So Not Single

by Wendy Markham

  It was late when I got back to my apartment last night, so I didn’t eat then, either. I was too exhausted. All I wanted to do was sleep.

  This morning, I had half a Kaiser roll and some nonfat cream cheese before I headed for the subway. I’m hungry again now, but not starving. I figure I’ll stop and get something before I go back up to my office.

  Maybe it’s my imagination, but the black linen skirt I’m wearing seems pretty loose around the waistband. I may have lost another pound over the weekend. Maybe two pounds.

  It’s another steamy summer day, and the midtown sidewalks are jammed. I light a cigarette and smoke as I walk, thinking about the weekend I just had and the catering job ahead of me, and Will, as usual. He’s never far from my thoughts.

  Heading home on the subway last night after getting back into town, I convinced myself there might be an answering-machine message from him—even though he’d said he wouldn’t call. Naturally, I was disappointed. I shouldn’t have set myself up. The only message was from Milos.

  But I’m sure Will will call tonight, I remind myself as I walk into the deli adjacent to the lobby of my building. The place is jammed, as usual. I make my way through the crowd, past the deli counter and the big hot and cold buffet tables. Maybe I’ll get a salad, I think, glancing at the cold food.

  Or some steamed vegetables.

  The crowd is two deep around both buffets, so I go to the back to get a beverage first, my thoughts drifting back to Will.

  He said he would call, after the weekend. Which means tonight.

  I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t—not that—

  “Oh, sorry!” I blurt as I crash into someone just as he opens the door to the refrigerated beverage compartment.

  “Tracey!”

  The guy turns around, and I recognize his face and I know that I know him, but for a split second, I think he’s someone from work.

  That’s because I’d never in a million years expect to find him in here.

  “Buckley?”

  Yup, it’s him. Buckley O’Hanlon.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, stunned.

  “Getting lunch, actually,” he says, grabbing a Pepsi from the compartment and closing the door again. “I’m doing a freelance job for a firm in the building.”

  “What kind of firm?” I ask, wondering, with a sinking heart, if it’s Blaire Barnett.

  “Seyville Inc.,” he says. “It’s a cleaning service with offices on the second floor.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you work around here, too?”

  “Upstairs. The thirty-third floor.” A whole separate elevator bank, thank God. Not that it isn’t the most bizarre coincidence in the world that he ends up working in my building.

  He states the obvious. “What a coincidence, huh?”

  “Yeah, really.” I pretend to be fascinated by the row of diet sodas inside the compartment. Never mind that the glass is almost completely fogged-over.

  “You know, Tracey, I tried calling you after—”

  “Oh, you did?” I quickly cut in, not wanting him to elaborate, since we both know what he’s talking about.

  But elaborate he must.

  “Yeah, after that date we had…the one that really wasn’t a date because you thought—”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” I say, irritated with him. Does he have to spell everything out? I mean, it’s not as though we had more than one encounter.

  “Every time I tried to call, I got an answering machine.”

  “Oh, well, I’m not really home that often,” I say, wondering where he got my number. I thought I gave him a fake one. Maybe Joseph or—

  “It was the answering machine of somebody whose outgoing message was in Arabic,” he informs me.

  “Really?” I feign confusion. “That’s odd. You must have had the wrong number.”

  “Yeah, every time,” he says, but in a good-natured way.

  I reach into the compartment and grab a Diet Raspberry Snapple Iced Tea. What I want to do is step right into the chilly interior and close the door after me…and not just because my head is sweat-soaked from the long walk in the midday sun.

  “Unless you accidentally gave me the wrong number?” Buckley asks when I remove my upper self from the fridge.

  “I must have, by accident. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. The reason I was calling was to tell you it was no big deal—your thinking I was—”

  “Oh, good. Thanks. Because I didn’t mean to…you know…”

  “Insult me?” He grins. “It’s okay. There are worse things you could have assumed about me. And I figured you might be embarrassed, so I wanted you to know it was okay.”

