Slightly Settled Page 9

  What if Jack’s right and she really is evil?

  Hard to tell, at this point, whom to believe.

  “Why is Mike with Dianne?” I ask. “Because she’s pretty?”

  “Pretty? Dianne?” He shudders.

  “I think she is. I’ve seen her pictures.” Framed, on every surface in Mike’s office. She’s perky-looking, with a dark pageboy and elfin features.

  “Forget it. Let’s not talk about Dianne. It puts me in a bad mood.”

  “Sorry.”

  He pulls me toward him. “Want to know what puts me in a good mood? One guess.”

  “Um, Christmas shopping?” I laugh. A girly giggle-laugh, the kind that tends to spurt out of me without warning when I’m flirting.

  Jack kisses me. “Wrong. Not Christmas shopping.”

  “Can you give me a hint?”

  He nuzzles my neck.

  I guess again.

  And this time, I’m right.

  Along about noon, we wake up again.

  “So you really want to go Christmas shopping, Tracey?”

  “Definitely!” Down, girl. “I mean, if you do.”

  “Sure. Can I take a shower?” Jack asks, sitting up and stretching as I ogle his naked back from my pillow.

  “Go ahead. The bathroom’s that way.” I point, like he could possibly get lost in an apartment the size of a ring box.

  An engagement ring box that contains a pear-shaped diamond on a platinum band…

  Mental Note: You are not, nor will you ever be, engaged to Jack. One does not go directly from Christmas Party Don’t to I Do. Period.

  Fantasy curtailed.

  As much as I’d love to check out Jack’s bare butt as he walks naked toward the bathroom, I’m just not that brazen in the broad light of day. I roll over and stare at the wall, content to relive every moment of this morning’s encounter.

  Jack goes into the bathroom and comes right out again.

  “Tracey? Do you want to, uh, take your stuff out of the tub?”

  “What stuff?”

  “Your panties?”

  My panties?

  My panties aren’t in the tub; they’re somewhere in the heap of hastily discarded clothes by the bed.

  But he’s waiting, so I wrap myself in my quilt and hoof it barefoot from the drafty parquet floor to the ice-rink-like ceramic tile.

  There, I gaze in absolute horror at the zebra-print thong draped over the faucet in the tub.

  It’s panties, all right. But it’s sure as hell not my panties.

  “Those belong to a friend,” I say.

  Jack just looks at me like he’s a cop and I’m a shirtless stoner trying to explain away the baggie of pot in my pocket.

  “Really,” I say.

  Yeah. Uh-huh.

  I take a deep breath. “My friend Raphael spent the night here last night because his apartment was being fumigated, and he must have forgotten them.” Then, lest Jack get the wrong idea, I hastily add, “Raphael’s gay.”

  As if that were necessary.

  As if any remotely heterosexual man would be caught dead in a zebra-striped thong.

  “You don’t say,” Jack replied dryly.

  “So you can just move his, uh, panties and—”

  “That’s okay. You can move them.”

  “I can?”

  He grins and steps aside with a sweeping gesture at the tub. “Be my guest.”

  I stare at the panties.

  Cue Jaws music.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Jack.

  In the three-linoleum-tiles-long patch of floor that is my kitchenette, I grab a long-handled, two-pronged barbecue fork left behind by a previous tenant. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it since I moved in, since God only knows why anyone would need a barbecue fork in a Manhattan studio.

  Returning to the bathroom, I find Jack still eyeing Raphael’s panties with repugnance. He doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see me armed with a fork. Nor does he offer to take the fork and be my hero.

  Terrific.

  I gingerly approach the tub, spear the panties with a deft stab of the fork and shudder.

  “Now what?” Jack asks, amused.

  I carry the panties to the kitchen garbage can, step on the pedal that raises the lid and deposit them into the trash.

  “That’s what,” I say, removing my foot from the pedal and closing the lid with a clank.

