Slightly Single (7 page)

“Definitely,” I say, my mind whirling. This is far more exciting than my usual duties, like wrestling malfunctioning office equipment and scheduling his appointments with his personal trainer. An added bonus: It’s perfectly legal.

“What we’re dealing with here is a revolutionary roll-on deodorant that lasts all week,” Jake says, leaning forward.

“All week? Does it work?”

“Supposedly. See what you can come up with, okay? Remember. Confidential.”

“Sure.” This almost makes up for the parking ticket thing. Wait till everyone back home hears about this. Okay, maybe naming a new deodorant isn’t my dream claim to fame, but it’s definitely more glamorous than any opportunity you get back in Brookside.

“That’s it,” Jake says, picking up his basketball and aiming again.

“I can go?”

“See ya,” he tells me, and lets the ball sail into the air. “Yesss!” he hisses when he scores again.

I’m already out the door.

Latisha, Brenda and Yvonne are waiting for me in front of the building, smoking. They aren’t the only ones—the entryway is jammed with white-collar cigarette-toting refugees from the smoke-free offices above. Yvonne is forever talking about the good old days when you could have an ashtray on your desk and puff away to your heart’s content, before the militant nonsmokers intervened.

“It’s about time,” Brenda says, throwing down her cigarette butt and grinding it out with the impossibly pointy toe of her impossibly high-heeled white leather pump.

“Sorry. I was in with Jake.” I light a Salem and inhale deeply as we head down the street.

“What did he want?” Latisha asks. “Does he need you to pick up his dry cleaning again?”

“Not this time.” I debate whether I should tell them about the parking ticket, and decide against it.

Latisha and Yvonne are always telling me I need to stand up to Jake when he oversteps his boss-employee bounds. Brenda, who’s pretty much a doormat type, usually doesn’t jump on the band wagon.

The thing is, most of the time I don’t mind running personal errands for Jake.

Okay, I do mind. But not enough to confront him.

“So Will is leaving this weekend, huh?” Brenda asks in a way that makes it clear the three of them were discussing the situation before I showed up.

“Yeah, he’s outta here,” I say lightly, careful not
to burn a stroller-pushing nanny with my cigarette as I brush past her on the crowded sidewalk.

Lord, it’s sweltering out here—and crowded with sweat-soaked tourists, even though June has barely begun. I think about the long months ahead and decide that I’d rather spend the summer just about anywhere other than here. Even Brookside isn’t looking that bad at this point.

“Are you going to see other people while you’re apart?” Latisha wants to know.

“God, no!”

But I have to admit, an image of Buckley pops into my head.

“Is Will going to see other people?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Geez.”

Latisha’s silent, but I catch the look she sends the others.

I narrow my eyes at her as we stop on a corner for a Don’t Walk sign. “Why? You don’t think he’s going to be faithful?”

“Show me a faithful man and I’ll show you a eunuch,” trumpets the thrice-divorced Yvonne.

“That’s ridiculous,” I tell her. “Not all men cheat. My father doesn’t cheat on my mother.”

“How do you know, hon?”

“I just know.” And believe me, I do.

My father is still head over heels for my mother even after thirty-plus years of marriage. Don’t ask me
why. Sometimes it seems like all she ever does is nag him. And as I mentioned earlier, she’s overweight, mustachioed and fond of stretch pants, yet his pet name for her is
Bella
—Italian for “beautiful.” Proving love is blind. Which explains a lot of things—including the fact that Will is still with me.

“She’s right,” Brenda says. “Paulie doesn’t cheat.”

Paulie is her boyfriend, whom she’s been dating since they were in junior high. They’ve been engaged since the summer before they went to community college together, and now, three years later, the big event is coming up in July. It’s going to be held at a huge wedding hall out in Jersey, and we’re all invited, with dates.

When I got the invitation a few weeks ago my first thought was that it was sweet of Brenda to add me to the invite list since we’d only known each other a few months.

My second—and, might I add, completely asinine—thought was that Will would be able to come home to accompany me.

Naturally, he said he couldn’t get away from the theater, especially on a weekend.

I’m bringing Raphael in his place. I would just as soon have gone alone, but Latisha is bringing Anton and Yvonne is bringing Thor, her Swedish pen pal. She’s been corresponding with him since they were children, and they’re finally going to meet in person when he comes to New York on vacation next month.

