Slightly Engaged (15 page)

Is
book it
not the right phrase? I wonder belatedly, noting that Charles sounds almost snide when he responds, “I usually
reserve
weddings in person.”

“Um, is it possible to reserve it over the phone, though? I’ll put down my deposit on a credit card,” I add to expedite the conversation because I know that’s what’s coming next and because I’m getting really hungry for that farfelle.

“It’s
possible,
” Charles replies in a tone that reminds me that it is also possible—nay,
preferable
—to ride a scooter through downtown Baghdad in a tutu singing “I Feel Pretty.”

“How much would the deposit be?” I remember to ask because I am ever the efficient future-bride-to-be.

Charles responds with a few more questions before informing me that the deposit would be…

Insert pinkie finger…

One million dollars.

Okay, not really.

But it might as well be, because I don’t have the kind of money he’s asking for—not even in the Total Available Credit box on my monthly Visa statement.

I look up at Kate, who does, and briefly consider asking her for a loan. But that might give her the inalienable right to have a say in everything from bridesmaid’s dress to dessert menu.

Might?

She thinks she has a say as it is. No way am I going to hand it to her on a pasta platter.

“How long can you hold it without a deposit?” I ask Charles.

Not long. Not long a’tall.

Sayonara, Chuck.

Farewell, third Saturday in October.

I hang up and pass the phone back across the table to Kate.

Oh, hello there, little sad and skimpy green salad.

I look around for the waiter, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

“Are you going to finish your pasta?” I ask Kate, who has moved on to her potatoes.

She nods, mouth full.

Damn. “Well, can I have a taste?”

She finishes chewing.

Asks, “Do you think you should?”

Do I think I
should?
What the hell kind of question is that?

“Yes, I really do,” I tell her, wishing the waiter would hurry back from the men’s room or Brooklyn or wherever the hell he went off to so that I can order my own pasta and stop begging for Kate’s. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“I’m just trying to help you, Tracey.”

“With…?”

“With…you know. Your diet.”

“I’m not on a diet,” I inform her.

The look she gives me in return makes it clear that I am not the only one who’s noticed the poundage that’s crept back on these last few weeks.

I stop watching for the waiter out of the corner of my eye and look my salad directly in the grape tomato.

I can eat this salad.
Just
this salad. Of course I can do it. In the past few years, I’ve learned to be satisfied with just salad.

My stomach rumbles.

That’s the problem, I realize.

I want more than just salad.

I want penne.

Penne, and bread, and a great body. An engagement ring, too.

I want it all.

Now.

I want it now!

So intense is my little Veruca Salt moment that it takes me a moment to realize that I actually have more in common with Charlie Bucket, who has nothing.

Nothing, I recall, but a golden ticket that will bring something fabulous if he clings to his integrity and believes in Willy Wonka.

Okay, so what does that mean? Is Jack my Willie Wonka? Does he hold the key to my future?

What the hell happened to
if Jack wants to marry me, great, if not…well, not great. But not the end of the world, either?

Isn’t that what I decided just weeks ago?

And now I’m right back to wallowing in self-pity?

I shake my head vehemently.

“Okay, so you’re not on a diet,” says Kate, who is watching me with utter resignation. She shoves the plate of pasta across the table. “Here. Knock yourself out. I’m getting full anyway.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking about,” I tell her, even as I acknowledge that it is now.

I grab a fork and dig in.

Ah. Bliss.

Kate asks, “What
are
you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking that I’m sick of this whole will-he-or-won’t-he thing. Why am I letting Jack call all the shots?”

Kate opens her mouth to answer, but I’m on a roll. And anyway, I’m not asking her. I’m asking myself.

“Why is my future his decision?”

“Because, Tracey, that’s how it is,” drawls our sweet Melanie, shaking her head at headstrong Scarlett’s newfangled notion that
she,
and not Rhett, might be in charge of her destiny.

“Why? Why should I sit around waiting for him to ask me to marry him?”

Which is exactly what I’ve been doing, BTW. For the past two and a half months.

In case you haven’t noticed.

