Slightly Single (27 page)

“Until the breakup is official.” Which it probably
will be the second I get home and check my answering machine.

Which is why I should probably stay with Buckley tonight, like he said.

It’s better than being alone.

Anything’s better than being alone.

At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.

But I’m starting to wonder.

W
eeks go by.

Here is what happens:

July becomes August.

The weather grows hotter and more humid with every passing day.

The city grows more crowded and putrid and unbearable with every passing day.

Kate gets a new roommate. He is Billy. They are wildly in love.

Raphael gets a new roommate. He is Wade. They, too, are wildly in love.

Buckley is regularly dating Sonja. If they’re wildly in love, I don’t want to know about it, and he hasn’t admitted it.

A glowing Brenda returns from her honeymoon.

A glowing Latisha meets a hunky single-dad mailman who adores the Yankees as much as she does, and she tells Anton to take a hike at last.

A glowing Yvonne is considering a green-card marriage to Thor.

The misguided Mary Beth and malevolent skank Vinnie are in couples therapy, talking about reconciliation.

As for me…

I lose another ten pounds.

I am not in the mood to shop, yet I buy a pair of size ten jeans. Just one pair. Just because I can.

When the weather cools, I will wear them. I will wear them with a shirt tucked in. Just because I can.

I continue to read the plodding
Gulliver’s Travels.

I fight off panic attacks, yet they still plague me.

But I frequently insist to Buckley that I don’t need to call his former shrink.

I open a savings account and make regular deposits thanks to steady work from Milos.

I run personal errands galore for Jake, who informs me in passing late in August that the new deodorant—the one that lasts all week long—will be named
All Week Long.

All Week Long.

Yes.

That’s the name they came up with.

This news almost puts me over the edge, yet I remain curiously functional.

Functional despite the fact that apparently The Breakup That Wasn’t…

Is.

I say this because Will hasn’t called. Not once.

Of all the scenarios I’ve pictured, this is the least likely…and, perhaps, the least welcome, although none were truly appealing.

But this…

This silence…

It’s excruciating.

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

Nothing.

But wait.

Wait.

Wait.

I
t’s ninety-five degrees on the Tuesday night after Labor Day. The city is still in the midst of a heat wave that hasn’t let up in weeks. I would kill for a window air conditioner. I even took some money out of savings last week to buy one, only to discover that there’s a shortage. Every store is out.

Now, after a blah dinner of steamed broccoli with melted fat-free imitation cheddar, I am sitting on the couch in front of the useless window fan, soaked in sweat and eating dessert—a store-brand fat-free lemon yogurt that is
so
not “luscious” even though the label promises that it is.

I am also trying to read
Gulliver’s Travels
while watching one of those lame tabloid TV shows that is
in the process of busting yet another smug, cheating Hollywood hubby who reminds me of Will.

But then, everything reminds me of Will these days.

The phone rings.

Everything reminds me of Will these days with the exception of a ringing telephone.

That’s because, at this point, I’m long past thinking that it might be him.

I mute the TV volume and mark my place in
Gulliver,
wondering if I’ll ever get past these goddamned Lilliputians and if the plot will ever pick up.

I lift the receiver and press Talk.

“Hello?” I wipe a trickle of sweat from the side of my nose.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

Which means it’s another one of those electronic telemarketing calls.

My dark mood grows darker.

But the voice that comes on the line doesn’t belong to a computer.

It belongs to Will.

And all the voice says is my name. Tentatively.

All I say in response is his name. In disbelief.

Now it’s his turn again.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” he says blandly.

I’m serious.

This is what he says.

After three years together and a summer apart…

After one fleeting encounter that ended with him
ordering me to get back on a bus and go back from whence I came, or whatever it was that he said…

After refusing to make the expected follow-up phone call to at least officially dump me…

This is what he says.

Blandly.

“You’re sorry you haven’t called?” I echo.

“We have to talk.”

Is he for real?

I want to lash out at him, but he doesn’t give me a chance.

“I just got back into town last night. Can you come over to my place so that we can talk?” he wants to know.

“Now?”

“No. Tomorrow.”

“I have to work,” I say in a bitchy tone reserved for self-absorbed actors who don’t acknowledge that normal people work from nine to five—and who abandon their girlfriends while they are away doing summer stock.

“Tomorrow night, then?” Will asks.

No.

Not tomorrow night.

Not ever.

We’re through.

That is what I should say.

This is what I do say:

“Okay.”

“Can you come at seven?”

“Okay.” Dammit, there I go again.

“All right.” Will exhales, and I realize he may have been holding his breath the whole time we’ve been talking.

This should be comforting, but it isn’t, because I’ve been holding my breath, too. The whole time we’ve been talking…

And ever since I left North Mannfield almost six weeks ago.

“I’ll see you then.” I hang up. I exhale.

I light a cigarette, shaking.

I dial Buckley’s number.

“What now?” he asks when he hears that it’s me. We just hung up from our nightly phone call ritual about a half hour ago.

“Will called,” I croak.

“
Will
called?”

“He wants me to come over and see him tomorrow night.”

“Did you tell him to go fuck himself?”

