Slightly Single

by Wendy Markham

  I want him to see me in this little dress.

  I want him to take off this little dress and see me in the teddy.

  I want him to take off the teddy and see me. All of me. Me minus the lumpy thighs and hips and belly, minus the cellulite and drooping breasts and flabby gut.

  And hell, I’ll admit it.

  After three months of celibacy, I just plain want him.

  At his building, I take a deep, cleansing breath.

  Then I breeze into the lobby.

  “Yes? May I help you?” James, the doorman, doesn’t recognize me.

  This is flattering until I tell him my name and realize that he still doesn’t recognize me. I remember that he never bothered to learn my name before. I guess I was invisible to him.

  James calls up to Will’s apartment, announces my name and gets the go-ahead from Will to send me up.

  I step into the familiar mirrored elevator and press the button for Will’s floor. I check out my reflection, not caring that there are probably security cameras recording my every primp. I look damned good.

  Will is not waiting for me in the doorway of his apartment, peering down the hall, as Buckley always does.

  I knock on Will’s door, my heart pounding. I feel sick. I’m a nervous wreck. So much for the wine. All it did was leave me with a fierce need to pee.

  Even though Will knows, via James, that I’m on my way up, it takes him a good minute to answer the door.

  I’m not surprised.

  Nor do I allow myself to take this as a sign.

  When the door opens, Will looks gorgeous. Tanned, fit, healthy, with streaks of sun in his brown hair. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a creamy yellow polo shirt, tucked in.

  But I look gorgeous, too, I remind myself.

  He looks me over. He notices. Well, how could he not?

  “You’ve lost weight,” he comments.

  “Yeah.” About forty pounds.

  “You look good.”

  Good.

  Not beautiful.

  Not even great.

  I’m pissed at him all over again.

  “Come on in.” He holds the door open.

  We don’t hug.

  I brush past him.

  This hurts.

  I was expecting it to be painful, but maybe I underestimated how painful.

  It’s pure agony to find myself here, in his familiar apartment, and know that it might be the last time I’ll ever be here. The last time I’ll ever see him.

  “I made us a couple of drinks,” Will says.

  “You did?”

  Maybe I’m wrong.

  Maybe he’s planning a romantic evening.

  He nods. “Gin and tonic. You like gin and tonic, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  He goes to the kitchen area, takes two glasses from the counter and hands me one. I immediately take a sip.

  Then I set it on the coffee table. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  “You know where it is.”

  Yes. I know where it is. I know where everything is, here. And it’s all just as he left it. Nerissa didn’t take over. She didn’t change things. She didn’t make it difficult for him to come back, so that he’d find himself wanting to move out.

  To move in with me.

  Not that that’s even a remote possibility now, after everything.

  But still…

  I go to the bathroom.

  I wash my hands.

  I study my face in the mirror.

  I remind myself to be strong.

  I remind myself that I’m here to dump Will.

  I remind myself that I promised everyone that I would dump him.

  Then I remind myself that if I happen to sleep with him before I dump him, that’s my business. Nobody even has to know.

  The truth is, I’m wildly attracted to Will despite everything.

  And I can’t help wondering if I was wrong about him. Maybe he didn’t cheat on me. Maybe it was me, being an insecure girlfriend. Maybe I read things into our relationship—and into Will’s relationships with other women—that weren’t there. Maybe I falsely accused him.

  The more I think about this, the more sense it makes.

  It also makes sense that if he asks me for another chance, I should give it to him.

  I exit the bathroom.

  Retrieve my drink.

  “Sit,” says Will, on the couch. He pats the cushion beside him. Not too closely, I notice.

  I sit.

  Not too closely.

  We sip our drinks.

  “I’m sorry.”

  One would probably assume, given the circumstances, that Will said that.

  One would be sadly mistaken.

  I never cease to amaze myself.

  Because I’m the one who said it.

  I said, to Will, “I’m sorry.”

  Will looks at me.

  One might expect him to be taken aback at my apology.

  One might even expect him to respond with one of his own.

  Two more sad mistakes.

  Will says nothing. He just waits for me to go on.

  Naturally, I do. Because I can’t stand the silence. Because I want him to know that I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.

  “I never meant to stir up this whole thing when I came up to visit you, Will,” I tell him, in between sips of my drink.

  “You had lousy timing, Trace,” he agrees.

  “I shouldn’t have brought anything up after that horrible review…oh, how did the show go?” I remember to ask.

  “It was okay.” The expression on his face tells me that he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “It was just that you were so out of touch all summer, and I started getting these crazy ideas. I started thinking that you weren’t being faithful to me.”

  Will says nothing.

  He listens.

  So, of course, I continue to talk.

  And drink.

  I drink because I’m nervous, and because I’m thirsty, and because I can’t smoke, damn Nerissa.

  “I started convincing myself of all kinds of things,” I tell Will. “I was sure you had had an affair with Zoe from Eat Drink Or Be Married.”