“Because the man does the proposing.”

My fork is whirling spaghetti faster than a bride and groom in a horah. I shove it into my mouth.

Yummy. Well worth the guilt—and tight waistline—I’m bound to suffer as an immediate consequence.

Then I tell Kate, “Think about it. Why does being engaged matter so much?”

“Because you want to get married.”

“Do I
really?
” I ask, shoving in more pasta.
Mmm-mmm-mmm.
“Or do I just
think
I do because everybody else is getting married? Isn’t sharing my life with somebody I love all that really counts?”

“Yes…that’s why you need to get
married.
” Kate is rapidly losing her patience.

“Maybe we don’t
need
to get married.” I’m speaking for myself and Jack, though I can’t help but hope that maybe he does feel at least a smidge of need.

“But if you’re not married, he can walk away.”

“So can I,” I shoot back. “And anyway, he can walk away whether we’re married or not.”

Exhibit A: Vinnie the Cheat, my soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law.

Kate shrugs. “Being married makes it harder.”

This is pathetic,
I think, even as I acknowledge that she’s right. Vinnie would have left Mary Beth years ago if it weren’t for their wedding vows—or, more likely, if it weren’t for the specter of alimony.

Still…

“I can take care of myself,” I inform her. “I’ve been doing it for years now. I don’t need an engagement ring.”

“I thought you wanted one.”

“I did. I do. But if it doesn’t happen I won’t curl up and die.”

I shove Kate’s ravaged plate away, sated.

Ah do declare, Miss Mellie, Ah feel better already.

Chapter 10

O
n Thanksgiving Day, the alarm goes off in the pitch-black chill of 5:30 a.m.

Not because we have to put a turkey in the oven, or catch an early flight.

No, the alarm goes off at five-thirty (an hour that in June might be sun-splashed and tranquil, but in November is always downright depressing) because I am determined to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade live and in person. After a lifetime of watching it on television, I’ve finally got the chance to be there, and I’m going, with or without Jack.

Without
Jack, Raphael and I will be forced to mingle with the great unwashed as we vie for a sidewalk viewing spot somewhere between the Dakota and Herald Square.

With
Jack, however, we will be cordially invited to sit in the VIP viewing stands set up on Central Park West for NBC and its guests.

Network guests tend to include celebrities, families of program staffers and advertising-agency media drones like Jack. It’s just another corporate perk in lieu of actually getting paid a decent salary.

Ask any media planner, and I bet he’ll tell you that he’d prefer a beefed-up paycheck to rubbing shoulders with the former cast of
Blossom
beneath a canopy of oversize, inflated cartoon characters that have been known to topple lampposts and maim onlookers.

But me, I love a parade.

As does Raphael.

Or so he claims.

Personally, I wonder if he just wants to keep an eye on Donatello, who’s been moonlighting as a so-called “spray model” at Macy’s to earn money for their planned African Safari honeymoon. A “spray model” is an attractive being who is paid incredibly well to troll the cosmetics floor assaulting passersby with the latest scents.

Anyway, it seems that Donatello, who is marching today as an official Balloon Handler, is a notorious flirt. I suspect Raphael wants to make sure he isn’t cruising the other Balloon Handlers while tethered to the helium-bloated underside of the Honey-Nut Cheerios Bee, because, well, we all know what a turn-on
that
can be.

So yes, Raphael is definitely coming with me. We’re scheduled to meet on the subway platform at Grand Central in twenty minutes.

Jack still isn’t sure he wants to go, even now that he’s showered, shaved and dressed in jeans and a nice gray sweater. He dawdles around by the table, rearranging piles of stuff: newspapers, magazines, the game boxes containing Scattergories and Clue, which we played last night when Buckley and Sonja came over with a bottle of wine.

The board games were my idea. Not that I didn’t want to sit around and chat about their upcoming nuptials or anything. I just happen to like board games. Really.

