Slightly Single by Wendy Markham
I guess he didn’t believe my story about getting food poisoning from some bad clams. That seemed like a viable excuse to me. People get sick from raw seafood all the time.
Now Jake says, “I need you to run an errand for me.”
“Okay…”
“I need you to go over to the Orvis store and pick up something I ordered. They just called and said it came in.”
“Okay.”
Another personal errand.
Latisha and Yvonne keep telling me I should stop doing stuff for him. They’re going to give me a hard time when they find out about this. Brenda would understand, but she’s off in Aruba on her honeymoon.
“I already gave them my credit card number over the phone,” Jake says. “So it’s paid for. All you have to do is pick it up.”
“Okay.”
He doesn’t even say thanks as I head out the door.
As I walk over to Orvis, smoking a cigarette, I think about the upcoming visit with Will. He hasn’t called me yet, but I’m sure he will tonight. He’d better, because I’m working for Milos tomorrow and Friday.
When I reach the store and the salesman retrieves Jake’s order, I’m stunned.
It’s an enormous fly fishing pole.
The kind of fly fishing pole you can’t carry down a Manhattan street without attracting the undivided attention of every oversexed construction worker, leering flyer hawker and various other forms of urban low-life.
The giant phallic prop I’m lugging is not lost on any of them. I get a flurry of lewd comments, assorted kissing noises, a couple of butt pinches, and an incoherent marriage proposal from a guy wearing a plastic visor and a sandwich board.
By the time I get back to my building, I’m livid.
I march toward Jake’s office carrying the fishing pole.
Yvonne is just coming out of her cube. She takes one look at me and summons Latisha.
“This can’t be happening,” Latisha says, gaping. “This can’t be happening.”
“Oh, it’s happening,” I say, forging onward.
“Girl, you’ve got to put him in his place.”
“That’s what I’m going to do.”
“Are you going to quit?” Yvonne asks.
“Quit?” I stop walking. “No!”
“Good,” Latisha says. “You just tell him he can’t get away with this stuff anymore. Tell him you’ll report him to human resources if he doesn’t straighten out.”
“I will,” I vow. But I’ve lost a little steam.
I was so angry I hadn’t thought about what I was actually going to do about this.
“Go on,” Yvonne says, giving me a little nudge toward Jake’s office.
I start walking again, with a purpose. They’re right. I have to stand up for myself. Jake is totally taking advantage.
I’m all geared up to tell him off—in a professional way, of course.
But when I get to his office, it’s locked.
In my cube, I find a note from him saying that he’s gone to a meeting at the client’s offices and won’t be back in the office until tomorrow. The note says that I should lock the fishing pole in the storage closet.
I’m tempted to leave it right out in the open and let Myron and company do what they will with it.
But it turns out that I can’t.
I lock the pole into the storage closet.
And I leave the office at five on the dot.
I walk all the way home, swiftly.
I’m soaked with sweat when I get there. I strip off the dress and toss it into the pile of stuff for the dry cleaner. I put on shorts and a T-shirt.
I put a small potato into the microwave. Then I cut it open, top it with leftover steamed broccoli and a piece of fat free cheese. I dump salsa all over the whole thing. It doesn’t taste that bad when I use enough salt.
While I eat, I read a chapter of Gulliver’s Travels.
Then I go through my wardrobe, trying on clothes and trying to put together a couple of decent outfits to wear this weekend. I come up with nothing. Half of my clothes are too baggy now—not that I’m complaining—and the stuff that fits looks really dated.
I count the money in my Prego jar. I still haven’t gotten to the bank with it, but I will. This week. Definitely.
I’ve saved almost fourteen hundred bucks so far.
It won’t hurt if I take some out for a new outfit or two. I deserve it.
I count out two hundred dollars and stick it into my wallet. Tomorrow, I’ll go shopping during my lunch hour. Maybe I’ll go over to French Connection.
Hmm.
I count out another hundred bucks.
Then, inspired by the thought of new clothes, I pop my workout tape into the VCR. Now that I know the steps so well, it’s pretty much effortless. Fun, even…when I’m in the mood.
I’m in the mood tonight.
The phone rings just as I’m finishing the cool-down.
I leap for it, knowing it’s Will.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
“Buckley!”
I look at the clock. Will might be trying to call me. But I can talk to Buckley for a few seconds. I don’t have call waiting, but Will will try back if the line is busy.
Of course he will.
And anyway, what are the chances that he’ll choose this particular minute to call when I’ve been waiting at home for the phone to ring all night?
“Haven’t talked to you since Saturday,” Buckley says. “I’ve been on a deadline all week. I still am, actually. But I wanted to call just to say hey.”
“I’m glad you did.”
We talk about his freelance assignment, which somehow segues into a debate about whether Jimmy Stewart is dead. Buckley swears he isn’t, and I’m positive he is.
“I know he died a few years back, Buckley.”
“I don’t think so. That was Donna Reed. They did a whole thing about It’s a Wonderful Life on the news.”
