Slightly Single (22 page)

Wow.

“Do you know how lucky you are?” I ask him. “Why don’t you have to go off to some horrible, boring office job five mornings a week?” “Because I refuse,” he says, as though it’s obvious and simple. “Why do you do it?”

“Because I need to make a living.”

“And the only way to do that is to go off to a horrible, boring office job five mornings a week? Come on, Tracey. This is New York. Land of opportunity. There must be something else you can do. What about that caterer you said you’ve been working for?”

“Milos? Yeah, I’ve filled in on a few jobs for him. The money is great.”

Reminder to self: Open savings account before this week is over. Prego jar is overflowing.

“Why don’t you do that full-time?”

“Because it’s waitressing, Buckley.”

“And what you’re doing at the ad agency is so much more fascinating?”

“Absolutely.” I nod so vigorously a blinding pain shoots through my poor hungover head.

“It’s fascinating yet horrible,” he says, with a nod. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“Buckley, leave me alone!” I swat his arm. “I’m too fried to be philosophical right now. Just go get me my coffee, and maybe we can talk.”

“Now she’s giving me orders,” he says, shaking his head. “Okay, I’m going. I just have to get changed.”

He starts to pull off his T-shirt.

I quickly shut the door.

I study myself in the mirror in Buckley’s bathroom—which I can’t help comparing to Will’s spotless, Lysol-scented bathroom. Buckley’s sink has beard shavings and soap scum in it, the toilet seat is left up, and there’s a week’s worth of towels hanging from the hook on the back of the door.

There’s also a stack of magazines on the back of the toilet.
Sports Illustrated, The New Yorker, People…
I love it. A man who reads in the bathroom and doesn’t try to hide it.

Personally, I always read in the bathroom. Will once said that he thinks it’s a disgusting habit, which is why I never do it in front of him.

I help myself to the latest issue of
Maxim
from Buckley’s personal library. Read a fascinatingly smutty article about how to score with women at weddings and funerals. Brush my teeth using toothpaste on my finger. Take a shower.

When I get out, I towel off and put on the clothes Buckley gave me.

He’s right. I do feel better.

As I pull on the well-worn T-shirt with its faded Abercrombie and Fitch logo, I inhale its distinct scent: fabric softener and some vaguely masculine aroma that isn’t cologne.

Will’s clothes all smell faintly of his cologne, but Buckley doesn’t seem to wear any. From what I can tell, he’s a no-frills kind of guy.

I tell myself that Buckley is the kind of guy I should be with.

I tell myself that it would be so easy to stop loving Will and start loving Buckley.

But the truth is, it wouldn’t be.

I can’t make myself fall in love with Buckley any more than I can make myself stop loving Will.

I’m swept without warning into a tidal wave of longing, missing him so badly that I physically ache. The pain is worse than any hangover; worse than the heart-pounding, chest-tightening sensations of last night.

More than anything, I want to be in Will’s clothes, in Will’s bathroom, in Will’s apartment.

I want everything to be the way it…

The way it never was.

I realize with sudden clarity that the whole time Will and I have been together, things have never been settled. Will has always been leaving.

He was gone long before he packed his bags for summer stock. He was always gone, in the way it really counts. He has always been pulling away even while I’m trying to grab on, to hang on to some tangible part of him. The whole time Will and I have been together, we haven’t been totally together. I’ve always been…slightly single.

It’s been a struggle from the start. Back then, when we first met, the excuse—his, and mine—was that he had Helene. The hometown girlfriend.

After that, there were always classes, and studying, and exams to take. Auditions and rehearsals and performances. Trips back home to Iowa, trips to New York City to find a job, an apartment.

We could have taken those last trips together; I was moving here, too. But he came alone. Found a job on his own, found an apartment where he would live alone.

I never really expected us to live together right out of college.

But the thing is…

I don’t know if Will expects us to live together ever.

Or am I getting carried away?

Will, after all, is with me. He’s been with me for three years now. If he didn’t want me in his life—if he didn’t love me—then he would have broken up with me before now.

Why would he keep stringing me along if he didn’t think we had a future?

That question…

Sara asking,
So why does he keep her on a string?

Me answering,
Because his ego needs to be fed by her blatant adoration. He gets off on seeing her so into him, and knowing that no matter what he does, she’ll be there.

But that’s not me and Will.

That’s Mary Beth and Vinnie.

We are not them.

I am not her.

I didn’t get married too young and saddle myself with two kids and a mortgage. I’m not living out my life in Brookside, laid off from a teaching job, pathetically, perpetually in love with a man who no longer loves me.

Mary Beth has baggage.

I don’t.

Mary Beth is too afraid to find her way out of the trap.

I’m not.