  “What if your friend comes looking for his, uh, panties?” Jack asks from the bathroom doorway, amused.

  “Sadly, he probably won’t even miss them. I’m beginning to suspect he’s the kind of guy who leaves his panties all over town.”

  Jack just laughs and heads for the shower as I return to the warm, rumpled bed and my naked Jack—but not fiancé Jack—fantasies.

  You would think Christmas shopping with someone you barely know on the day after you slept with him would be extremely awkward.

  You would think there would be nothing to talk about, and the crowds would get on your nerves and you’d both make excuses to cut the day short.

  You would be so wrong.

  Shopping with Jack is the most fun I’ve had since…

  Well, ever.

  I really wish I were exaggerating, but I’m not.

  Shopping with Jack isn’t as intense as shopping with Raphael, and it isn’t as exhausting as shopping with Kate.

  Shopping with Jack ranks right up there with shopping with Buckley; Jack makes me laugh just as hard as Buckley does. The reason this is better is because Jack and I hold hands, and we keep stopping to kiss.

  We spend the whole afternoon browsing around the Village, buying stuff. At one point, when the rain briefly turns to flurries of snow, Jack sings “Winter Wonderland.”

  He sings it horribly off-key but he doesn’t care, and neither do I.

  I can’t help comparing Jack to Will, who, when he sang in public, always seemed to expect people to stop and listen and applaud.

  Not Jack. He just sings because he wants to, and he doesn’t give a damn who hears or what they think. I even join in. When I was with Will, I never dared sing out loud, for fear he would criticize my vocal talent—or lack thereof.

  But with Jack, I sing my heart out, and it feels great.

  I only think of Will two other times all day: once when Jack and I pass the cabaret place where Will and I went on our first date after I moved to New York, and once when, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see him walk by. I do a double take. It isn’t him. In fact, it’s a black man walking a dog.

  Will isn’t black and he’s allergic to dogs.

  I get five small gifts for Myron, and Jack gets beautiful handmade sweaters for all of his sisters.

  In the late afternoon, it starts pouring suddenly, so we duck into a little diner off Washington Square. We have coffee and onion rings dipped in mustard, and somehow they go together perfectly.

  We sit there talking about deep-fried foods and Billy Joel songs and state capitals, and I’m shocked when I glance at the rain-spattered window to see that it’s dark in the street.

  “How long have we been sitting here?” I ask Jack.

  “Too long,” he says, glancing at his watch. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to get going.”

  “Oh…I should get going, too,” I say, as though I’ve got someplace to be.

  I don’t, but something tells me he does.

  He insists on paying the check—Will and I always split it—and we carry our packages out the door. We stand under the overhang and zip our coats, and I try not to be obsessed about his plans for tonight.

  Does he have a date?

  After all, it’s a Saturday night.

  I don’t want him to have a date. I want him to come home with me. But I don’t dare ask him to.

  “I’ve got to go west to get the F train. But let me get you a cab home first,” he says, glancing around.

  There are dozens of cabs, all of them occupied.

  “No, that’s okay, Ja
ck. I’ll take the subway. It’s only one stop.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” Too bad I have to walk east to get my train. Otherwise, I could walk with him and try to get more information out of him.

  But east is east and west is west, and I guess this is where we part ways.

  It was good while it lasted.

  “I’ll call you,” Jack says, giving me one last kiss.

  “Okay.”

  We splash off in opposite directions, Transition Boy and me, and I wonder if he really will call.

  I don’t know what I’ll do if he doesn’t.

  Then again, I don’t know what I’ll do if he does.

  8

  On Sunday morning, I wake up to a ringing alarm, thinking it’s Monday. Until I remember why I set it.

  Oh. Church.

  It’s so tempting to roll over and go back to sleep. But I drag myself through a cold downpour to mass at St. Fabian’s near Washington Square, just as I promised I would. My inner Catholic schoolgirl can be a real pain in the ass.