  I notice that he has nice, white teeth—the kind of smile that, if it belonged to a cartoon character, would have a big sparkly glint bouncing off the front tooth. He’s wearing a pale blue long-sleeved dress shirt with khaki pants and a yellow tie. The sleeves are rolled up, and I see that his forearms are tanned.

  “Are you on your way to the dry cleaner’s?” Buckley asks, motioning at my plastic-wrapped Nehru jacket.

  “Actually, just coming from a lunch, uh, meeting,” I say. Now I feel compelled to elaborate. “I had to, uh, meet with someone downtown. This catering guy I’m going to do a job for,” I add, for some reason feeling inclined to give this almost-stranger the intimate details of my life.

  Sometimes I do that. Only when I’m nervous.

  And Buckley O’Hanlon makes me nervous.

  If he hadn’t kissed me, everything would be fine. I mean, yes, it would have been a little awkward, my having assumed he was gay and that we were going to the movies platonically when he thought it was a date. But that kiss made everything incredibly uncomfortable.

  And the reason for that is…

  I liked it.

  I thoroughly enjoyed being kissed by Buckley O’Hanlon.

  Worse yet, seeing him again makes me wish he would kiss me again. Here. On the lips. In the narrow, crowded aisle of this dingy Third Avenue deli.

  Somebody jostles him from behind, and he takes a step closer to me to get out of the way.

  Now his face isn’t far from mine, and I have to admit: I desperately want him to put his arms around me and kiss me senseless.

  But he doesn’t.

  He just smiles and says, “They’re making me a sandwich.”

  “What?” I blink, trying to decipher his words, wondering why I feel as though he’s speaking a foreign language when they’re plain English. He’s not making sense. Have I been drinking?

  No. Maybe it’s all that walking in the hot sun….

  “I’ve got to go get it before they give it away,” he adds cryptically.

  “What?” I say again.

  What’s he talking about? Is it just me, or is he speaking in non-sequiturs?

  Either he’s the one who’s been drinking, or I must have missed something while I was fantasizing about kissing him.

  “My sandwich,” he says, and points to the deli counter on the opposite end of the store.

  “Oh!” Duh. Now I get it.

  “I ordered a roast beef and Swiss and I only came over here to grab a soda,” he says, motioning with his can. “So I guess I should…”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” I say, practically shoving him away.

  Because the thing is, as long as his face is only inches from mine, I can’t be expected to avoid thinking about kissing him.

  “See you,” Buckley says with a wave from the deli line as I march up to the register with my bottle of Snapple.

  I wave back, telling myself that it’s not him. It could be any reasonably attractive guy, and I’d react the same way. Nine days of celibacy have left me all hot and bothered. I just didn’t notice until Buckley came along and I remembered that kiss.

  I carry my Snapple back up to my office, remembering only when I get into the elevator that I forgot to get something to eat, too. Well, it’s too late now. I can’t go back down to the del
i knowing I might bump into Buckley in the lobby.

  “How’d it go?” Brenda asks, sticking her head out of her cubicle as I walk by.

  How’d it go? How does she know?

  “Did he like you?”

  I must be giving her a blank look, because she prompts, “Milos.”

  “Oh!”

  “What’d you think I meant?”

  Buckley.

  “I knew what you meant. I just…I think I’m having heatstroke,” I say, holding the cold, slippery Snapple bottle up to my burning forehead.

  “You look flushed,” Brenda agrees. “Did you walk back in this heat?”

  I nod. “I need the exercise. I’ve been trying to walk every day.”

  “You’re crazy. You can’t keep that up in this weather. You’re going to collapse on a sidewalk somewhere.”

  “I’m fine, Brenda,” I say, grinning at her worried expression.

  “If you want to exercise, do an aerobics video,” Brenda suggests.

  “Aerobics? Me? I’m the least coordinated person you’ll ever meet, Brenda.”