I was brave enough to come to New York City by myself and make a life here.

Or was I?

Maybe my coming to New York and Mary Beth’s
staying in Brookside are the same thing. The cowardly thing.

She stayed in Brookside to be with Vinnie.

I came to New York to be with Will.

No. That’s not the only reason. I wanted out of Brookside long before he ever came along—

A door slams.

Buckley’s voice calls my name.

“I’m in here,” I tell him.

I shove thoughts of Will aside.

It isn’t until later—much later—that I allow him back in. Later, after I’ve called voice mail and left Jake a message saying I need a sick day and then spent the morning watching trashy talk shows with Buckley and the sunny afternoon meandering down to my apartment.

My disgusting clothes from last night are rolled up into a tight little ball, crammed into a white plastic D’Agostino’s shopping bag and stuffed into the bottom of my big leather bag. I’d have thrown them away, but I happen to have been wearing a newly discovered old pair of pants I haven’t fit into in over a year, and I can’t quite bring myself to trash them without getting more use out of them. It feels too good to pull them on and feel the zipper glide up effortlessly—to pinch an inch or more of excess fabric at the waistband.

Yes, I walk home. Even though my head still aches and my stomach is still vaguely upset, and my legs aren’t quite steady.

I could’ve taken the subway, or even a cab, and I certainly could’ve done the walk home in less than an hour. But I revel in the freedom of this weekday afternoon not spent at a desk in a cube. Yes, the city is dirty, and crowded, and the hot, humid weather makes everything and everyone smell disgusting. Yet it’s glorious. I’m liberated. I take my time making my way downtown. I buy
The Post
and sit on the steps of the palatial Forty-second Street New York Public Library to read it. I stop for an Italian ice from a cart in Union Square Park and slurp it as I walk, until it’s so drippy I have to toss it into an overflowing wire trash can. I buy two bottles of mineral water, one just so that I can clean up and the other to drink. I poke in and out of stores, looking at skimpy, sexy summer clothes I’ll never be able to afford or be thin enough to wear.

Or will I?

If I keep losing weight…

If I keep saving money…

Well, you never know.

Inspired, I remind myself that the first thing I’m going to do when I get home is the Jane Fonda workout tape. I’ve been doing it faithfully, almost every day. It might be wishful thinking or my imagination, but I feel like my thighs bulge out less right below my hips—like there’s a smoother line of flesh there. And I’m positive there’s less jiggle and thigh-chafing when I walk.

When I get back to my apartment, the Jane Fonda
workout tape has to take a back seat to the answering machine.

Because the message light is flashing.

As I reach out to press the play button, I want it to be Will.

Yet I know without a doubt that it’s Jake, calling from work. I’m positive that he’s figured out that I’m not really sick. I didn’t sound genuine in the voice mail message I left him. Or somebody saw me out and about, and reported me to human resources.

It’s Jake.

I know it’s Jake.

But it’s Will.

“Tracey. I’m sorry I had to hang up on you before. Are you okay?” A pause. “Are you there?” Pause. “Pick up if you’re there.” Pause. Sigh. “Okay. You’re not there. Where are you? It’s midnight. I’ll call you again.”

With that message, hope rises.

It isn’t much.

No “I love you,” much less an “I forgive you.”

But at least he called.

And he’ll call back.

W
ill doesn’t call back Thursday night.

Will doesn’t call back Friday night.

Will calls back Saturday morning, as I’m getting ready to rush out the door.

“Hello?” I say breathlessly, snatching up the receiver.

“Tracey? It’s me.”

My heart stops. “Will.”

“Are you in a rush?”

“No…”

“Oh. Because when you picked up, you sounded like you were in a rush.”

“I’m just…I’m going to Brenda’s wedding in a few minutes.”

Silence.

I picture him, blank-faced, trying to remember who Brenda is.

“She’s my friend from work.”

“Oh, right. The wedding you’re bringing Raphael to.”

“The wedding I was supposed to bring Raphael to,” I say, taken aback that we’re having this perfectly conversational conversation, under the circumstances. “But he canceled on me. The Czechoslovakian ballet dancer is history—”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t I tell you about him? He was into S and M, which isn’t Raphael’s scene, and anyway, now he’s seeing this new guy, Wade, who invited him to his beach house in Quogue for the weekend, and you know Raphael. He had forgotten all about the wedding until I called him yesterday morning to remind him. He was really apologetic.”

“But he still dumped you,” Will says. “Leave it to Raphael. So you’re going to the wedding alone?”

“Actually, no.”

“Oh.” A pause.

And I like this.

Despite everything, I like knowing he’s searching his mind. Trying to think of another gay male friend I might be bringing. Maybe he’s even jealous, wondering if I could possibly have a real date.

