Slightly Single (9 page)

Not that there’s anything half-full about this particular glass—meaning, Will’s leaving me.

But there are plenty of instances where my sister has reacted negatively to something in my life instead of trying to be encouraging.

Like, when I found this apartment and told Mary Beth about it, her reaction wasn’t that it was cool that I’d found my own affordable place, it was that I had agreed to pay a ridiculous amount of rent for a place that doesn’t even have a separate bedroom.

You’d think I’d be used to her by now, but she’s getting on my nerves. “You know what? I have to go now. I’m meeting my friends for lunch.”

“Which friends?”

“Kate and Raphael.” As if it makes a difference. She’s never met any of my New York friends.

“Raphael…isn’t he the homosexual?”

It’s all I can do not to burst out laughing, not just at the word, but at the painstaking, Brookside way she says it, and the way she puts a “you” in the final two
syllables. As in “ho-mo-sex-you-al,” instead of “ho-mo-sek-shoe-al.”

Or “gay.”

“Yep,” I tell Mary Beth, “he’s the one.”

I can tell she’s struggling to be open-minded. “Well, have fun, Tracey. Oh, and maybe you should think about coming home for Mom and Dad’s anniversary next month. We’re thinking of having a party for them. It’s their thirty-fifth.”

“I don’t know…it’s hard for me to get time off from work.” I haven’t earned any vacation days yet—I won’t be able to take one until after I’ve been there for six months, but Latisha says sometimes you can squeak through with one day, depending on your boss.

Hopefully Jake will let me take a long weekend at some point—which I intend to use to visit Will, not to go back home to Brookside.

“See what you can do, Tracey. Even if you just come for a weekend. You haven’t been home since Easter. The boys miss you.”

“I’ll try,” I say, caught off guard by a wave of homesickness. It’s because she mentioned the boys, my nephews. Her son Vince—Vincent Carmine Rizzo, Junior, but thank God nobody ever calls him that—is four. Nino is almost three. They both have curly black hair and big dark flashing eyes and chubby little bodies, and I adore them. They’re always jumping all over me, wanting me to carry them around, smothering me with kisses and hugs.

If they were around today, I wouldn’t be feeling so bereft about Will’s leaving.

“See what you can do about getting here. We all miss you,” my sister says.

“I’ll try,” I say again.

But this time I actually mean it.

We hang up. I take another sip of water…still lukewarm…and make a face.

Then I call Raphael.

He and Kate have already made plans. He informs me that we’re all going to brunch at a new place at Fourteenth Street and Avenue A, not far from my apartment. He’ll see me there at twelve-thirty.

Just as we hang up, I hear a male voice in the background. Apparently, Raphael didn’t spend the night alone. As I replace the receiver and go over to the stove to check my hot dogs, I wonder if he’ll bring his new man to brunch.

Thinking of Raphael’s love life brings to mind an image of Buckley O’Hanlon.

Along with it comes the crazy notion that if Will dumps me over the summer, I can always go out with Buckley.

I stop short, my hand poised in midair over the frying pan handle.

What am I thinking?

Will isn’t going to dump me!

My God, that’s not even an option.

Besides, if Will ever did dump me, I wouldn’t re
place him. I couldn’t. He and I have this whole history….

This whole future, if all goes the way I assume it will.

Yes, Buckley O’Hanlon is a cute, available guy who happens to have kissed me.

Yes, I could be attracted to someone like that if it weren’t for Will.

But Will is in my life, and he’s going to stay in my life.

My heart hurts just thinking of the alternative.

I grab the handle and jiggle the frying pan a little, tossing the hot dogs around to make sure they’re evenly browned in the butter. Then I dump them on a plate, smother them with ketchup and mustard and gobble them down.

It doesn’t occur to me until I’m washing the plate and pan ten minutes later that condiments might be off-limits on this diet. That I probably should have checked into it before I indulged.

And that I probably shouldn’t have eaten so soon after breakfast and so close to the time I’m meeting Raphael and Kate for lunch.

But, I argue with my disapproving self, I was already heating the hot dogs, and they wouldn’t be good later.

Besides, I was hungry. As usual.

I promise myself that I’ll just have coffee while Kate and Raphael eat.

But as I round the corner from Avenue B onto East
Fourteenth Street a little over an hour later, I realize I’m hungry again. Okay, what’s up with that? I thought eating a lot of protein was supposed to keep you fuller longer, but apparently that’s not the case.

Maybe the protein diet isn’t such a good idea.

Kate is already at the small restaurant when I get there. She’s lingering just inside the door, reading the reviews posted on the wall.

She’s wearing a pale yellow sleeveless linen shift and matching flats, and her blond hair is pulled back in a clip. She looks like she should be at a garden party in Connecticut instead of in this dimly lit dive that features typically East Village eccentric decor.

The walls are painted deep red, the floor in black and white zebra stripes dotted with the occasional neon-purple splotch. Dozens of mobiles are suspended from the ceiling, made up of bent cutlery dangling from yellow yarn tied to ordinary wire hangers. They twirl slowly in the warm breeze from the low-hanging ceiling fans.

A bar runs the length of the place, and the rest of the room is occupied by sturdy-looking round plastic tables and chairs painted in psychedelic colors.

The Rob Lowe clone behind the bar motions for us to sit anywhere.

We choose a table closest to the propped-open door. The place isn’t air-conditioned, and the fans don’t cool things off in the least.

Two other tables are occupied; otherwise, the place is empty.

“So…are you okay?” Kate asks in her sultry Southern accent the moment we’re seated. Her perfectly made-up features are concerned.

“Why? Don’t I look okay?”

“You look kind of…sad.”

Is it that obvious? I thought I was coming across as breezy and contented. At least, that’s what I was aiming for.

