Slightly Single Read online

  “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.

  Seven

  It 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 unpleasant 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, trying 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…”

  “Oh. I mean, that’s okay, Will, I just—I understand. It’s fine.”

  But it isn’t. He’s not leaving me his key, and it sucks. I feel like I’m going to cry.

  I need a distraction—something to show him that I’m okay. I glance around, and my gaze falls on the pad of paper and pen he keeps handy by the phone.

  I walk over and grab it, saying, “Before I forget, can you give me your phone number at the cast house? Just in case I can’t get you on your cell. I’ll put the number in my Palm Pilot when I get home, because I forgot to bring it with me….”

  I notice that a shadow has crossed his face and he is shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

  Not a good sign.

  “Trace, the thing is…”

  I don’t believe this.

  “What? You’re not allowed to talk on the phone there, either?”

  “There is no phone. I mean, there’s a pay phone for making outgoing calls…”

  “And it doesn’t take incoming calls?”

  “Maybe it does. I don’t know. I’ll find out when I get there, but I don’t have the number now. The thing is, there are going to be mor
e than two dozen of us living there, with one phone, and we’ll be in rehearsals or performing most of the time…so I guess what I’m trying to tell you is, the phone isn’t going to be the best way for us to keep in touch.”

  “What about your cell phone?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, you can try me on it, but I don’t know how often I’ll have it turned on. I wouldn’t want it ringing during rehearsals….”

  Okay, I’m getting pissed off. I can’t help it. “I guess e-mail is out, too.”

  “If I had a laptop that would be good…but I don’t.”

  “So we’ll write letters the old-fashioned way?” It’s all I can do to feign nonchalance and mask the sarcasm that wants to infiltrate my tone. “Great. We can be pen pals like Yvonne and Thor. That’ll be romantic.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind,” I tell him, heading for the bathroom. “Mind if I go in first?”

  “No, it’s fine. I want to recheck my bag to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. I’ll be in a rush in the morning.”

  Yeah. In a rush to get out of here, away from me…

  Maybe that’s not fair.

  I know it’s not as though he’s leaving New York to get away from me. But right now, what’s the difference?

  I barely get the bathroom door closed before the tears start. I turn on the water and flush the toilet a few times to muffle the huge gasping sobs I can’t hold back any longer.

  When I come out, he’s zipping his bag, looking chipper. “Everything’s set,” he informs me.

  I keep my face turned away so he won’t see that my eyes are swollen. “Good.”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  While he’s in the bathroom, I turn out the lights and climb into his bed.

  I wish I could say that he comes out, takes me into his arms and tenderly makes love to me—and that it makes everything all right between us.

  But it doesn’t happen like that.

  We make love, but I make the first move…almost out of desperation, needing to prove that everything’s okay.

  He goes along with it. But it’s awkward, mechanical, and…I don’t know. Maybe cold is too strong a word.