-floor landing reeks of cruciferous vegetables. Apparently, somebody under this roof is on the cabbage-soup diet. In a building like Will’s, cooking smells rarely make it past apartment doors. But Buckley’s apartment building is only slightly more glamorous than mine, and I can always tell what every one of my neighbors is having for dinner as I pass their doors.

  When I reach Buckley’s floor, he’s sticking his head out into the hall, waiting for me.

  He looks rumpled, in too-generic-to-describe shorts and a T-shirt, and has five o’clock shadow.

  “Tracey! What are you doing here? Are you having another panic attack?”

  I shake my head. Strangely, I’m not having another panic attack. I didn’t even have one on the bus on the way home. I push the thought from my head before a delayed panic attack can strike.

  “Are you okay?” Buckley asks. “My God, look at you. You look like you fell into the East River.”

  I reach his doorway, open my mouth to tell him what happened and deposit myself, crying, into his arms instead.

  Five minutes later, I’m on his couch, having spilled the whole sordid story. I’m tucked under a blanket, holding a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks in one hand and a freshly lit cigarette in the other.

  “I knew that if I came here, you’d help me.” I sniffle. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “I’m glad you came,” Buckley says, sitting next to me with the bottle of beer he was apparently drinking before I materialized. “I figured something like this might happen.”

  “You did?”

  He nods.

  “Why?” I shakily inhale some calming tobacco smoke. “You never even met Will,” I say, careful not to exhale in Buckley’s face.

  “I’ve heard enough about him from you…besides, just blame it on show biz. These things never last. Look at Bruce and Demi, Alec and Kim, Tom and Nicole…”

  “Yeah, but Will’s not a movie star!” I protest. “It’s just fucking summer stock. This didn’t have to happen! Oh, and by the way, Jimmy Stewart is dead.”

  Buckley doesn’t blink an eye at that. Nor does he ask me what I’m talking about. The nice thing about Buckley is, he always seems to know.

  I’m off on another gale of tears.

  Buckley pats my back and makes There, There sounds.

  I am profoundly comforted.

  Until the phone rings.

  Until he answers it and I realize that he’s talking to Sonja. He drags the phone to a distant corner and tries to lower his voice, but I overhear enough to know that he’s in the process of breaking a date with her. I’m selfish—and maybe jealous—enough not to stop him.

  When he hangs up, I ask innocently, “Who was that?”

  “It was Sonja.”

  “Is she out at the beach?” I ask hopefully, thinking I might have been wrong.

  “Nah, she ended up coming home early because of the weather. It’s supposed to rain all day tomorrow, too.”

  “So you made plans with her for tonight?”

  “We had plans, but I canceled. It’s no big deal. We were just going to see a movie.”

  “Which movie?”

  “Death Dot Com.”

  “Oh.” I refuse to let myself feel bad about this. According to the reviews, I’m doing him a favor. Still, I offer, not very convincingly, “You can go with her. I’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll go tomorrow instead,” he says with a shrug. “It’s too crummy out tonight to go trudging around in the rain anyway. Besides, I wouldn’t leave you in your time of need.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  “Nah. I’m a nice guy.”

  “You are a nice guy,” I tell him. “I thought Will was a nice guy, but…”

  Then again, did I ever really think Will was a nice guy? He’s always been self-absorbed and distant and noncommittal.

  “I know we probably have to break up,” I tell Buckley, plucking another tissue from the box he so thoughtfully placed next to me on the futon. “I mean, this has been coming for a while now. Why does it have to be torture? Why do I feel like I’m in shock?”

  “Because even when it’s inevitable, it hurts. But it’s good-for-you pain. Kind of like exercising. You have to feel the burn as your muscles grow stronger.”

  I give him a dubious look.

  He shrugs. “The point is, you might be in agony now, and for a while, but in the long run, this is going to be the best thing that ever happened to you, Tracey.”

  I say nothing.

  I am thinking that he’s wrong.

  “Someday, you’re going to be grateful that Will dumped you. You’re going to want to thank him.”

  “For dumping me.”

  “For dumping you.”

  “No offense, Buckley, but if that’s the best you can do, it sucks. Just in case you thought you were making me feel better, or anything.”

  “Tracey, I’m serious.” He puts his face right next to mine and looks me right in the eye. “You’re going to get over this. It’s going to be okay. This is for the best.”

  “This is for the best?” I grab a pillow and shove it into his face. “I came over here because I thought you were my one friend who would just shut up and let me cry.”

  “Then I’ll shut up and let you cry,” he says, putting the pillow behind his head, leaning back and reaching for the remote control. “You don’t mind if we watch TV while you cry, though, do you? Because I’ve been sitting at the computer screen all day writing copy, and now I’m in the mood for some mindless trash.”

  Curled up next to him on the couch, I continue to cry while he watches BattleBots.

  But eventually, the tears stop.

  Eventually, I start to laugh at Buckley’s jokes.

  And, as the Jack Daniel’s builds a nice little fire in my belly, I find myself wondering what it would be like if Buckley were my boyfriend.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asks, looking over at me during a beer commercial.

  I nod and check my watch. “A little. I should probably go.”

  “You don’t have to go, Tracey. You can spend the night if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “You can stay,” he says again.

  “If I do, you might as well give me a slot in your toothbrush holder,” I tell him.

  “Well, I have four free, so that won’t be a problem.”

  “What about Sonja?” I find myself asking.

  He raises an eyebrow. “What about Sonja?”

  Mental note: Shut up.

&n
bsp; But the Jack Daniel’s makes me ask him, “Is she your new girlfriend now, Buckley?”

  He shrugs. “Not now. Not yet, anyway.”

  Terrific.

  Here’s Buckley, willing to acknowledge girlfriendly possibilities after a couple of dates with someone, as opposed to Will, who refuses to apply the label after three years with me.

  “That’s great, Buckley,” I murmur.

  “That she isn’t my girlfriend?” he asks, looking surprised.

  “Hmm? Oh, that’s not what I meant. I was just thinking how nice it is for you that you’ve found someone again after going through a lousy breakup.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you, Tracey,” Buckley says. “This is a good thing, your breaking up with Will.”

  “But we didn’t exactly break up,” I point out. “He just told me to leave, so I left.”

  “So you consider yourself still in the relationship?” he asks.

  “Until the breakup is official.” Which it probably will be the second I get home and check my answering machine.

  Which is why I should probably stay with Buckley tonight, like he said.

  It’s better than being alone.

  Anything’s better than being alone.

  At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.

  But I’m starting to wonder.

  Twenty

  Weeks go by.

  Here is what happens:

  July becomes August.

  The weather grows hotter and more humid with every passing day.

  The city grows more crowded and putrid and unbearable with every passing day.

  Kate gets a new roommate. He is Billy. They are wildly in love.

  Raphael gets a new roommate. He is Wade. They, too, are wildly in love.

  Buckley is regularly dating Sonja. If they’re wildly in love, I don’t want to know about it, and he hasn’t admitted it.

  A glowing Brenda returns from her honeymoon.

  A glowing Latisha meets a hunky single-dad mailman who adores the Yankees as much as she does, and she tells Anton to take a hike at last.

  A glowing Yvonne is considering a green-card marriage to Thor.

  The misguided Mary Beth and malevolent skank Vinnie are in couples therapy, talking about reconciliation.

  As for me…

  I lose another ten pounds.

  I am not in the mood to shop, yet I buy a pair of size ten jeans. Just one pair. Just because I can.