“Well, of course I’m
sad.
” I reach for a menu from the laminated pile of them propped between the salt and pepper shakers. “Will’s only been gone for a few hours. But I’ll get used to it.”

“Maybe it’ll even be good for you, being away from him. It’ll give you a chance to…to…”

I wait patiently for her to come up with something, though I know she wants me to rescue her.

“It’ll give you a chance to find out who you are without him,” she finally says. “To explore the inner you.”

“Thank you, Oprah.”

“I’m trying to be supportive. You know, to find the silver lining.”

“That’s better than my sister did when I spoke to her a little while ago. She said I must be devastated.”

“Are you?”

Of course.

“Of course not!” I stare at the menu. “
Devastated
is such a strong word. People are
devastated
when their husband leaves them for another woman. They’re devastated when they lose a child. Or a job. Or maybe
even when they break up. Will and I aren’t breaking up—we’re only apart for a few months.”

I’m talking too much.

She nods.

“Look at military wives,” I say, gaining momentum. Help! Let me stop talking!

But I can’t.

I rattle on, “Military husbands take off for months at a time on a regular basis. They go overseas, and they go on dangerous missions…I mean, I would be devastated if Will were overseas on a dangerous mission, but for God’s sake, he’s doing summer theater two hundred miles away from here…if that.”

Kate nods again.

I can tell by her expression that she sees right through me. The fact is, the Valley Playhouse might as well be behind enemy lines.

I tell Kate, “There are no land mines up in North Mannfield, last I heard.”

No, but there are actresses.

Actresses who will be sharing a house with actors, most of whom—if the statistics of the theater department back at Brookside University hold true in the grand scheme of things—will be homosexual. Even if Will has every intention of being faithful and celibate—which I’m sure he does—it’s not going to be easy.

I picture him, the only hetero male in the house, surrounded by bold, nubile nymphets—his own per
sonal Temptation Island. Then I realize Kate is talking to me.

I blink. “What?”

“I said, why don’t you come out to the beach house with me next Saturday? It’s my first weekend there.”

“Maybe I will.”

Yeah, sure.

I don’t mean it. The beach isn’t my favorite place. The last time I wore a bathing suit was three summers ago. I brought it with me to New York because I brought everything I own with me to New York, but I never really expected to wear it here. Or anywhere.

Ever again.

Kate is saying, “I’m probably going to take Friday off and make it a long weekend, but you can come out first thing Saturday. It’ll be fun.”

And I’m thinking, no way in hell am I going to a beach with someone who looks like she just stepped out of an ad for a Carribbean vacation. Kate is the slim, bikini-clad honey blonde walking the beach with her sandals dangling from her hand. Put me next to her, and it’s goodbye, Carribbean vacation ad, hello Before and After weight loss ad—from the neck down. You know, where the svelte, smiling beauty claims that just six weeks ago, she was an unsightly, porcine slob. Then she started taking Extra Strength Nutrisvelte before every meal, and
voila`!

Raphael breezes in as I study the menu and listen to Kate chatter about the other people who are doing a half share on her weekends.

Raphael’s wearing designer sunglasses, a sleeveless orange shirt tucked into tight cut-offs and espadrilles, and he’s carrying a black shoulder bag not unlike mine and Kate’s. He couldn’t look more flaming fashionista if his toenails were painted. In fact, I check under the table to make sure they aren’t.

He hugs us both, plops himself down and says, behind a cupped hand, “Is that bartender a hot tamale or what?”

“There are three things that are certain in this life,” Kate drawls, “death, taxes and Raphael’s libido.”

“If it gets any hotter in here, he’ll have to take off his shirt,” Raphael decides, wiping a trickle of sweat from his glistening forehead and throwing a lusty gaze at the unwitting bartender.

“If it gets any hotter in here, I’ll have to take off my shirt,” I inform him. “And trust me, it won’t be a pretty sight.”

“Speaking of pretty, did Will get off okay, Tracey?” Raphael asks.

Kate snorts at that.

I ignore her, and tell Raphael that yes, he’s gone. “And don’t ask me if I’m devastated, okay? Because I’m not.”

“Of course you’re not. You look fabulous.”

“There are four things in life that are certain,” I announce. “Death, taxes, Raphael’s libido and Raphael’s bullshit.”

“Tracey! That’s not nice. I was offering you a compliment, and I meant it,” he says in a tone that isn’t
the least bit wounded. “So what are we having? Bloodies? Mimosas? Or should we go right for the hard stuff? In which case I’ll take the bartender.”

“I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” I say.

“Mimosa for me,” Kate decides.

“I’ll go with your choice, Tracey. I’m in the mood for something spicy. Like a Bloody Mary. Or—”

“The bartender,” Kate and I say in unison.

I touch Raphael’s arm, dragging his attention away from the current object of his fickle affections. “Raphael, who was that man I heard in the background when I called you this morning? I thought you were still pining away over Buckley O’Hanlon.”

“Who’s Buckley O’Hanlon?” Kate wants to know.

“Remember him from my birthday party, Kate? Oh, that’s right, you had that mustache problem and had to leave early.”

“It was not a mustache problem!” Kate injects indignantly, checking over her shoulder to make sure the two men at the neighboring table haven’t overheard. One is wearing a turban, the other has a tattoo and they seem deeply engrossed in their own conversation, which isn’t in English.

Raphael has gone on without missing a beat. “Buckley was the cute guy in the sweater—the one who came with Joseph and Alexander. He’s writing the copy for their new brochure. Kate, Tracey was supposed to fix me up with him, but she seduced him instead.”

“I did not!” I shriek. In a moment of weakness, I
recently told him what really happened on our “date.” Dumb move.