Buckley and Sonja could barely get a word in edgewise between dice rolls and ticking timers, but they did manage to mention that they’re getting married a year from next summer. Now that she knows Buckley isn’t going anywhere, Sonja wants time to plan “the perfect wedding.” Which will be in Boston, but hopefully without the Red Sox theme she keeps joking about.

At least, I assume she’s joking.

The best part about the Sonja-Buckley nuptials being put off for a year and a half is that Jack and I might actually beat them to the altar.

Not that it’s a race, or anything.

But if it were, we wouldn’t lose…unless, of course, Jack continues to take his sweet time proposing.

Speaking of Jack taking his sweet time…

“Are you coming, or not?” I finally ask him as he drifts aimlessly away from the door again, coming to rest beside the table that holds my Chia Pet. We moved it closer to the window when it developed a severe case of mildew, hoping the sun would cure it. Now it sits there sadly, day after day, growing smelly spores in the gray light. I want to throw it away, but I’m afraid it would hurt Jack’s feelings.

“Wouldn’t you rather just watch the parade here, on TV?” Jack gazes out the window at the shred of blustery November sky that’s visible between the other buildings. “I mean, it’s so lousy out.”

Today’s forecast: rain, sleet, wind, cold. Same as yesterday, same as tomorrow. Ah, November.

“I’ve watched this parade on TV every year,” I say firmly. “I want to see it in person for a change.”

For a minute, Jack doesn’t say anything.

Then, “Okay.”

“You’ll go?” I ask, pleasantly surprised.

“I’ll go,” he confirms with the enthusiasm of one who has just landed a last minute root canal appointment.

He reaches for his jacket, which is, of course, close at hand, draped over the nearest chair where it’s been since he took it off Monday night.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” He sighs heavily.

Maybe it’s just me, but he doesn’t sound that into it.

“Come on, Jack,” I say, all Rah-Rah, Sis-Boom-Bah, “this is the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade!”

“I know.”

“It’s going to be so great!”

Goooooooooooooo,
Macy’s!

“Yeah,” Jack says, all Eeyore-ish.

Okay, whatever. At least he’s going. VIP viewing stand, here I come!

I shove my feet into my sneakers without untying them, then tug the squashed backs up over my heels. I know it drives Jack crazy when I do that, but it drives me crazy when he acts unenthused about festive holiday events, so we’re even.

“I wish you could be more excited about this parade,” I tell him.

“I was, the first five times I saw it.” He pulls on his leather jacket. Then he brightens, like he’s just seen the light.

“Hey, what are we having for breakfast?” he asks.

Okay, food is so not the light. Food is darkness. Food is evil.

Because remember that five pounds that crept up on me after I quit smoking?

It’s still here, plus two more. Here, there, everywhere: my hips, my thighs, my gut, even my arms. It’s as though everything that was once lean and taut—more or less—is now lightly padded in flab.

I’m sure it’s nothing that a couple of weeks on Atkins—or a few months at Alderson Federal Prison Camp—won’t cure. But it’s hard not to feel discouraged, especially when I open my closet each morning and realize the only thing that fits comfortably is my terry-cloth robe.

Today, in addition to sneakers and three unflattering layers of thermal shirts for warmth and camouflage, I’ve got on my biggest pair of “skinny” jeans, as opposed to my skinniest pair of “fat” jeans, which are tucked away in the top of my closet. I have kept them around strictly as a souvenir of the bad old days, not because I ever in a million years thought I might need to wear them again.

At this rate, though, don’t be surprised if you see me in them at the office Christmas party because they’re all I can fit into.

God, that’s so depressing.

Depressing enough to make me think
no freaking way.

If I’ve got the willpower to quit smoking, I’ve got the willpower to quit eating. Gaining all that weight back again would be a fate worse than…

Well, I really can’t think of a fate worse than that. Realistically, anyway. Because what are the chances that I’m going to be taken hostage by a band of militants or terrorists? It goes without saying that that would be a worse fate.

But regaining forty pounds is about as bad as it gets in my world.

“Want to stop off for a couple of ham-egg-and-cheeses at the deli?” Jack asks with callous disregard to my plight.

I bitch slap him across the face.

Okay, not really.