At the time, I’ll admit, I was a little taken aback. Maybe even a little upset. Not jealous, definitely. Just…I don’t know. Maybe wistful.
But that was ages ago, and I’m sure that it will be no big deal to tell him Jack and I are getting married in October. (Did I mention that I found out—still, without giving my name—that Shorewood is definitely available that third Saturday in October? No? Well, I haven’t mentioned it to Jack yet, either, but I plan to, so we can book it ASAP.)
The second I spot Buckley’s familiar long-legged stride heading toward the restaurant door, my stomach does an uneasy little somersault for no reason whatsoever.
After all, it’s just Buckley. Familiar, solid Buckley. He’s got on his worn brown leather jacket with a scarf tied around his neck and manages to look effortlessly fashionable, as usual.
Oh, and it really is effortless. That’s one of the things I liked about him when I met him. He’s just a regular, casual, good-looking guy. He—like Jack—doesn’t have a metro-sexual bone in his body. Unlike Will.
I met Buckley right around the time that Will was leaving me for summer stock, never to return…to me, anyway. Will came back to New York with Esme, his new girlfriend, in tow, after I spent the summer reinventing myself so that he would find me more desirable. Yes, I know that sounds pathetic.
And it was.
But who, at one point or another, hasn’t had her pathetic moments where some guy is concerned?
In the end, my reinvention was also a reawakening. Or maybe just a long-overdue awakening. For the first time, I was able to see who I am and to see Will for who he really is. More importantly, for who he isn’t.
But it took awhile for that to happen. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in him when I met Buckley, who knows what might have happened between us? By the time I came to my senses, Buckley was involved with Sonja. When they broke up, I was involved with Jack.
So pretty much, Buckley and I have never been simultaneously romantically available.
But I’ve got this terminal case of wondering what if.
What if I’d met Buckley after I fell out of infatuation with Will?
What if I’d been on time meeting him the night he met Sonja, who started chatting with him in some bar while he was waiting for me?
What if, when I found myself in Buckley’s arms the December after Will dumped me—and right after I met Jack—I hadn’t decided that I was kissing Buckley by default, and we were meant to be platonic?
Who knows what might have happened?
We probably would have hooked up, the relationship would have run its course because it wasn’t meant to be, and we would have gone our separate ways.
Or maybe we would have hooked up and stayed together. Who knows?
I don’t like to think about it, and I usually don’t let myself.
So why now?
Mental note: JACK. Remember Jack? Do not forget about Jack. Your fiancé.
I take a fortifying look at my engagement ring, then find myself swept into Buckley’s familiar, platonic embrace. His face is cold against mine.
“Hey!” he says, smelling like cold air and Big Red. “Sorry I’m late. You could have sat down.”
“I didn’t want to sit alone. You know I hate that.”
“I know you do.”
Jack knows, too, that I’m self-conscious about being alone in a restaurant even if someone is meeting me. It’s one of my little quirks.
Jack knows pretty much everything there is to know about me, just as Buckley does. And I know pretty much everything there is to know about Buckley, too.
Except, of course, for the intimate stuff.
Of course.
Anyway…
We sit down and tell the waiter we’re going to order right away. I have to because I’ve got to get back to work. Adrian has been treating me differently ever since he caught me showing off my new engagement ring to Brenda and Carol the other day. I can’t help but sense an undercurrent of disdain whenever I have contact with him.
And I’ve had a lot of it because we’re working on the new presentation.
“Hungry?” Buckley asks as we open our menus.
“Starved.”
“Me, too. Want to share an app?”
We do that a lot, me and Buckley—especially when we go out for Japanese. We’ll order a maki appetizer to split, and eat it with chopsticks off a platter between us.
We’ve done that dozens of times.
But suddenly, there’s something unnervingly intimate about the idea of it.
“No, thanks,” I say quickly. “I’m not that hungry.”
“You just said you were starved.”
“Did I? I meant for soup. What I really want is soup. And sashimi. No appetizer.”
I shift my weight and find myself involuntarily playing footsie with Buckley under the table.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay. I don’t need an appetizer, either, I guess.”
I open my mouth to tell him I meant that I was sorry about my foot rubbing against his shin, but that seems awkward, so I close my mouth again and pretend to study the menu, but of course I’ve already told him what I’m ordering: soup and sashimi.
Sneaking a peak around the room, I’ve noticed that they’ve reconfigured the dining room since we were last here, to get more tables in. So that’s it. We’re at a newly installed table for two by the window. It’s close quarters, which is why my stocking-clad legs keep bumping up against Buckley’s jean-clad knees no matter how I position myself.
“Oops, sorry,” I say again as I try to change position only to find myself all but intertwined with him under the table.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, focused on the menu, which is good.
That way, he can’t see the alpine zit on my nose.
Or how rattled I am, for no good reason.
Normally, this physical contact with Buckley wouldn’t faze me…much less make me acutely aware of how good-looking he is.