“Well, they did it when Jimmy Stewart died, too.”
“It can’t be, Trace. I just saw him on some talk show.”
“So did I. Leno, right?”
“I think it was Letterman.”
“Whatever. It was a repeat. I’m telling you, he’s dead.”
“I’m going to find out,” Buckley says. “I swear to God. I’m going to show you that you’re wrong.”
“What are you going to do for proof? Show up on my doorstep with Jimmy Stewart?”
“Think you’re quite the little Quipster, huh? Actually, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“So who’s going to help you dig him up?”
We both get hysterical, envisioning this whole scenario like something out of the movie Weekend at Bernie’s. We’re laughing so hard we both keep making this snorting noise, which makes it even funnier.
I guess you had to be there.
The thing is, I’m having such a good time talking to Buckley that I forget all about Will.
Then I remember.
Then I stop laughing.
“You know what?” I say to Buckley. “I’ve got to go. I’m waiting for this call….”
“From who? Will?” he asks.
I’m surprised Buckley remembers his name. “Yeah. I’m going up there to see him this weekend.”
“Hey, cool. I guess it worked out, then, huh, even though—”
“I made an ass out of myself the night I called him? I don’t know yet. I mean, he seems to have forgiven me, but I’m not sure he gets what was happening.” I’m not sure I get what was happening. I need to change the subject. “What about you? How was your date with Sonja on Sunday?”
“So much fun that we went out again Tuesday.”
Really? I thought he was on a deadline.
“Where’d you go?”
“To dinner, and then to this Learning Annex lecture on meditation. I was the only guy there. I can’t figure out if it made me feel like Sean Connery or Just Jack.”
“I thought you were
At least, I meant it to come out teasingly.
But for some reason, I kind of bark it.
“Hey, man cannot live by copywriting alone,” Buckley says lightly. “Okay, you’d better go. I know that Will—”
“Yeah, he’s probably trying to call. So what are you doing this weekend? Seeing Sonja again?” I ask casually.
“Nah. This is her weekend to go out to the beach. She’s got a half share in Westhampton.”
Of course she does.
“So listen, have a great time with Will,” Buckley says sincerely.
“I will.”
“How are you getting up there?”
“How else?”
“You’re driving up in your new Beemer?”
“Actually, it’s in the shop so I’m taking a bus.”
There’s a pause.
I know what he’s thinking.
“Trace, you’ll be fine,” he says quietly.
“I hope so.”
“Look, if you have another panic attack, you should really think about seeing someone about it.”
“Seeing someone? You mean a shrink?”
“A therapist. It can help. I have the name of someone who helped me a lot, after my dad died.”
“I can’t go to Long Island to see a shrink,” I say, because I have to say something.
“Her office is here. On Park and Twenty-ninth.”
“Oh.”
“Just think about it, Tracey.”
“Yeah, I will,” I say quickly.
It’s not that I’m embarrassed, because strangely, I’m not. If it were anyone else, I would be. But there’s something about Buckley that removes all my defenses. I’ve been myself with him right from the start, not worried about what he thinks of me. And it’s not just because I’m not interested in dating him, because I’m more comfortable with him than I am with my other friends, like Kate, and Raphael, and everyone at work.
Buckley and I just clicked.
And even though we’ve only known each other a few weeks, I can tell he’s going to be a really good friend—someone I can confide in.
“Go,” he says. “Will’s probably getting a busy signal.”
“How do you know I don’t have call waiting or voice mail?”
“Because I’ve gotten a busy signal a few times when I’ve tried calling you,” he says lightly. “Have fun this weekend, Tracey. And listen…”
“Yeah?”
“Call me if you need to. Collect.”
“That’s crazy! I would never call anyone collect unless it was an emergency.”
“So if you have an emergency, call me.”
“Buckley, I’ll be fine.”
“I know, but if you’re not, I’ll be here, writing the cover flap for the latest installment in that talking parrot detective series. Trust me. No interruption will be unwelcome.”
“Okay.”
I hang up.
For a foolish moment, I hold the cordless receiver in my hand, looking at it expectantly.
It doesn’t take the hint and ring.
Nor does it ring when I put it down and try to pretend I’m interested in a breaking news bulletin about a plane crash in Japan.
In fact, it doesn’t ring until I’m dozing in front of Conan O’Brien.
“Collect call from Will McCraw,” a robotic voice says.
And for a split second, I’m tempted not to accept it.
But of course I do.
“Trace? Did I wake you up?” Will’s voice asks, unapologetic.
“Of course not. I always stay up till at least 1:30 a.m. on work nights. It helps keep me fresh.”
At least he has the grace to say, “Sorry.” Unapologetically.
There’s a lot of noise in the background.
More noise than the usual cast house banter and giggles.
In fact, I think I can hear a live band.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“At this bar,” he says. “We had a rough dress rehearsal today, and everyone needed to blow off a little steam. I completely forgot I was supposed to call you.”
