Slightly Single (4 page)

“Oh, please,” Alexander says, and he and Joseph shake their heads and roll their eyes. They know Raphael well enough, as I do, to realize he’s full of crap. Still, Raphael is trying to impress Buckley, and I think we owe it to him to play along. Or at least to change the subject. Which I do.

“So what’s up with your new brochure?” I ask Alexander and Joseph.

Naturally, they jump right into that one. They love talking about their business—a gourmet boutique on Bleeker Street that specializes in organic preserves. They recently decided to design a Web site and add mail-order.

“If all goes as well as we expect,” Joseph says, clasping his hands over his ribs in anticipation, “we’re going to start looking at houses in Bucks County in the fall.”

“That’s great.” I glance at Raphael.

He looks envious. I’m not surprised. That’s the big thing in their crowd—for longtime lovers to buy a house in rural Pennsylvania, then spend years renovating and decorating and furnishing it.

I have to admit, even I’m jealous of Alexander and Joseph as I watch them exchange delighted glances, hauntingly similar to the expression I remember my sister Mary Beth sharing with Vinnie back when they
were newly married and had just announced that they were expecting their first child.

I want to be in that kind of relationship.

Not the Mary Beth-Vinnie kind that ends in misery and divorce. The Alexander and Joseph kind, where anyone—except maybe Dr. Laura and the Reverend Jerry Falwell—can see that these two souls belong together.

According to Raphael, Alexander and Joseph, who must be in their mid-thirties, have shared a rent-controlled one-bedroom apartment in Chelsea for ages, since before Chelsea became overly ridden with celebrities and suburban-style superstores. Alexander is a tall, bearded, Ivy-league-educated African-American from a white-collar Westchester family, and Joseph is a short, community college-educated Italian from a blue-collar Staten Island family, but at this point they share so many mannerisms and inflections that sometimes I actually think they look alike.

Jones passes by and hands out fresh daiquiris all around. This batch is even rummier than the last, but it goes down just as easily and I’m feeling a little buzzed. Buzzed enough to find it necessary to either chain smoke or devour the entire bowl of tortilla chips.

I opt for smoking, lighting a new cigarette from the ember of the first.

“So what do you write besides brochures, Buckley?” Raphael asks coyly.

Usually, he does coy pretty well, but it’s not working tonight. At least, not on this guy, who doesn’t
seem interested in Raphael. Or maybe he’s just oblivious—although how he can overlook Raphael’s breathless flirtation is beyond me.

The only other option is that he’s straight. But somehow, I doubt that. I have to wonder—as a trio of newly arrived drag queens sporting grass skirts and coconut shell brassieres wander by—would a straight, reasonably adorable guy be at a party like this? In New York?

No way.

“I write jacket copy for books,” Buckley says with a shrug.

“You’re kidding! Buckley, that’s wonderful!” Raphael screeches, as though Buckley just told him he’s landed a walk-on on
Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

“Trust me, it’s really not that interesting,” Buckley says, looking a little sheepish.

“What kind of books?” I ask.

“Everything. Suspense, romance, self-help, gay fiction, cookbooks—you name it.”

“Gay fiction? Have I read anything you’ve written, Buckley?” Raphael asks, bubbly as a Brookside cheerleader doing high kicks at halftime.

“I just write the cover copy,” Buckley points out again, squirming a little.

“I always remember cover copy. It’s why I buy the book,” Raphael tells him.

Kate joins us, toying with a strand of long blond hair. She’s got it stretched across her upper lip, futilely trying to hide the blotchiness.

After Raphael introduces her to Buckley, she pulls me aside and says she has to leave.

“I don’t blame you.” I glimpse the slash of angry pink skin above the painstakingly applied pink lipstick that matches her pink tropical print sundress. “It looks like it’s getting worse.”

“You think?” she drawls sarcastically. “I look like I’ve been mauled. I can’t believe you let me out of the house like this, Tracey.”