“Yep.”

Pause.

“You didn’t, did you,” Buckley says flatly.

“Nope.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I’d be there at seven.”

“Tracey…”

“I’m going to dump him, Buckley. I want to do it to his face.”

“Tracey…”

“What? You think I’m going to be the dumpee, don’t you?”

“No. I think he might try and talk you into staying with him.”

“Oh, please.” I give a bitter, incredulous laugh.

But inside, in the cold, brittle recesses of my jaded heart, something flutters. Hope. Buckley thinks there’s hope.

“If he tries to talk you into giving him another chance, Tracey, be strong. Tell him how much he’s hurt you.”

“Don’t worry, I will.”

“Don’t give in.”

“Trust me, I won’t.”

But
I
don’t trust me. If Will begs me to come back to him…well, there’s no telling what I’ll say or do.

What if he says he’ll change?

“If he says he’s going to change, don’t believe him,” advises Buckley-the-mind-reader.

“I won’t.”

“Because nobody can change.”

“Right.”

But is he?

Right, I mean. Is it true that nobody can change?

Look at me. I’ve changed. I’ve lost weight. I’ve saved money. I’ve eliminated clutter. I’ve read classics.

But for all of that, I realize, I’m still the same person inside. I’m still insecure, and afraid.

What the hell am I so afraid of?

Being alone.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

“Tracey?”

“Yeah?”

“You were quiet. I just wanted to make sure you’re still there.”

“I’m still here.”

“You’re thinking about getting back together with Will, aren’t you.”

“No!” I say, as though he’s suggested that I’m thinking of taking an elevator to the observation deck on the Empire State Building and stepping over the edge.

“I want you to come straight over here when you leave Will’s apartment tomorrow night, Tracey,” Buckley says.

“Why?”

“Because I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you dumped him. That it’s over for good. If you know you have to answer to me immediately afterward, you won’t cave while you’re with him.”

That’s what he thinks.

Whenever I’m with Will, it’s hard to think about consequences.

“Okay, I’ll come over,” I say to appease Buckley.

“What time are you seeing Will?”

“Seven.”

“Then I’ll expect you here at seven-thirty.”

“Buckley! Seven-thirty? Come on.”

“How long does it take to dump someone and walk a couple of blocks uptown?”

“I’ll get there when I can get there.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting. You can do it, Tracey.”

And I probably can do it.

For Buckley.

For me.

It would be easier if there were some guarantee that if I dump Will, I’ll find someone else. That I won’t be alone for the rest of my life. That I’ll meet someone fabulous, get married, have children, and live happily ever after.

If I knew all of that was waiting for me…

Then I could dump Will.

“You’re going to be grateful for this someday, Tracey,” Buckley says.

“I already am grateful, Buckley. You’re a really good friend.”

“Not grateful to me. Grateful to Will. For being an ass and giving you up.”

That’s what he said before. That Will’s destroying our relationship will turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

I wish I could believe that.

“I should go,” I tell Buckley. “I need my beauty sleep if I’m seeing Will tomorrow.”

“Tracey…” he says in a warning voice.

“Just to show him what he’s losing,” I promise.

“People like Will never know what they’re losing,”
Buckley says. “Not when they’re losing it. Sometimes not ever.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Buckley says. “But just think, Tracey. The world is full of people who are not like Will. And if you’re free, sooner or later you’re going to hook up with one of them.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“Because I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be. Not forever.”

This is not as comforting as it should be. Because I don’t want to be alone even for a while.

Maybe, I think irrationally, when Will and I break up tomorrow, Buckley and I will fall in love.

After all, you never know.

Which is why I’m going over to Will’s tomorrow night with an open mind. I’m going to listen to what he has to say. And if I don’t like it, I’m going to dump him.

If I do like it…

Well, like I said.

You never know.

T
he next day, on my lunch hour, I go to Blooming-dales and I buy myself new everything for tonight.

A slinky satin-and-lace teddy with a crotch that stays snapped. A short little black Tahari summer dress—a splurge even at fifty percent off, but it makes me look even slimmer than I actually am, and you can’t put a price on that. Black sling-backs with a slightly higher heel, which means my legs look longer and leaner.

Yes, I bought all black.

What did you expect? Black is slimming.

Granted, I’m not as dependent on it as I used to be.

But I barely hesitated at the display of bright-colored, figure-hugging sweaters that are everywhere, as Raphael predicted.

It’s still too damn hot to even think about sweaters.

Besides, I’m not ready to wear an actual color. Not yet.

Back at the office, I spend the afternoon preparing a deck for a new business presentation Jake is doing tomorrow in Chicago. He flies out at six o’clock tonight from La Guardia, which means there’s no way I can get stuck at the office as I have more and more lately.

Shortly after five o’clock, Latisha sticks her head into my cube.

“I’m heading out, Tracey,” she says. “Good luck tonight.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.”

“Be strong.”

“I will.”

Brenda comes up behind her, wearing sneakers with her suit and carrying her oversize purse and a Walkman. “I’m outta here, too,” she says. “I told Paulie I’d make him stuffed shells tonight.”