“You’re not going alone? Who are you bringing?” he asks.

“Buckley. He’s a friend of mine. I met him at Raphael’s party. I told you about him. Remember?”

“No, but….” He doesn’t sound concerned. Or jealous. “Well, if you have to run…”

I check my watch. I do have to run. The wedding starts in an hour and a half, and I have to meet Buckley and get all the way to Jersey.

But Will is finally on the phone, and I’m not letting him get away this time.

“I have a minute to talk,” I tell him, carrying the phone over to my closet and digging out the shoes I’m going to wear.

“Look, Trace, I’m sorry I had to hang up the other night. But I had to get back to the show…”

“I understand….”

“And I thought you had been drinking. If you hadn’t, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“So you weren’t drinking?”

I’d love to tell him that I wasn’t. But something tells me that a lie won’t make the situation better. Because this isn’t just about the other night. This is bigger than that. This is huge.

“I’d had a few drinks, yes,” I admit cautiously, lighting a cigarette and hunting down an ashtray. “But I called you because I was in trouble, and I needed help. You were the only person I knew I could turn to.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know…It was some sort of attack. It was like I couldn’t breathe.”

He digests this. “Are you okay now?”

“Yes.”

After all, it hasn’t happened since. But I’m afraid it will again. I don’t know what’s triggered the last few episodes, so I don’t know how to stop another one from coming on.

“Was it a panic attack?” Will asks.

“A panic attack?” I repeat slowly. I take a drag on the cigarette. Exhale. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Helene used to have panic attacks. Her heart would race and she’d feel like she was going to die. She had an anxiety disorder.”

“This is different,” I say quickly.

And it is different.

Because I don’t have an anxiety disorder.

If I had an anxiety disorder, I would be…

Well, I don’t know what I would be. But I don’t have one.

“This was a physical thing, not a mental thing,” I tell Will, shoving my feet, clad in sheer black stockings, into a pair of black sling-backs with low heels. “It was pain. In my chest. Like I couldn’t breathe.”

“That’s what used to happen to Helene.”

Helene, his loony, overweight ex-girlfriend, whom he dumped.

“It wasn’t a panic attack,” I insist. “Anyway, the point is, I needed to talk to you, and I had no way of
getting in touch. All I wanted to do was call the pay phone in the cast house so that we could talk.”

I walk over to the mirror carrying my cigarette and the ashtray. I study my reflection as Will says, “Edward said it was an emergency call from home. I assumed it was my mother. I thought something horrible had happened.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” He clears his throat. “It’s just…everyone was asking me what happened. They saw Edward pull me out, and they thought it was serious.”

I feel sheepish, ashamed that I caused such a disruption.

Meanwhile, I can’t seem to help noticing, as I look into the mirror, that I look damn good.

I’m wearing a short, simple black cocktail dress with a swirly skirt. I bought it two years ago, for my cousin’s wedding. I wore it only that one time, and it was too tight. Now it fits the way it’s supposed to. Maybe it’s even too baggy around the hips and stomach.

Are you ready for this? I’ve lost twenty-three pounds—the last few, no doubt, thanks to the big vomit fest the other night.

When I started this diet, I thought I should lose thirty to forty pounds. That means I’ve got less than ten pounds to go until I reach the high end of my goal weight.

I wish Will could see me now.

“Will, I want to come up there,” I say abruptly, stubbing the half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray.

“I know. I want you to.”

I’m not sure if I believe him, but my heart leaps anyway and I ask, “When?”

“I don’t know…”

“I can come next weekend,” I offer.

Please don’t say no, Will. Because if you say no…

“That might work,” he says slowly. “We’re doing
Sunday in the Park with George.
It opens Friday night. I’m playing George.”

“Will! You got your lead!” I’m stunned that he hasn’t told me until now. He must have known for at least a week.

“I got my lead,” he agrees. “That’s why I haven’t called. It’s been insanely busy, trying to do
Grease
at night and rehearse for
George
during the days.”

“It’s okay. I’ve been busy, too,” I tell him, reaching for my hair spray so that I can give my head another spritz. I’m wearing my hair piled into an upsweep—mostly because it’s almost a hundred degrees outside with full humidity, and this is the only way I won’t look like a drowned rat at the wedding.

“Yeah,” Will is saying, “I heard you’ve been doing quite a few jobs for Milos.”

I poise with the Aussie Scrunch spray aimed at my ’do. “You did? How did you hear that?”

“I was talking to one of my friends back in New York.”

“Oh.”

So he’s been in touch with someone from Eat Drink Or Be Married.

That bugs me for a million reasons, not the least of which is that he obviously hasn’t called me as often as he could. Not if he had time to chat with someone else.