  “Anyone can do aerobics,” she says. “I’ll bring you one of my Jane Fonda tapes tomorrow. You’ve got a VCR at home, right?”

  I nod. It was a going-away present from my family last May.

  “I’ll bring you a tape tomorrow. How’s the cabbage soup thing working out?”

  “Great,” I say, not in the mood to tell her that woman cannot live by cabbage soup alone.

  “Really? I went off it the first day,” she tells me. “I’ve gained two pounds since last week.”

  “You don’t look it,” I say truthfully. Brenda is one of those people whose figure is hard to gauge. She wears a lot of baggy clothes and blazers, and it’s hard to know just what’s under them. But she doesn’t look overweight to me, in her loosely fitted, poppy-colored cotton summer dress. Plus, that big pile of hair of hers tends to call attention away from the rest of her.

  “Paulie wanted me to make him a lasagne yesterday,” she tells me. “He ate half of it. I ate almost all the rest.”

  My mouth waters immediately. Lasagne. My God, I haven’t had lasagne since…

  That reminds me. “Brenda, do you think Jake would let me leave work early on the Friday before the long Fourth of July weekend?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “Because I want to take a bus back home. It’s my parents’ anniversary. We’re supposed to have a party for them.”

  “You should go.” She lowers her voice and leans toward me. “Just call in sick that Friday.”

  “I don’t think I should do that. What if Jake found out I wasn’t really sick?”

  “How would he?”

  “What if he calls me at home?”

  She shrugs. “You’re too sick to answer the phone.”

  “I think I’d better just ask him if I can leave early. I think there’s a three o’clock bus from the Port Authority.”

  “Can you take a later one?”

  I shake my head. “It’s a nine-hour trip, Brenda.”

  “I thought you were from upstate!”

  “I am. It’s a big state.”

  “Wow. That big?”

  “Nine hours’ worth,” I say solemnly.

  It never ceases to amaze me how oblivious some people are to the rest of New York State. To them, upstate means Westchester county.

  “Tracey? Is that you?” Jake calls from down the hall.

  “Sounds like you’re being summoned,” Brenda says, rolling her eyes. “Love the way he expects to sit at his desk and yell for you instead of coming to get you like a normal human being.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, heading for Jake’s office.

  But maybe she’s right. I never noticed how demeaning it was until she pointed it out.

  I find Jake lounging in his chair, feet on the desk as usual. “I need you to run an errand for me,” he says. “It’s my mother’s birthday, and I forgot to have Laurie get her something over the weekend. Go down to the chocolatier on the corner of Forty-third and buy her a few pounds of Belgian truffles. Here’s some cash.”

  He reaches into his pocket and hands me a fistful of tens and twenties. I take the money. What else can I do? Refuse to do a personal errand for him?

  Maybe Brenda would.

  I know Latisha and Yvonne would. They’re always telling me not to put up with Jake’s crap. But I can’t figure out how to say no.

  Besides, is it so bad? He’s just asking me for a favor. And I get to get out of the office for a little while, too.

  I can have a cigarette.

  And get more exercise…

  Although I can just imagine how tempted I’ll be in a chocolate shop on an empty stomach.

  “How much should I spend?” I ask him.

  “See if you can keep it under a hundred. Oh, and when you walk by Hallmark on your way back up, pick up a card for her, too, okay?” he adds. “One that says Happy Birthday, Mother, from your Loving Son, or some bullshit like that.”

  “Okay.” I clear my throat as he picks up his phone, poised to dial. “Listen, Jake, I’ve got a list of possible product names for you.”

  He obviously doesn’t know what I’m talking about, because he looks vaguely up from the phone and says, “What?”

  “For the all-week deodorant?” I remind him.

  “Oh! Right. Great.” He starts dialing.

  “Do you, uh, want to discuss them?”

  “Sure. Get me the list.”

  “Now?”

  “No, just put it in my in-box, and I’ll check it out later.”