  Will says nothing.

  I find this ominous. “Then, when I heard you talking about Esme—and when I read the review, about how convincing your romance was onstage—”

  “I’m an actor,” Will says grimly. “She’s an actress. You should know better than to ever be jealous of what happens between me and another woman onstage, Tracey.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. It was just…”

  But I’m watching him.

  And there’s something in his eyes.

  Something that makes me ask, just to be sure, “So you and Esme never…?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  That’s when I know.

  It wasn’t my imagination.

  None of it, ever, was my imagination.

  “You slept with Esme?” I ask, my voice trembling.

  He nods.

  This can’t be happening.

  I knew it all along, and yet I didn’t know. Not really.

  “But not until after you came up to see me,” Wills says quickly, defensively. “Before that, I was trying to stay away from her, until I could tell you—”

  “Until you could tell me?” I cut in, feeling delirious, amazed that I’m coherent. “You mean, you invited me to come up there so that you could tell me you wanted to see other people?”

  “I couldn’t do that over the phone.” He is sad and noble.

  I’m speechless with shock and grief.

  “But after you left—I was pissed, Tracey. I was hurt. I couldn’t believe you would treat me that way. I figured we both knew at that point that it was over.”

  “You never called me,” I say, crying now.

  “I know. And I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to do it over the phone.”

  “So you’re doing it
now. In person.”

  He shrugs.

  I can’t let this happen.

  I can’t let him dump me.

  I’m frantic. This has slipped beyond my control, somehow.

  I have to be the one to do the dumping. But not until after we sleep together. Because this is my chance to let him see the new me. Maybe that’ll change his mind.

  And if it doesn’t…

  Well, it might be my last chance to have sex. With anyone. Ever.

  “Will, don’t do this,” I hear myself say.

  “I have to, Tracey. Esme and I—well, we have more in common.”

  “Esme? You’re still together?”

  He nods.

  “She’s in New York?”

  He nods again. “She’s working for a caterer in between acting jobs—he’s much bigger than Milos. Handles more celebrity affairs. It’ll be great for networking. Esme’s getting me a job there.”

  Incredible. He’s not just dumping me. He’s dumping Milos, too.

  How can he be this way? What’s wrong with him?

  What’s wrong with me?

  What’s wrong with Milos?

  Why aren’t we enough for Will?

  He reaches out to touch my arm, but I jerk it away. “Is Esme the only one you’ve…?”

  He hesitates.

  Oh, God. The pain is excrutiating.

  “Zoe, too?” I ask him.

  “Just once,” he admits. “But it didn’t mean anything.”

  Not like Esme.

  “Just once with Zoe,” I say, sobbing openly now. “Did you go to see Flight of Fancy with her?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Did you?” I shriek.

  He shrugs.

  “Fuck you, Will,” I hurl. Then I ask, “Who else? Who else were you with?”

  “Don’t do this, Tracey.”

  “Who else?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Tracey. You and I were wrong for each other. You always wanted more than I could give. You never saw me for who I really am. You wanted somebody who would love you and marry you and settle down with you. I couldn’t give you that.”

  “I never asked you for any of that!”

  “But you did. Every time you looked at me, I could see what you were thinking. I couldn’t take the pressure, Tracey. It wasn’t fair to me. And it wasn’t fair to you, either.”

  “I hate you!” Hysteria makes my voice harsh, hurting my throat as I force the words past the aching lump. “I hate you! You used me!”

  “I never used you.”

  “Yes, you did. I fed your ego, all this time. You kept me around because I was as crazy about you as you are about yourself.”

  Oh, God.

  I am Mary Beth.

  How could I not have seen it until now?

  I am Mary Beth, minus the house and separation agreement and the children.

  At least she has those things.

  I have nothing.

  Will is leaving me with nothing.

  “Tracey, don’t,” he says wearily. “This is useless. I’m going to put you into a cab, and—”

  “No, you aren’t,” I say, plunking my empty glass on the table.

  I’m going to walk out of here with my head held high.

  I’m going to walk out of here alone.

  And dammit, I’m going to be fine alone.

  Because I don’t need him.

  I stand up.

  I take a step.

  Just one step.

  And then the world swirls and goes black.

  Twenty-Three

  It’s cold.

  Why is it so cold?

  I fumble blindly for a blanket and find one somewhere by my feet.

  Huddled beneath it, I slowly open my eyes.

  It’s morning.

  Sunlight is streaming through the window of my apartment, along with a chilly breeze that would ruffle curtains if I had them. But I don’t have curtains.

  Because this apartment is only temporary.

  I glance at the clock.

  It’s almost noon.

  What day is it? Thursday?

  What about work?

  Yesterday comes back to me in a rush.

  I quit my job.

  I wait for regret.

  There is none.

  Only the knowledge that I’m free.

  Free…

  Will.

  Last night rushes back at me like a serial killer lunging from a closet, yet again, in a bad thriller.