“Hey,” I say a little loudly, because Buckley flinches a little and looks up. “How was your weekend at the bed-and-breakfast in the Hamptons?”
“Oh…we didn’t stay the whole weekend.”
“Why not?”
“Sonja didn’t really like it so we left Sunday morning.”
A bed-and-breakfast in the Hamptons…what’s not to like?
If you ask me, she’s unnecessarily picky.
But Buckley didn’t ask me, and the waiter is back with tea, so I keep my opinion of Sonja to myself.
“How’s work going now that you’re the big cheese?” Buckley asks me after the waiter leaves us alone to sip from steaming, handleless teacups.
“Work? Oh, God, it’s crazy, actually. But—”
“Don’t tell me the promotion is turning out to be one of those be careful what you wish for things?” he cuts in.
No, I find myself thinking, but this might be.
And, dammit, yes, I’m looking right at my engagement ring when I think it.
Why would I think such a thing, even in passing?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’m in love with Jack.
I’m not in love with Buckley, by any means.
Because I’m in love with Jack. I’m marrying Jack.
You can’t be in love with two guys at the same time.
And when you’re in love with someone, you shouldn’t be attracted to someone else. So I’m not.
“No, I’m definitely not regretting anything,” I tell Buckley firmly—and I’m not just talking about the promotion at work.
“Good. Because you deserve it, Tracey. And I’m really happy for you. You’ve got a great future ahead of you.”
I know he’s not talking about being Jack’s wife, but I pretend that he is. It makes it that much easier to stick my left hand across the table and say, “Guess what?”
He looks down, removing his chopsticks from their red paper sleeve.
I wait for him t
o look up…
But he doesn’t.
Not right away, anyway.
And when he does, his crinkly Irish green eyes aren’t wearing the ultra-ecstatic expression you’d expect.
Well, the one I would expect, anyway, especially since I dutifully wore it for him when he announced he was engaged.
“You’re engaged?” he asks, wide-eyed and, dare I say…
No, I don’t dare say it.
But I do dare think it.
Dismayed.
That’s what he seems to be.
“Yes!” I say with gusto. “I’m engaged! Yes! See? Yes!”
All right already with the gusto.
“Jack proposed?”
I nod vigorously and repeat my new favorite word, “Yes!”
I add, “On Valentine’s Day, after the wedding!”
Then I add, “So you didn’t know he was going to?”
I add this part because I want to remind myself—and him—that he and Jack are friends.
Maybe Buckley and I were friends first, but he and Jack are definitely friends now. Not that the two of them pal around together without me so much, come to think of it, the way they both do with their other friends.
I’m the common denominator in their relationship with each other. Which is fine. It’s not as if I hang out doing girl things with Buckley’s wife-to-be, either. He’s my primary friend; she a friend by default. I’m sure that’s how she thinks of me, too.
“No,” Buckley says, having broken apart his chopsticks.
Huh? The conversational thread seems to have snapped as well—at least, for me.
“No…what?” I ask him blankly.
“No…I didn’t know Jack was going to propose. In fact…”
He begins rubbing his chopsticks against each other to remove the splinters.
“In fact what?”
“No, it’s just…” He’s rubbing those chopsticks so hard I’m expecting them to ignite any second now. “I was thinking he wasn’t going to.”
“Propose? Did he say that?” I ask, wondering if Buckley knows something I don’t know about Jack after all.
“No! He never said that. I just thought that if he hadn’t done it by now, he wasn’t going to.”
“Why did you think that? You took your sweet time proposing to Sonja.” I mean it as a quip, but it comes out more as an accusation.
Buckley reacts with a defensive, “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because I wasn’t sure.”
“About wanting to get married?”
“About anything,” he says cryptically, and the waiter arrives with two steaming miso soups.
When he leaves a second later, I wait for Buckley to elaborate on what else, exactly, he wasn’t sure about.
He merely eats a spoonful of soup.
“Buckley.”
“Yeah?” He looks up, spoon halfway to his mouth again.
“You were saying…?”
He blinks. “What?”
“What were you saying? About not being sure you wanted to get married?” I add helpfully. And about anything else?
“Oh. Right. I mean, you know better than anyone—well, except Sonja—that I wasn’t sure about it.”
It, I want to ask, or her?
Because that’s what we’re talking about here, folks. And it’s the first time in ages that Buckley has said anything the least bit ambivalent about his relationship.
“I think it’s just a guy thing,” he concludes. “You know…cold feet.”
I want to ask him if that’s really all it is, but I’m afraid Buckley would think I’m not rooting for him and Sonja to live happily ever after. And believe me, no one wants that for them more than I do.
Okay, well maybe Sonja wants it more than I do. And I’m sure her family, who adore Buckley, want it more than I do. I’m way down on the list of people rooting for their happily-ever-after, I’m sure.
What about Buckley, though?
Does he want happily-ever-after with Sonja?
I honestly thought he did.
I think he honestly thought he did, too.