Anton the skanky homeboy; Thor the foreign pen pal who reportedly speaks five languages, none of them English; and Raphael, homosexuality’s answer to the Baywatch babes, only sluttier.

Gotta love that dynamic trio.

“Of course Paulie doesn’t cheat,” Latisha tells Brenda in an almost-sincere, comforting tone. “Not everybody cheats—not that I’d bet my life on Anton’s fidelity. But Yvonne’s right—a lot of men can’t be trusted. And maybe Tracey shouldn’t just sit around twiddling her thumbs while Will’s away.”

“I’m not going to be twiddling my thumbs,” I protest.

“No? Then what are you going to do?” Yvonne asks.

“Improve myself.”

I confess, until this second, I hadn’t thought much about it. But the moment it pops out of my mouth, I decide it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. I’ll spend the summer on a self-improvement regimen.

“Improve yourself?” Yvonne echoes. “In what way, hon?”

“In every way. I’m going to lose weight. A lot of weight. I need to get into shape. And save money—maybe I can get a part-time job. I’ll have more time on my hands with Will gone.”

“A part-time job? Like what?”

“I don’t know…walking dogs. Or baby-sitting. And I’m finally going to get organized. And…and read classic literature…” I’m on a roll. Instant conviction.

“Good for you, girl,” Latisha says, high-fiving my hand that isn’t holding a cigarette.

“Yeah. I’m going to do everything I always say I should do. Except quit smoking,” I add hastily. If I quit smoking, I’d double my weight the first week. But the other stuff…

I can do it.

I know I can.

For the first time in weeks, I find myself almost looking forward to the upcoming months. I’m going to reinvent myself. When Will comes back, he won’t even recognize the new me. I’ll be skinnier than a female
Friend.
Skinnier than Lara Flynn Boyle.

Okay, maybe not that skinny. But I’ll look good. Damn good. I’ll even have a flattering new wardrobe and a chic haircut.

Will, of course, will be totally into the dazzling new Tracey. Next thing you know, we’ll be living together. Then getting married…

But I’m not doing this only for Will, I remind myself as we walk into the air-conditioned, dimly lit Mexican restaurant.

I’m doing it for me. So that I’ll feel good about myself for a change.

If it makes me irresistible to Will, I point out to my Will-obsessed side, that’s just an added bonus.

After all, you should never change yourself just because of a guy—that advice courtesy of Dear Abby, countless magazine articles I’ve read over the years and Andrea Antonowski, my best friend back home—
whose word I still tend to consider gospel since she’s never been without a boyfriend since we were in the sixth grade, and is now engaged to be married.

In a healthy relationship, you will love and accept each other just as you are.

Which is what Will and I have, I remind myself.

Otherwise, we wouldn’t still be together. Of course he accepts me just as I am. I guess I just don’t accept myself. I want to be better in every way.

Okay, mainly I want to
look
better. If I can get a savings account, organize my closet and read a few classics along the way, great. But my main goal for the summer is to finally lose weight.

So what’s wrong with that?

“You should try that cabbage-soup diet,” Brenda tells me. “One of my bridesmaids is going to make a copy for me so that I can lose five pounds before the wedding.”

“I need to lose ten times that,” I tell her, wedging myself between the hostess podium and a group of Japanese businessmen waiting for a table.

Brenda says nothing to that, but I find myself wishing she would. You know, that she—or Latisha or Yvonne—would say, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you’re not that overweight, Tracey.”

Even if it’s not true.

I try not to feel wounded. After all, do I really want my friends to lie to make me feel better?

Maybe.

“You should do the protein diet,” Latisha says. “You like bacon and steak, right?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Those diets don’t work,” Yvonne puts in, waving her manicured talons in dismissal. “You have to exercise. That’s the key. Start working out every day. Join a gym. Get a personal trainer.”

“Or join Weight Watchers,” Latisha recommends.

“Personal trainer? Weight Watchers? Who am I, the Duchess of York? I’m broke, guys, remember? I can’t afford to pay to lose weight.”

“Weight Watchers is cheap.”

“Not free cheap. I need free cheap.”

“Well, it doesn’t cost anything to starve yourself,” Brenda says. “Until you wind up in the anorexic ward of some hospital.”