  I remember awakening, dazed, on the floor, with Will hovering over me, a worried look on his face.

  “You passed out,” he informed me.

  I passed out.

  Was it the liquor landing in an empty stomach?

  Or was it the sheer horror of what was happening?

  I still don’t know.

  “Are you okay?” Will asked, worried.

  I told him that I was.

  But I wasn’t.

  Not then.

  Not when he held my arm all the way down to the lobby, ushering me past a curious James, who hailed us a cab.

  Will rode downtown with me.

  He insisted.

  And so we said our final goodbye with the meter running.

  “Stay in touch,” Will said.

  I didn’t answer him.

  So.

  Am I okay?

  I glance around my apartment.

  There are no curtains.

  There should be curtains.

  Gulliver’s Travels is poking out of the top of my bag, which lies just inside the door where I dropped it.

  My new clothes are in a heap on the floor beside the futon.

  The phone is off its cradle—I took it off the hook last night, not wanting to deal with Buckley.

  I’ll call him later, I decide, getting out of bed.

  I shiver.

  It dawns on me that the heat wave has broken.

  I look down at the street. There are pedestrians. There is traffic. Life is going on as usual, beneath my window.

  Life will go on as usual, from now on.

  No matter what.

  Without Will.

  I’ll be alone.

  My heart begins to pound.

  A panic attack is coming on.

  Oh, Lord.

  But this time, I know what to do.

  I wait.

  I wait for it to pass.

  I pace the apartment and I smoke cigarettes and I remind myself that I’m not going to die. And when the panic attack is over, I hunt through my bag for my Palm Pilot. There, I find the telephone number of Buckley’s therapist.

  Before I can change my mind, I dial the number.

  “Hello, I was recommended by a former patient, Buckley O’ Hanlon,” I tell the receptionist. “I’d like to make an appointment to see the doctor.”

  I wait for her to ask me what’s wrong.

  I wonder what I will tell her.

  But she doesn’t ask me what’s wrong.

  She tells me there’s been a cancellation for tomorrow morning, and asks if I want that appointment.

  I tell her that I do.

  I hang up.

  I feel better.

  Better enough to take a shower.

  The phone rings as I’m stepping out.

  I screen the call, afraid it’s Will.

  But it isn’t.

  “Tracey? Are you alive? I waited for you all night last night. I kept getting a busy signal when I tried to call your number. Call me. I’m worried about you.”

  I will call Buckley.

  Later.

  The phone rings again as I’m shivering into my new size ten jeans and a black sweater that used to be snug last winter. Now it’s too big. Much too big. I need new clothes.

  I screen the call again, afraid it’s Will.

  But it isn’t.

  “Tracey? It’s me, Brenda. I’m at the office. Did you really quit last night? Please call me. I’m worried about you.
”

  I will call Brenda.

  And I’ll call Milos.

  Later.

  I’ll give Brenda the juicy scoop on my quitting.

  I’ll tell Milos that I’m available 24/7 for catering gigs, from now on. I might not want to spend the rest of my life serving canapes at other people’s weddings, but hey—it’s a living. And maybe someday I’ll run my own catering business. Or some other business. Who knows? Right now, I just want to make enough money to pay for the rent and the bills.

  Oh, and the new clothes I’m going to need.

  That reminds me: I have someplace to go.

  I pick up my bag and I head out the door, leaving the phone that will undoubtedly ring again, and again, with callers who aren’t Will.

  Out on the street, the sun is glaring.

  Am I okay?

  I put on my sunglasses. A brisk breeze rustles the leafy branches of the block’s lone tree overhead. I glance up, half-expecting to see that the leaves have turned color overnight. There is no dazzling canopy of red and orange and gold.

  But there will be.

  Am I okay?

  I head down the block.

  I find myself standing in front of a small clothing boutique. In the window, mannequins wear expensive, figure-hugging, bright-colored sweaters. The newest look for fall, Raphael said.

  I walk inside.

  Five minutes later, I come out.

  I’m wearing an expensive, figure-hugging, bright-colored sweater.

  It’s red. I’m wearing red.

  There are two more sweaters in the shopping bag I’m holding. One is yellow. The other is orange.

  I want to go home and call Raphael. I want to tell him about the sweaters.

  And about Will.

  I want to call Buckley, too.

  But I have another stop to make, before I can go home.

  I make my way to the big furniture store I saw in June. The Grand Opening streamers are long gone, but the big oak sleigh bed is still in the window, its summer floral-print sheets replaced by flannel ones.

  I think about the fact that I don’t have a job.

  I think about the fact that I don’t have Will.

  I think about the fact that I don’t have a bed.

  All I have is a futon.

  And a savings account.

  Am I okay?

  I walk into the store.

  When I come out fifteen minutes later, I still don’t have a job.

  I still don’t have Will.

  I no longer have a savings account.

  But I have a bed.

  A big oak sleigh bed.

  They’re delivering it on Saturday.

  I’m okay.

  Really.