Normally, I would let him off the hook. But maybe I’m cranky because I’ve been sleeping. Maybe I’m not loving the image of Will blowing off a little steam in some bar with a live band. Or maybe it’s time to stop letting him off the hook.
Whatever. I hear myself say, “Great. Thanks a lot.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just can’t believe you could forget to call me when you know we have to make plans for the weekend.”
“The weekend is still two days away.”
“And you know I have to work for Milos for the next two nights. I won’t be home till late.”
“So what’s the problem? I’d just have called you late.”
“Obviously, that’s no problem for you.” I hate the way I sound, but I can’t help it. I’m pissed.
“Why are you being so bitchy?”
I don’t answer him. Because I can’t answer him.
“Look, maybe we should just forget it,” he says.
Stab of panic. “Forget what?”
“Your coming up here this weekend.”
Oh. Thank God.
Not that I want to forget the visit, but I thought he meant the whole thing. Us.
“I don’t need this right now. I’m under a lot of pressure to carry this show. I’ve got a lot riding on it, and I don’t need…”
He trails off.
I’m tempted to prod him into finishing the sentence.
But I don’t really want to hear the rest.
“I’m sorry, Will,” I force myself to say.
Because I can’t not go up there this weekend. If I don’t see him this weekend…
Well, I have to see him. That’s all there is to it.
“I’m just exhausted, and it scared me when the phone rang at this hour. I didn’t mean to be a bitch.”
He says, “Okay.”
But not right away.
He pauses a few seconds, and I spend those seconds anticipating rejection.
He tells me he got me a reservation at the B&B where Esme’s parents stayed. He says it’s not far from the cast house. He also says that it costs almost two hundred dollars a night.
“Is that a problem?” he asks.
And I realize that I’ll be paying for my own room.
Well, what did I expect?
He’s not making much money doing theater this summer. Much less than he makes in New York, working for Milos.
And now I’m working for Milos, so I’ve got extra money.
I get his logic.
But there’s a part of me that wishes he would tell me not to worry about what the room costs, because he’s paying for it.
Or even, he’s going to split the cost with me.
But he doesn’t say that.
He says, “Is that a problem?”
And I say, “Of course not. I can’t wait to see you.”
Eighteen
When the bus pulls into North Mannfield, Will is waiting exactly where he said he’d be: on a bench in front of the little luncheonette that doubles as a bus station.
Naturally, he looks fantastic.
But then, so do I.
I’m wearing a new, body-skimming, short summer dress. Black, of course. I tried it on in more colorful shades, but I’m not ready for that yet. Black is slimming. And even though I’m slimmer than I used to be—I’ve lost another two pounds in the past two days, thanks to virtual starvation in anticipation of the weekend—I’m still not as slim as I’d like. I’m not as slim as Esme.
How do I know that when I’ve never seen her?
Trust me. I know.
I know in the same way I know that she’s the one I have to worry about. It’s not that Will has even mentioned her name more than once or twice in passing. But something about the way he’s mentioned her name—or maybe just her name itself, Esme—piqu
I hurtle myself into Will’s arms when I get off the bus.
“Hey, where’s the rest of you?” he asks, looking me up and down.
I know I should be flattered. He’s noticed the new me.
But it’s the way he says it.
Where’s the rest of you?
I know it’s a compliment, but it’s vaguely insulting to my pre-summer self, who lurks closer than I want to admit. And I feel like I’m betraying her when I grin and say, “I sweated her off back in the city. God knew I needed to lighten my load.”
“You look really good,” he says, and now he’s being sweet, and I don’t even cringe when he hugs me. Usually, all I can think is that his hands are feeling the fat bulges around my bra straps. But this time, I allow myself to savor the feel of his arms around me.
He smells so intensely like Will that I bury my head in his neck and inhale deeply, wanting to get enough Will scent into my nose so that I can keep it to take back to New York with me.
He laughs.
“What are you doing?”
“Sniffing you,” I say. “Your cologne always smells so good. And you smell different now, too…like coconut lotion or something.”
“Sunscreen,” he says.
That’s when I notice he’s got a tan.
Will never gets a tan. He says it’ll wrinkle his skin, make him old before his time, rule out roles that call for youthful-looking actors.
“You’re tanned, Will!” I inform him.
“It’s not real,” he says with a grin. “Actually, I’m covered in number 45 SPF. But one of the girls uses this self-tanner stuff, and she’s been putting it on me to give me some color.”
Self-tanner stuff? She’s been putting it on him?
I picture Will being lotioned by a strange girl—not woman but girl, as he oh-so-chummily put it.
Will picks up my bag, which I unceremoniously dumped at his feet when I leapt on him.
I notice that the air is far less humid than it was back in New York, and refreshingly cool. I could get used to this.
“How was the trip?” Will asks, leading the way down the street.
Well, I had a panic attack somewhere around Albany.
But other than that…
“Fine,” I say breezily. “I got a lot of reading done.”