I think of Sofia, my college friend—the one who taught me how to smoke to lose weight. Obviously, it worked for her, since she was in and out of the Cleveland Clinic a few times. Meanwhile, here I am three years later, with a pack-a-day habit and more inches to pinch than ever before.

“Don’t laugh. I know someone who ended up there,” Latisha tells her. “One of Je’Naye’s old friends, from before she fell in with the bad crowd. I can’t believe I used to worry
she’d
be a bad influence on my sister with all that dieting. That was nothing, compared to…Anyway, last I heard, Charmaine was in the hospital again.” She shakes her head, but her
expression has that faraway look she gets when she thinks about her dead sister.

None of us know what to say, and there’s a long moment of silence.

Then Brenda goes on, “Anyway, Tracey, cabbage is cheap. I’ll get you a copy of that diet. When are you going to start?”

“The second Will gets on the train,” I say. “By the time you guys see me on Monday, I’ll be on my way to becoming the new me.”

“How many?” the hostess cuts in, materializing in front of us after seating the group of businessmen.

“Four,” we say in unison.

As she leads us to our table, I make up my mind to go for full fat on the sour cream and cheddar. Sort of a last hurrah before I set out to release my inner Calista Flockhart.

I know what you’re thinking.

And I’ll admit, this isn’t the first time I’ve made big plans to lose weight. But this time, it’s going to work. I’m going to succeed if it kills me.

And not just on the diet. It’s everything. A whole life makeover. Starting on Sunday.

The only thing I have to do between now and then is psych myself up for it.

Oh, yeah.

And say goodbye to Will.

I
t might be easier if our last twenty-four hours together are really lousy.

You know, if we spend the time arguing or getting on each other’s nerves or bored stiff.

But it doesn’t happen that way.

Things with Will have been better this weekend than they’ve ever been before—or at least in a long time. Since the beginning.

It’s a big plus that Nerissa happens to be out of town with Broderick, because the weather is hot and sticky and I don’t have air-conditioning at my apartment. We’ve been able to have Will’s place to ourselves.

Not that we’ve spent all of our time hanging out there.

Friday night, he surprised me with tickets to see
Rent
on Broadway. He’s seen it a few times, but I never have. I know all the music because Will has the CD, and I’ve always wanted to go…probably because I can relate to the lyrics and the main characters, a bunch of down-and-out New Yorkers trying to make a living and pay rent on dumpy lower Manhattan apartments.

At least I’m not HIV positive, like most of the characters are. Too bad I can relate to their plight in pretty much every other way, although I’m not prone to outbursts of angst-ridden song when the going gets tough.

After the show, Will took me to dinner at a cabaret club where some of his friends perform. Nobody he knew was at the mike that night, but it didn’t matter. We were only half listening to the music. Mostly, we were talking.

I’m not sure what we were talking about, but we laughed a lot and we drank a lot of wine.

Then we went back to his place, where we had great sex for the first time in months. Maybe it was all the wine, or maybe it was the knowledge that we won’t be alone together again for weeks.

This morning when we woke up, we went out for bagels, then spent the day poking around in Soho, where Will bought me a cool pair of earrings and I bought him a carved wooden photo frame. I jokingly told him he could put a picture of me into it and pack it to bring it with him on the train, but when we got back to his place, that was exactly what he did. He
found this snapshot that wasn’t too horrible—one that I approved—and he stuck the frame into his shoulder bag.

Now, as we sit drinking pinot grigio after eating take-out Chinese, I find myself wondering why I was so worried about him leaving. He actually looks as though he wishes he weren’t going, and he’s told me more than once that he’s going to miss me.

“So it’ll probably fly by,” I say hopefully, leaning back against his bed. We’re sitting on the floor, the white cardboard take-out containers still spread out around us. A jazz CD is playing in the background.

“It’s three months,” he says, and I can’t tell if he’s agreeing or disagreeing with me.

“Think about how short a time three months really is,” I say. “I mean, three months ago, I was still temping. Now I’m working at Blaire Barnett…. Wait, Iguess that doesn’t prove my point, because it feels like I’ve worked there forever.”

Will smiles. “Okay, how about this? Three months ago was when I got that horrible stomach bug thing and you came over with seltzer and soda crackers. That doesn’t seem like it was so long ago, does it?”