I can’t, either. But I didn’t want to show up solo at the party after Will backed out. I’ve always had this thing about going places alone. Even after all this time living in New York, I’m still not over it. It’s one thing to live alone and ride the subway alone and shop alone, but I don’t think that I could ever go to a movie by myself, or a restaurant, or a party. The small-town girl in me persists in finding that vaguely pathetic.

What a lousy friend, huh? I don’t blame Kate for being pissed.

“Do you want me to come with you?” I offer half-heartedly.

“No, thanks,” Kate says.

“Are you pissed at me?”

“Nah.” She tries to grin, wincing when the inflamed upper lip crinkles painfully. “It’s not your fault I inherited sensitive skin. It’s the Delacroix genes. That’s what my mother always says.”

“Good luck, Kate,” I say sympathetically, giving her a hug. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

When I turn back to the group, the group has dis
sipated. Joseph and Alexander are nowhere to be seen, and Raphael is currently being transported around the room on the drag queens’ shoulders to a rousing chorus of “Jolly Good Fellow,” leaving only Buckley O’Hanlon standing there.

“You’ve been abandoned?” I ask him. I drain the slushy remainder of my daiquiri in one big gulp that leaves my throat aching from the freeze.

“Raphael is…” He motions with his head.

“Yeah, I see him,” I say, watching Raphael hop down from his lofty perch just in time to toss back a flaming shot somebody hands him. Yes, flaming. As in, on fire. People clap rhythmically, chanting, “Go, Go, Go, Go…”

Did I mention that Raphael’s parties are wild?

“And Alexander and Joseph went to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the cake. They said it’s shaped like Puerto Rico, and there seems to have been some kind of mishap with Mayaguez.”

“What’s Mayaguez?”

“From what I gathered, it’s either a Puerto Rican city or an unruly houseboy.”

I laugh.

Buckley laughs.

Too bad he’s gay.

Then again, I have a boyfriend. Will. Will, who should be here right now.

Doesn’t he care that our days together are dwindling? Doesn’t he know that we should be spending
these last precious moments together before he heads off to summer stock without me?

That is, if I don’t go along with him.

Which I still might do.

I pluck another daiquiri from Jones’s passing tray and ask Buckley, “Ever been to the Adirondacks?”

“Nope. Why?”

So I tell him why. I say that I’m thinking of spending the summer in a resort town up there and I’m wondering how hard it’ll be to find a job and a place to stay.

“Shouldn’t you have lined that up before you made your plans?” he asks reasonably.

“You know, that’s what I’ve always hated about you, Buckley,” I say, jabbing him in the chest with a finger. “You’re so damned practical.”

He looks taken aback, then sees that I’m kidding, and he laughs. “Sorry. But I keep telling you, Trace, you’ve got to have all your ducks in a row. You can’t just go around jumping into things headlong anymore. You’re a big girl now.”

“Buckley, Buckley, Buckley.” I heave a mock sigh. “What am I going to do with you? When are you going to lighten up and learn how to live a little?”

“You’re not the first person who’s asked me that,” he says ruefully, and I get the sense that he’s only semi-kidding now.

“Really?”

He shakes his head. “I just got out of a relationship with someone who thought I wasn’t impulsive enough.
But let me tell you, I’m impulsive. Just tonight, when I was getting dressed to come here, I almost wore a beige sweater. At the last minute—I’m telling you, the very last minute before I walked out the door—I switched to the navy.”

I stagger backward. “Good God, man! How positively madcap of you!”

We both dissolve into laughter. I’m impressed by his deadpan skills. And he really is cute. He would be great for Raphael, who usually tends to go for self-absorbed pretty boys or eccentric artist types.

As we chat, I make sure to work in some of Raphael’s better qualities—how generous he is, and how funny, and how he knows more about pop culture than any other living human. I tell Buckley that Raphael has heard every new CD before the singles hit the airwaves; how he sees every Broadway show in previews; how he goes to every single movie that’s released, whether or not the critics trash it.