But maybe he doesn’t anymore. Maybe he needs to talk about this with a good friend.
A good platonic friend who has no personal agenda where he’s concerned.
That would be me, I tell myself…except that it wouldn’t be me. Because after hearing that Buckley may not be gung ho about marrying Sonja after all, I can’t help but be…well…not all that disappointed.
Wait a minute.
Did I really hear that Buckley may not be gung ho about marrying Sonja?
I mean, I know that’s what I heard…but did he really say it?
No. He didn’t. What he said was that he wasn’t sure “about anything,” including getting married.
What else is there?
There’s being in love with the person you’re marrying.
Forgive me if I’m jumping to conclusions here, but…
Well, hasn’t it seemed all along as though Buckley wasn’t a hundred percent on board the Sonja train? It’s like he jumped on when he realized it was about to leave the station without him, and he’s enjoying the ride, more or less…but now he might not want to take it all the way to its final destination. And he wishes he could jump off.
Okay, I really am very clever with my analogies lately.
Too bad I can’t channel all this creativity into a Creative job at the agency.
Too bad I can’t even tell Buckley what I’m thinking….
But I can’t, because that would open the door to trouble. Exactly what kind of trouble, I don’t know. I just sense that I should keep my verbal speculation on the apparent state of his relationship to a minimum.
What I can do, however, is ask him how things are going with Sonja and the wedding plans.
So I do.
“Not great,” he replies.
“Uh-oh.” I swear to God I’m psychic. “What’s wrong?”
“Remember how we were going to get married a year from this summer so that Sonja would have time to plan the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now she wants to expedite things.”
“How much?”
“A year. She wants us to get married in July.”
“This July? But that’s only a few months away.”
“I know.” He shakes his head, looking at me.
I shake my head, looking back at him.
Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but remember that old movie Dead Man Walking? The one where Sean Penn is on death row and Susan Sarandon is the nun who tries to save him?
The vibe between us is exactly like that right now.
Then again…
Buckley didn’t kill anyone, and he isn’t sentenced to death. And I’m not a nun. Far from it.
So maybe this vibe isn’t exactly like that.
“Well,” I say, “I guess since you’re getting married anyway, it doesn’t matter when.”
Yes, that came from the girl who had her heart set on an October wedding before she ever had a fiancé.
“Yeah, but this July is just so soon…”
“You’re right,” I tell him. “If Sonja has her heart set on her dream wedding, it will probably take much longer than that to plan it anyway. Trust me, she’ll figure that out when she starts trying to pull something together.”
I sure as hell did.
“That’s the thing. She says she doesn’t care about the wedding anymore. She just wants us to be married. The sooner the better, she says.”
Aha!
Does my pimply nose smell a desperate bride?
“Did you tell her you’d rather wait until next summer, like you planned?” I ask him, reaching out and putting a hand on his lower arm, all Sister Prejean again.
Or maybe it’s more My Best Friend’s Wedding than Dead Man Walking.
“Yeah, I told her. Well, I tried. But she wanted to know why we should wait. Then she accused me of
not wanting to marry her.”
“At all?”
He nods.
See? What’d I tell you? Desperate bride.
But I refuse to play Julia Roberts to Sonja’s Cameron Diaz. Truly, I don’t want to disrupt Buckley’s wedding plans so that I can steal him away for myself. I’m just his friend, looking out for his best interests. I have a fiancé and a wedding-in-progress of my own.
Buckley sighs and shakes his head, pushing his soup bowl away. I think he’s so upset that he’s lost his appetite until I look down and see that the bowl is empty.
I dip my spoon into my own bowl and fish around half-heartedly for a floating ribbon of seaweed.
Maybe I’m the one who’s lost my appetite.
This just isn’t going the way I imagined it would.
I push away my own soup, which I was supposedly craving so desperately, and do my best not to ask the million-dollar question that I’m sure is on both of our minds.
Unfortunately, my best isn’t good enough, and I hear myself ask, “So is Sonja right about you not wanting to marry her at all?”
I wait for Buckley to tell me of course she’s not right.
But some small part of me hopes he’ll tell me that she is right, and he doesn’t want to marry her after all.
Why am I hoping that? Good question. I have no business hoping that.
“Forget I said anything.” Buckley heaves a two-ton sigh as the too-damn-efficient waiter pops up to whisk our soup bowls away.
He simultaneously replaces them with two sashimi deluxe lunches.
And I try to forget Buckley said anything. Really I do.
I pour soy sauce into the little square saucer beside my plate and I try to forget, because an otherwise engaged woman has no business having a vested interest in the romantic status of an otherwise engaged man.
I jab the tips of my chopsticks into the blob of green wasabi paste and transfer a hunk into the saucer, ferociously mixing it with the soy.
I mean, we’re friends, Buckley and me. Aside from anything that ever happened between us—or didn’t—in the past, friends is all we are and it’s all we’re ever meant to be.
If we were meant to be anything more, we wouldn’t both be in love with other people.
Slightly Married Page 6