Actually, it seems like ages ago. And I never should have gone over to play Clara Barton, because I came down with the stomach bug, too, and threw up while I was on the subway—an experience I wouldn’t recommend to anyone. Nobody helped me, and a group of teenage girls actually made fun of me.

“I have a better one,” I say, pushing away the un
pleasant memory. “It was around three months ago that we had that really warm day and neither of us had to work and we went to the Central Park Zoo on the spur of the moment. Remember?”

“That was three months ago?” he asks, leaning back so that his shoulder is against my shoulder and his legs are sprawled alongside mine. “I thought that was in May.”

“No, it was March. Remember?” I sling one of my legs across both of his, confidently stubble-free. I shaved this morning, now that it’s shorts season again. I’m wearing a pair of black denim cutoffs that are long enough to conceal the most jiggly, dimply part of my upper thighs. My skin is pure white and you can see faint dots on my lower legs where the hair follicles are, even though I’m clean-shaven. I’ve got a few black-and-blues on my shins, too. Lovely.

I vow that by the time Will comes back, I’ll not only have lost thirty or forty pounds, but I’ll have a tan—don’t ask me how. Maybe I can lie out on the roof of my building or something. And maybe I’ll even have my legs waxed so they’ll be smoother looking.

Will is pondering that day at the zoo. “Maybe it was April….”

“Trust me, it was March. That’s what was so cool about it—that it was the week before Saint Patrick’s Day and it was almost eighty degrees out and sunny. And we both had to buy sunglasses from that guy who
was selling them on the street, and he swore they were real Ray-Bans.”

“Yeah, right. Mine fell apart an hour later,” Will says, shaking his head.

“That day was really fun, Will.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

His voice is faraway and I wonder whether he’s thinking back to that day, or ahead to the immediate future without me.

I’m right back to feeling really down about him leaving.

Because, no matter how you look at it, three months is a long time.

It’s an entire season.

A quarter of a year.

A lot can happen in three months…not necessarily for the better.

“I wish you didn’t have to go,” I say, looking into his eyes. His face is really close to mine, and I can smell his cologne.

“But I do have to go.” He brushes a few strands of hair back from my cheek. “And I’ll be back right after Labor Day.”

“Yeah. And I’ll visit you up there.”

“Yeah.”

Only he doesn’t look that enthusiastic.

I feel a flicker of panic. My visiting him is something we’ve talked about in passing, but no definite plans have been made. Now I realize that I might be the one who’s always brought it up. I think back, try
ing to remember if he’s ever once told me he’s looking forward to me coming, and I can’t recall a single time.

“I won’t come until you get settled,” I say, wondering if he thinks I’ll be up there next weekend or something.

“Yeah.”

“Will, it’s okay if I visit you, isn’t it?” I say, watching him. “Because I really want to come see some of your performances…”

And I really have to check up on you and make sure you still love me.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Just so you know…I mean, I got the rules for the cast house in a package from the theater this week, and no overnight guests are allowed.”

“No overnight guests are allowed?” I repeat incredulously, thinking that it sounds like a circa 1940s sorority house. “But I thought the cast house was coed.”

“It is. It’s also really crowded. There’s no room for guests. Plus, I think they want us to focus on performing, and overnight guests would be a distraction.”

“Oh.”

“So you can come to visit for a weekend, but…Look, there are a lot of nice places up there. Motels and bed-and-breakfasts…”

“That would be nice.” I brighten, imagining Will and me spending a cozy weekend at a romantic country inn together. “Maybe when you have some spare
time you can scout out a place for us to stay when I come up.”

“Actually…”

Oh, geez, there’s that hesitant look again. Now what?

“I have to stay in the cast house, Trace. That’s another one of the rules. During the season performers aren’t allowed to be away overnight unless there’s some kind of emergency.”

“Wow. So do they read you bedtime stories and tuck you in, or what?”

He cracks a smile.

I’m barely kidding. “It sounds more like some kind of prison camp than a summer job, Will.”

“It’s important to be self-disciplined to make it in this business, Tracey. This experience is going to teach me a lot and help me make sure I have what it takes. I’m serious about this. I always have been. I want to make it. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”

What he doesn’t say—what he doesn’t have to say—is that he wants it more than he wants me.