Okay, maybe I’m being irrational.

And maybe I’m imagining things again….

But I can’t help asking, “Who?”

“Who…what?”

“Who did you talk to? About me,” I add helpfully, careful not to let the tension I’m feeling creep into my voice.

After all, it was probably John, or one of the other guys.

But it wasn’t.

“Zoe,” he says, and I’m sure I hear a reluctant note in his voice. “She says she met you.”

Zoe.

Zoe with the Pamela Anderson body and the Catherine Zeta Jones face.

Right.

“Yeah, we’ve met a few times,” I tell Will. “I didn’t realize you were friends with her.”

“Sure. I’m friends with a lot of people there.”

Uh-huh. Will and Zoe are friends like Bill and Monica were friends.

“So you’ve been making some extra money, then, huh?” Will asks.

“Yeah, the money’s great,” I say absently.

Will slept with Zoe.

I know it.

Why else would he be calling her from North Mannfield?

Why else wouldn’t he be calling me more often?

“Will…”

“You’ve got to go, don’t you?” he says. “It’s okay. I have to get to a costume fitting. Let’s plan for next weekend. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll find you a place to stay. There are a couple of bed-and-breakfasts that are close to the theater. Esme’s parents just stayed at one, and they loved it. I’ll ask her about it.”

Esme again.

Esme.

Zoe.

I hate the shards of jealousy that slice into my gut, but I can’t do anything about it. Maybe if Will were here, with me…

Or maybe if I trusted him.

But I can’t.

Why can’t I? It’s not as though I’ve ever caught him cheating on me. I’ve never even found solid evidence that he has.

It’s just this instinct I can’t ignore.

“So I’ll call you on Tuesday or Wednesday to make plans,” Will is saying.

“Okay. I’ll see if I can take off on Friday.”

“Don’t do that. Just come up Saturday.”

“But…that’s only one night.”

“I know, but Friday is opening night. It’ll be crazy for me. Opening nights always are, and this time I’m the lead. Come Saturday. Bright and early.”

What can I do? Argue?

No.

There’s nothing to do but agree.

And hang up.

I take another look in the mirror, half expecting to see my old fat, frumpy, insecure self.

The thing is, I still look good. Better than I ever have before, in fact.

But I’m not nearly as exhilarated about my appearance as I was a few minutes ago, thanks to Will. Damn him.

I was planning to go to this wedding and have a good time with Buckley, who was surprisingly agreeable when I invited him. I only did it because I realized I couldn’t possibly show up dateless after I’d already RSVP’d to the invitation saying I was bringing a guest. I’ve now worked enough catering functions to know that Brenda and Paulie would be paying for Raphael’s uneaten dinner.

Anyway, Buckley said, “Sure, sounds fun” when I asked him.

And I was looking forward to it.

Until now.

All I want to do is stay home and mope.

But Brenda is walking down the aisle in a little over
an hour, and I’ve got to get my butt in gear or she’ll never forgive me.

I rush to the Port Authority, where Buckley is waiting. It takes me a moment to recognize him, because he’s wearing a suit. Somehow, I’m surprised by that, but I shouldn’t be. After all, we’re going to a wedding. I guess I just forgot amid all my despair about Will.

Now, though, I shove Will—and Zoe and Esme—firmly from my mind.

“You look amazing,” Buckley tells me.

“So do you,” I tell Buckley.

“Really? Because I was drenched in sweat, walking down here. I couldn’t get a cab.”

“I did, and it wasn’t air-conditioned. The driver was drenched in sweat.”

“Ick.” He leans toward me and sniffs the air. “Don’t worry, the fumes aren’t clinging to you. You smell like honeysuckle.”

“I do?” I
am
wearing honeysuckle. “I can’t believe you know what it smells like.”

He shrugs. “My mom has this honeysuckle bathroom spray.”

Oh.

We take the bus across the river. I try to focus on what Buckley’s saying as we go through the Lincoln Tunnel. But I start thinking about what happened on the bus home from Brookside the other day, and my heart starts to pound wildly.

Buckley doesn’t seem to notice. He’s telling me about his sister’s wedding—something about how the
band leader got food poisoning the night before, so his brother-in-law’s cousin had to fill in and he only knew the lyrics to three songs.

The bus seems to be crawling through the tunnel even though there’s no traffic. I look at the tiled walls, counting the lights as we pass them.

“Are you okay?”

I try to take a deep breath, but I can’t. My chest is all tight again.

“Tracey?”

I look at Buckley.

He’s looking at me.

“Are you okay?” he asks again.

“I don’t know.” I swallow, and the saliva seems to get caught in my throat. Why can’t I swallow? I try again. It doesn’t work. I’m over-thinking it. I have to think about something else.