“He saw
Flight of Fancy
almost the second it came out, before all this hype,” I tell Buckley.

Flight of Fancy,
of course, is the hugest blockbuster to hit the multiplex in ages, and it supposedly has a shocking
Sixth Sense
-like twist at the end. That was all I needed to hear. I can’t take suspense. No matter how hard I try to wait, I always end up reading the last pages of Mary Higgins Clark novels before I’m halfway through. I just have to know whodunit.

“Did Raphael tell you the twist before you saw it?” Buckley asks.

“No, he wouldn’t tell me! And I still haven’t seen it.”

“You’re kidding. I thought everyone had.”

“Not me. There’s no one left for me to go with.”

Like I said, Raphael went without me, and so did Kate, who went with a blind date, and so did all my friends at work. But the thing that really gets me is that Will went with a couple of people who work at the catering company one night a few weeks ago when a gig ended earlier than they’d expected. I was really irritated with him when he told me he’d seen that movie without me. He knew I wanted to go.

“So now what? You’re going to wait until it comes out on video?” Buckley asks.

“Yeah, and believe me, I can’t stand the suspense. I’m trying to get someone to go with me. But everyone I’ve asked says you can’t see it twice, because once you know the secret, it’s pointless.”

“That’s what I heard, too.”

I gape at him. “You haven’t seen it either?”

He shakes his head.

“Then you
have
to go with me!” I say, clutching his arm. “I can’t believe I’ve found someone who hasn’t seen it. I’m so psyched! We’re going. Okay?”

He shrugs. “Sure. When?”

“Tomorrow,” I say decisively. “I’ve been waiting almost a month to find out what the big twist is, and I’m not going to put it off any longer. This is great.”

Suddenly, the blasting Bob Marley tune goes silent. We turn and find Raphael standing next to the stereo,
teetering a little. I wonder how many flaming shots he’s ingested.

“Everybody!” He claps his hands together. “It’s time for cake. Alexander and Joseph have really out-done themselves this year. So please, gather round and get ready to sing your hearts out!”

“He’s a little over the top, huh?” Buckley asks, as we push closer to the cake table.

“He’s the greatest guy I know,” I say fiercely, wishing that were enough to make Buckley fall madly in love with Raphael. But I can’t help noticing that he really doesn’t seem that interested in him.

After a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday to You—and three encores, coaxed by Raphael—the cake has been cut and devoured, Buckley drifts back over to Alexander and Joseph, and Raphael sidles up to me.

“You’ve got frosting smeared in your hair,” I say, wiping at it with a napkin.

“That’s not the only place I’ve ever had frosting smeared, Tracey,” he tells me with a wink. Only Raphael can wink and not look like somebody’s grandfather. “Listen, what’s up with my new man? Did you talk me up?”

“Definitely. I told him you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

“What did you find out about him?”

I sip a fresh daiquiri. They’re getting less slushy-sweet and more rummy as the night wears on, but at this point, nobody cares. “He said something about
how he’s just come out of a relationship with a guy who thought he wasn’t spontaneous enough.”

“Tracey, I’m spontaneous enough for both of us.” Raphael casts a lustful glance at Buckley. “What else did he say?”

“Not much. But I’m going to see
Flight of Fancy
with him tomorrow afternoon. I’ll try to find out more then.”

“You finally found somebody to see it with? Tracey, I’m so happy for you!” Raphael slings an arm across my shoulder. “Will Will be jealous?”

“Why would he be jealous of a gay man? Anyway, Will is never jealous. He trusts me,” I tell him.

Silence.

“What?” I demand, catching a dubious look on Raphael’s face. “He’s never jealous. Really!”

“I believe you. And Tracey, I think you should ask yourself why,” Raphael says cryptically.

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, but somebody is already pulling him away to join a conga line.