Slightly Single (13 page)

I tell her about Will.

“I went out with an actor, once,” she says. “Actually, we’re still friends.”

“How long ago did you break up?”

“Three years ago. We were in college. He realized he was gay. Now he and his lover live two blocks away from me, and we all hang out.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. It sounds awful.

I try to imagine me and Will broken up yet still hanging out. There’s no way. Especially not if he had another lover—even a male one.

Not that there’s the slightest chance Will is gay, no matter what Kate suspects.

“He’s always trying to fix me up,” Amelia goes on. “But I keep telling him, I don’t want to go out with any more actors. They’re all too self-absorbed—I mean, not all of them,” she adds hastily, for my
benefit, “but the ones I’ve met have been. I’m sure your boyfriend isn’t….”

“No, he’s not self-absorbed,” I assure her.

But the truth is, he is.

It’s not as if I’ve never noticed before.

But I find myself suddenly angry at Will, noticing how many times it’s all had to be about him. How it’s never about me.

Whose fault is that?
a tiny voice asks in my head.

I’m the one who puts up with Will’s ego. I’m the one who never demands anything for myself. Why?

Because everyone has their faults.

And because I love him.

What’s wrong with that?

“Are you okay?” Amelia asks, and I turn to see her watching me. “You look like you’re suddenly upset about something.”

“It’s just…my boyfriend. I miss him. That’s all.”

“Maybe you can visit him.”

“I’m definitely planning on it.”

But suddenly, I’m not at all anxious to see Will in his new environment. I don’t want to see the cast house and meet Esme and see how much fun he’s having without me.

I just want him back in New York, where he belongs. I want everything to be back to normal.

It’s only been a week since he left.

How am I going to survive eleven more?

“T
racey, it’s nice to see you again,” Milos says, meeting me in the reception area of his brownstone apartment that doubles as headquarters for his catering business, Eat Drink Or Be Married.

I’ve only met him once, when I stopped by with Will, who had to pick up a paycheck. But Milos clasps both my hands in his, as though we’re old friends.

He’s a tiny man. Basically, I dwarf him. Yet there’s a commanding sense about him anyway; a charisma and confidence that manage to impress but not intimidate me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back right away. I was out on Long Island all weekend, and I didn’t get your message until Sunday night.”

“It’s all right. I appreciate your coming over to meet with me,” he says in his Slavic accent. “I know you’re on your lunch hour, so let’s get down to business right away. Will says you’re an experienced waitress.”

I nod, hoping I don’t have to go into detail.

“Have you ever French-served?”

Huh?

“No,” I tell him.

At least, I don’t think I’ve ever French-served. Who knows what that even means?

He raises one dark eyebrow. “Have you ever worked for a caterer before?”

“No, I actually…I worked in a restaurant.”

“Here in the city?”

“Back in my hometown. But I’m a fast learner. I’m sure I can catch on.”

He looks reluctant, but he nods. “I’m short-handed. Will said you might be able to fill in. I’m doing a cocktail party Tuesday night on Central Park South…can you make it?”

Tuesday? That’s tomorrow. I’m still exhausted from my weekend in the Hamptons—too much drinking and dancing, and only an hour and a half of sleep, not counting my snooze on the Jitney on the way home yesterday afternoon.

But I can go to bed early tonight to catch up, and I can definitely use the money, considering what I spent over the weekend.

I ask Milos, “What time do you need me? I usually don’t get out of work until—”

“If you can be there at seven so that I can have somebody show you what to do, it would be good. We’ll be there doing setup.”

“Seven is fine.”

“Good. The party starts at nine.”

Nine? That means I won’t get home until late, and I have to get up for work Wednesday morning.

“Basically, all you’ll be doing for this event is circulating trays of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres,” Milos tells me.

Oh, so that’s what he meant by French-serve. I can do that.

“You’ll learn to French-serve before I need you to do a formal affair, like a wedding,” Milos informs me.

Formal affair? Wedding? Clearly, he has big plans for me. Clearly, French serving has nothing to do with passing hors d’oeuvres.

“I’ll have you take our three-hour training course at some point in the near future,” Milos promises, “but for now, you’ll wing it. It won’t be hard. We’re in the midst of a ragout craze.”

I nod.

“Any questions?”

I shake my head no. What the hell is a ragout craze?

“Okay. Good. Now it’s back to my croquembouche.”

Mental note: Ask Will ASAP what the hell Milos is talking about.

Five minutes later, I’m on my way back to my office with a pale-gray Nehru jacket tucked under my arm. That’s the top half of my catering uniform. Milos said I should wear black slacks and flat black shoes with it. At least my lower half will be in slimming black.

The jacket isn’t exactly flattering, and it seemed to cling around my hips when I tried it on in Milos’s dressing room, but I was too embarrassed to ask him for a bigger size. Anyway, it was a Large. Who knows if there even is a bigger size?

I’ve got enough time to walk the twenty-some blocks back uptown. I haven’t gotten any exercise all weekend, aside from dancing on Saturday night. The good thing is, I haven’t eaten much, either. In fact, Saturday night at the beach house, all I had when we barbecued on the deck was a plain hamburger—no bun—and some salad. I didn’t want to pork out in front of everyone.

We went out drinking and dancing at some club. I nursed a Bloody Mary the whole time—alcohol can really put on the pounds. As Amelia predicted, Wade drank too much and tried to come on to me. I’d have been totally turned off even if she hadn’t warned me about him. He kept trying to grab my butt on the dance floor, and he made a comment about how he’s into big-breasted women. I guess he thought I’d find that flattering. What a jerk. He ended up taking off with some girl who had a share in Quogue, and we didn’t see him for the rest of the weekend.

For that matter, I barely saw Kate, either. She and
Billy hooked up and left the club together. She checked with me first, though, just to make sure I wouldn’t mind catching a ride back to the house with the others. If it hadn’t been for Amelia, I would have insisted on third-wheeling it with Kate and Billy, since none of the other housemates had given me the time of day. But Amelia was fun, and she and I hung out on the beach all day Sunday while Kate and Billy and some of the others went waterskiing.

For lunch, Amelia inhaled three hot dogs from the beach snack bar.

I had a small bag of popcorn and a Diet Snapple.

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 deli knowing I might bump into Buckley in the lobby.