  But when I get to church, I’m glad to be there.

  The altar is decorated with poinsettias and greens and twinkly white lights, and the priest gives an uplifting homily about loving our fellow man.

  I have to remind myself that he doesn’t mean it literally—at least, not in the biblical sense. That, in fact, the whole reason I’m here in the first place is because I’m guilty of loving my fellow man—er, men.

  I take communion out of habit, wondering only after I’ve swallowed the host whether I should have gone to confession first.

  Is sex before marriage—okay, sex with zero prospect of marriage—technically a sin?

  Hard to tell, given the archaic language Moses used in the Ten Commandments. I mean, Jack isn’t my neighbor’s wife. And we didn’t have sex on the Sabbath Day or anything….

  Still, when in doubt, cleanse the soul—that’s what I always say.

  Well, not always.

  In fact, I’ve never said it until now, but then, my soul—if that’s what you want to call it—has never been this, um, for lack of a better word, dirty.

  So on the way out, I dutifully pick up a bulletin and check to see when the priest hears confessions. I make a note to make a note in my day planner to go on Tuesday night.

  There.

  I’m almost feeling like my old chaste self again.

  Sunday afternoon, Buckley and I go to see the new Julianne Moore movie. It’s still pouring out, and the trains are messed up and I can’t get a cab, so I’m late meeting him at Loews.

  I spend the whole movie thinking about Jack. Buckley and I don’t have a chance to talk until we’re on our way across the street for a beer.

  Naturally, I light up the minute we leave the theater.

  “Do you have to smoke?” Buckley asks, holding an umbrella over me and my cancer stick, and wrinkling his nose.

  “Yup. I’m way below my daily quota,” I say, trying not to exhale in his direction. But there’s a raw wind, and the smoke blows right back at us, swirling around his head. He makes a face.

  “Why don’t you just quit, Tracey? I mean, the only places in the whole city you can smoke are the sidewalk and your apartment. Give it up already.”

  I glance at Buckley. Cranky nagging isn’t like him.

  “What’s wrong, Buckley?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t like to breathe in secondhand smoke.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not it. Something’s wrong.”

  “Sonja and I broke up.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  I am legitimately sorry, even though there’s a part of me slapping high fives and shouting, Yesssss! After all, this is what I’ve been hoping for ever since Will dumped me. It’s hard to be attracted to one of your best friends when he has a girlfriend and you know you have no chance.

  It’s also hard to see your best friend so down.

  “Yeah, I figure it’s better this way,” he says, holding open the door of the pub with his foot as he lowers the sopping umbrella.

  I reluctantly drop my half-smoked cigarette into a puddle and step inside. The place is empty, aside from the bartender, who’s watching the Giants game on the big-screen television.

  We sit at the bar and order two Buds.

  “So what happened?” I ask Buckley.

  “It was mutual. We talked last night, and she tried to give me an ultimatum. I told her I don’t want to move in with her. So she left.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask as the bartender plunks two brown bottles in front of us and goes right back to his football game.

  “I will be okay,” Buckley says resolutely. “It just sucks right now.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  He looks at me. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

  “You’ll survive.”

  “I know I will. I’ve done this before, remember?”

  Buckley had a girlfriend before Sonja. They broke up right before I met him. Like I said, I had Will at the time. And then I didn’t have Will. But Buckley had Sonja.

  Now I don’t have Will, and Buckley doesn’t have Sonja.

  We’re both free.

  Except…

  Jack.

  Hearing about Buckley’s breakup made me forget all about him. But now that I remember, I am oddly compelled to blurt, “Hey, I met someone.”

  Buckley blinks a why-are-you-telling-me-this? blink.

  I have no idea why I’m telling him this, but it seems important that I do it right away.

  “He works at Blaire Barnett, in media. I met him at the company Christmas party last week. And we went out on a date Friday night.”