  “Sure.” There’s nothing for me to do but go back to my desk and put the list in his in-box before grabbing my cigarettes and sunglasses.

  “Where are you going?” Yvonne asks as I pass her in the corridor on the way to the elevators.

  “I have to run an errand for Jake.”

  “Really?” She rolls her eyes. “Where is he sending you this time?”

  I pretend not to hear her as I press the button for the elevator.

  Why do I care if my friends think Jake takes advantage of me? He’s my boss. I’m supposed to do whatever he asks me to do, right?

  Right.

  Even if it’s personal business on company time?

  I guess.

  As I walk across the lobby, I find myself scanning the place for Buckley O’Hanlon. No sign of him.

  That’s a relief, I tell myself. The last thing I need is to run into him again.

  Which is exactly what I tell Kate when I meet her after work for a drink. I’d really rather just go straight home, but she called this afternoon and begged me to have a glass of wine with her at a sidewalk café not far from my apartment. She said she needs advice.

  But we’ve been sitting here almost fifteen minutes, and so far, she just wants to talk about me. Which is how Buckley came up in the first place.

  Because Kate asked me how my day went, and after I told her about the upcoming job for Milos and the chocolate errand for Jake’s mother’s birthday, I couldn’t very well leave out the whole Buckley part.

  Okay, maybe I could have.

  Maybe I wanted to talk about him.

  About how reluctant I was to see him, and how I hope I don’t see him again.

  “Are you sure about that?” Kate asks slyly.

  “Of course I’m sure. Why?”

  “You kissed him—”

  “He kissed me—”

  “And Raphael says he’s a hottie.”

  “Raphael says everyone’s a hottie. Buckley’s no big deal.”

  And really, he isn’t. Not by Kate’s standards. Not by most standards. He just happens to be a very nice, friendly, middle-class, guy-next-door type. Everything about him is middle-class ordinary. Maybe that’s what’s so appealing about him. There aren’t many guys like him in New York.

  But I left a generic town full of middle-class ordinary people. I never wanted to be one of them, or date one of them.

  No
t that I want to date Buckley, I hastily remind myself.

  “Well, if you’re not interested in him romantically, can’t you just be friends with Buckley?” Kate asks. “The guy works in your building. It’s like some kind of sign.”

  Kate is a big believer in signs. She claims that the way she decided to break up with her college boyfriend was when they were walking in the park one day, having an argument, and a bird flew overhead and pooped on his shoulder.

  “I have enough friends,” I assure Kate, and take a sip of my merlot before asking her, “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “My mother called me last night when I got home from the beach. She said Daddy took a hit the last time the stock market fell, and they want me to move into a cheaper place, or find a roommate.”

  “Wow, really?”

  I’m surprised.

  For one thing, I was sure she had asked me to meet her so that she could ask my advice about her new relationship with Billy.

  For another, I’ve never heard Kate speak so candidly about the fact that her parents support her. I mean, it’s no secret, but she doesn’t usually come right out and admit it.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know. I love my apartment. And I do have two bedrooms. I thought maybe…” She trails off, spinning the stem of her wineglass between the palms of her hands.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe you might want to move in with me. Not for July first,” she adds hastily. “That would be too soon. I know you’d have to give notice for your own place. But maybe on August first…”

  My mind is whirling. Move in with Kate?

  Her apartment is beautiful. It has a fireplace, and crown moldings, and a tiny terrace. It’s on one of the nicest blocks in the village.

  But what about Will?

  If I move in with Kate in August, I can’t talk to Will in September about us moving in together.

  “How much is the rent?” I ask Kate.

  “I couldn’t charge you half. That wouldn’t be fair, since I’d want to keep my bedroom, and it’s bigger than the other one.”

  She’s hedging. I can tell.

  “How much, Kate?”

  “Fifteen hundred,” she offers.

  So there’s no decision to be made.

  “I can’t afford it,” I tell her.

  Case closed.