That unspoken revelation shouldn’t be a surprise to me, but somehow it is. Somehow, I guess I thought that if he had to choose, he’d choose me.

The thing is, he shouldn’t have to choose. And he doesn’t have to choose.

But I think he has.

“Will, it’s fine,” I say, trying to push aside my hurt so that our last night isn’t ruined. “I’ll come up and
I’ll find a cute place to stay. Maybe they’ll even allow conjugal visits,” I joke.

He leans over and kisses me. “As far as I remember, there was nothing against that in the rules.”

It’s a quick, sweet kiss. Not a passionate one. Not the kind of kiss that’s meant to lead somewhere.

Not like the notorious Buckley kiss.

The very thought of that sends guilt churning through me. It’s been a few weeks now, but I still keep remembering exactly what it felt like to be kissed so unexpectedly—and so thoroughly—by a virtual stranger.

I didn’t tell anyone about that—not even Raphael. Especially not Raphael.

All I said to him, when he called me that Sunday night with an expectant “Well?” was that we were both mistaken, and that Buckley is heterosexual.

Naturally, Raphael doesn’t believe it. He thinks every decent-looking, well-dressed, remotely creatively employed man in New York is gay.

“Buckley might think he’s hetero,” he said, “but one of these mornings, Tracey, he’s going to wake up to find that closet claustrophobic and he’ll decide to come out of it at last. When he does, I’ll be waiting with open arms.”

That’s Raphael—ever optimistic.

Meanwhile, I’m currently consumed by pessimism—which happens to be a prominent Spadolini family trait—wishing Will would throw me down on the bed and ravish me.

He seems content to just sling an affectionate arm over my shoulder and say, “By the way, before I forget, I told Milos to call you if he finds himself short-handed this summer. I’m not the only one on the wait staff who’s abandoning him for summer stock.”

“You did? Thanks. I was thinking I might need to find a part-time job. I need to make some extra cash.”

“You’re in luck. He pays well and the tips are great. And I told him you have waitressing experience.”

“Yeah, if you can compare a high-school summer spent waiting tables at Applebee’s suitable experience for a Manhattan catering company serving the rich and famous.”

“Don’t be intimidated. Not all of Milos’s clients are rich and famous, Trace.”

“Oh, come on, Will. They might not be famous, but they’re not exactly middle-class. He charges more for a few dozen mini-quiche appetizers than I used to make in an entire day of temping.”

“True. Which is why you should help him out if he calls.”

“I will.”

It’ll be good to make some money on top of my measly salary. I haven’t yet told Will about the self-improvement plan I’m launching. I’ve decided to surprise him with the new me when he comes back in September.

Will yawns. “What time is it?”

I check my watch. “Almost eleven.”

“We should go to bed. I have to be up at five-thirty.”

I’m dreading that—saying goodbye to him in the cold, cruel light of dawn. We have less than eight hours left together, and he apparently intends to spend the bulk of it sleeping.

“Listen, I hate to make you get up that early,” he says. “You can stay in bed after I leave. Just lock up and leave my extra key downstairs with James.”

This catches me off guard.

He wants me to leave the key with the doorman…for the entire summer?

“Is that a good idea?” I ask. “I mean, shouldn’t I hang on to the key? That seems safer…”

“Nah, James will give it to Nerissa when she gets back tomorrow,” he says, extracting his legs from mine and getting up off the floor.

I’ve gone all shrill inside—
He’s not leaving me his extra key?
—yet my voice comes out deceptively calm. “But Nerissa doesn’t really need two keys, does she? I mean, if she ever locked herself out, she could just have James let her in…”

Will has stopped brushing invisible dust from the floor off his khaki shorts, and he just looks at me. “What’s wrong, Trace?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. “I just thought maybe you’d leave me your key. I mean, I can water your plants for you—”

“Nerissa’s going to take care of that.”

“Oh. Well, the other thing is, I don’t have air-
conditioning and summers in the city are so hot…I thought that if it got to be too sweltering, I could come over here to cool off.”

He doesn’t flinch or look away, which I take as a good sign until he says, “See, I thought about doing that, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea. It wouldn’t really be fair to Nerissa to have you showing up unexpectedly. I mean, she’s counting on having the place to herself for the summer…”