  “That’s great.” Buckley’s voice is hollow. He doesn’t look at me. He’s busy tearing the wet edge of the red label off the beer bottle.

  “Yeah. His name’s Jack. He’s nice, and really funny, and smart…he knows all the state capitals….”

  Shut the hell up, Tracey. Can’t you see Buckley’s in pain?

  I can see it, but for some reason, I feel like I can’t respond to it.

  “He knows all the state capitals?” Buckley asks, looking up at me.

  “Yep,” I say brightly, as though I’ve just announced that Jack waved his hand and resurrected the Twin Towers.

  “Gee, I didn’t know that meant so much to you, Trace.”

  Frankly, I didn’t either.

  Will didn’t know any state capitals. Why would he? After all, American geography has very little to do with him, personally. And as I’ve come to realize, if it isn’t about Will, Will doesn’t want to know about it.

  I try to explain to Buckley how refreshing it is for me to have met a guy who cares about—well, all sorts of things. Including, apparently, me.

  But Buckley doesn’t seem to be listening. He’s too busy shredding his beer bottle label and spinning the bottle around and around on top of the bar, leaving a series of interlocking wet rings on the sticky wood.

  Finally, I drop the topic of Jack and bring up Sonja again.

  “Do you think she’ll change her mind, Buckley?”

  Buckley snaps to attention. “Why? Do you?”

  “I don’t know…. I mean, if she’s serious about wanting to live with you, then…” I shrug. “How about you? Will you consider changing your mind about moving in together?”

  He doesn’t even hesitate. “Nope.”

  Typical guy response, I think, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. I love Buckley, but sometimes he sounds like one of my brothers. With them, everything is black-and-white.

  Were the Buffalo Bills robbed in their first Super Bowl? Yep.

  Should my Aunt Carm put raisins in her meatballs? Nope.

  It’s that simple. Most things are.

  At least, for them.

  “Care to elaborate, Buckley?” I ask.

  “I just don’t think moving in together’s a good idea,” Buckley says with a shrug.

  “Why not?”

>   “We’ve only known each other for a few months.”

  A lightbulb goes off.

  “Buckley, Sonja’s your Transition Girl!”

  “My what?”

  “She’s the person you’re meant to be with between your old girlfriend and the woman you’re going to marry. Everyone has a Transition Girl—” or Transition Boy “—after a breakup.”

  “Where’d you hear that? Oprah?”

  No, Kate. Same difference.

  But I don’t tell him that.

  I just say, “The thing about a transition relationship is that it can’t last. It isn’t meant to. You’re still healing. You’re not ready for anything permanent. You’re still trying to figure out who you are on your own.”

  Buckley surprises me by saying, “That makes sense.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? You can’t jump from the wreckage of one relationship into something long-term. You have to realize that when you’re on the rebound, your instinct is to become part of a couple again. You have to fight that instinct. It’s too soon for you to fall in love again.”

  “Okay…. So how long does it take till you’re supposed to be ready to fall in love again?”

  “I don’t know….” I wing it. “A year?”

  That sounds about right.

  But in my case, do I count the year from when Will left for summer stock in June, or when he stopped calling in July or when he officially dumped me in September?

  “So now I have to wait another year before I start a new relationship?” Buckley is asking.

  “No! You don’t have to wait a year after Sonja, because she was your transition person. She doesn’t count. You just have to wait a year since you broke up with your original girlfriend. The one before Sonja.”

  “This sounds way too complicated, Tracey.”

  It does.

  Depressing, too.

  Because all night, I dreamed about Jack, and all day, until Buckley’s news, I thought about him. Even in church.

  I managed to completely overlook the fact that in my subconscious mind, Jack is just a replacement for Will, whom I’m still mourning.

  Even if I count back to June, when Will left, that still gives me at least six months to wait before I’ll be ready for a new relationship.

  “You know, maybe a year is too long,” I tell Buckley. “Maybe you need to only wait six months after a breakup.”