Stuffed shells. God, how long has it been?

My stomach rumbles. I skipped lunch today. Breakfast, too. I want to look as skinny as possible in that clingy little dress.

“Remember, Tracey,” Brenda says, “if he tries to talk you into staying with him, think about how miserable he’s made you.”

“I will,” I promise solemnly.

I hear a spurt of Binaca, and then Yvonne pokes her raspberry-colored bouffant over the wall that di
vides her cube from mine. “Whatever you do,” she says in her raspy voice, “make sure that you dump the jerk.”

“I will.”

I look at the three of them.

“Really, guys,” I say, realizing none of them trusts me to do the right thing. “I will. I’ll dump him.”

“Well, it’s not easy,” Latisha says. “Anton and I were so over by the time I gave him the boot, and I still had a hard time being firm when he begged me to take him back.”

“Well, I’m not going to let that happen,” I assure her, turning off my computer. “Tomorrow when I come in here, I’m going to be a free woman.”

“What are you going to do until it’s time to meet Will?” Brenda asks, checking her watch.

“Go into the ladies’ room and make myself beautiful, what else?” I open my bottom desk drawer and show her the makeup bag and hot rollers I stashed there this morning.

The three of them wish me luck, give me hugs and are on their way.

I head to the bathroom with my makeup bag, hot rollers and shopping bags containing my new clothes.

Nearly an hour later, I return to my cube, knowing that I’ve never looked better in my life than I do right now. No matter what lies ahead, at least—

“Tracey? Good. I knew you hadn’t left yet. I saw your bag on the hook behind the door.”

“Jake?” I turn around to see him standing there,
looking impatient. “I thought you were supposed to be at the airport already.”

“I changed my flight. I’m not going until tomorrow morning.” He runs a hand through his stubbly hair, clearly having a bad day. “We have work to do.”

My stomach lurches. “We do?”

“We have to redo the entire deck. Creative is going to take a new approach.”

“Now?”

He nods briskly and dumps a sheaf of yellow legal-sized papers on my desk. “Here’s the first section of the new deck. Start typing.”

Start typing.

It’s just the way he says it.

No, it’s more than that.

It’s the fact that he makes me do all his typing when he knows how to do it himself. None of the other administrative assistants do as much typing as I do. Their bosses all have their own computers so that they can do their own documents.

Not Jake.

“What are you doing?” Jake asks.

“I’m thinking about something,” I snap.

“Well, there’s no time for that. It’s going to be a long night. Get busy.”

The parking ticket.

The fishing pole.

Monique.

The chocolates.

“Why the fuck are you still standing there?” he barks.

That’s it.

“I can’t stay here,” I tell him.

“What do you mean, you can’t stay here?”

“I have to be somewhere tonight. I can’t work late.”

“Well, you don’t have a choice. I need you to type this over.”

“No, you don’t, Jake. You know how to type.”

“Typing isn’t my job, Tracey. It’s yours.”

“Not anymore,” I fling at him. “I quit.”

“You quit?”

I don’t even bother to answer him. I merely walk out, lugging my stuff.

Out on the steamy street, I fall into step with the throng of office workers and commuters.

What now?

I just quit my job.

What was I thinking?

Who cares?

I feel strangely reckless.

Strangely free.

I’ll worry later.

Right now, I’ve got almost an hour before I have to meet Will.

If I walk across town, I’ll be a limp, sweaty mess before I get to his apartment.

I figure it’ll take me forever to hail a cab, but I’ve got time to kill anyway.

As luck would have it, I get a cab immediately.

It deposits me a block from Will’s apartment building five minutes later.

Now what?

I could go over to Buckley’s air-conditioned apartment and hang out with him until it’s time.

Or I could duck into that air-conditioned little pub across the street and have a drink and some cigarettes to calm my nerves.

I opt for the latter.

The cigarettes and the glass of pinot grigio do calm my nerves. Sloshing into an empty stomach, the wine also makes me feel a little daring.

A couple of cute guys in business suits flirt with me.

They want to buy me another glass of wine, but I have the presence of mind to refuse. I tell myself that after I’ve dumped Will, there will be plenty of opportunities to accept free glasses of wine from cute businessmen.

I tell myself to believe that.

And I do.

Almost.

Maybe I won’t be alone forever, I decide as I leave the bar and start walking to Will’s, right on schedule. I light another cigarette, remembering that I won’t be able to smoke once I get there.

I’m wearing my short black dress and my high black shoes and black sunglasses. Several men turn their heads to look at me as I pass. For added reassurance,
a couple of construction workers on the corner make it clear, in an X-rated way, that I’m looking good.

I decide that once Will lays eyes on the new me, the ball will be in my court.

If I want to dump him, I can dump him.

But if I want to keep him…

Well, Buckley will kill me.

So will my other friends.

But maybe I don’t have to keep him for good.

Maybe I can just keep him for a while.

Or just for tonight.

Because the thing is, I want him to look at me the way these horny strangers on the street are looking at me. After three years of never feeling like I’m attractive enough for Will, I want to see lust in his eyes.

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 re
alize 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.