Slightly Engaged (9 page)

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve even seen him. He’s been working way downtown on a long-term project since late September. But it must be over, because—yay!—he’s back in midtown.

“…and I just gave it everything I had…”

I believe Will is recapping a recent cabaret performance.

“
And then somebody requested
‘Empty Chairs at Empty Tables…’”

That, or his latest catering gig.

“
You know, from
Les Mis…”

Oh. Cabaret performance. I should have known. Will likes to pretend he’s a full-time actor. Rarely, if ever, does he freely acknowledge that the line he’s rehearsed most often in his career is “chicken or steak?”

Toying with my cigarettes, I tune him out again and wonder whether Buckley will be able to shed some male perspective on my situation with Jack.

Then again, as a fellow altarphobic male, Buckley might not be
that
insightful. Nor sympathetic. After all, he’s spent the last couple of years evading his girlfriend’s frequent ultimatums.

Every time another Sonja-imposed deadline passes without the desired marriage proposal from Buckley, I somehow still expect her to carry out her threat and move out. But she never does. They just go back to living together until the next hysterical fight that results in the next hysterical ultimatum.

It kind of reminds me of my soon-to-be-divorced sister Mary Beth’s ineffective single-parenting style. Only instead of a marriage-shy grown man, Mary Beth is dealing with an almost five-year-old who still has potty-training issues.

If you ask me, both Mary Beth and Sonja are wasting their time with ultimatums. And not just because Sonja never follows through by moving out and Mary Beth never follows through by taking away Nino’s Game Boy Advance.

“…and I told them of course I can do that, and more,”
Will drones on.
“And do you know what they said?”

My nephew’s potty-training problem is clearly a psychological response to his parents’ messy divorce. Buckley’s unwillingness to commit is clearly a psychological response to his father’s untimely and tragic death.

You know, sometimes I think I could really give Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum a run for her money.

“Tracey?”

Yes, obviously, both Nino and Buckley have control issues.

So what would Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum advise?

I have no idea, but the esteemed Dr. Tracey Spadolini would definitely advise both subjects to either shit or get off the pot.

Will breaks into my brilliant psychoanalysis with an exasperated “Tracey! Are you even listening?”

To your monologue on why you deserve to be a great big beautiful star? Trust me, Will, I know it by heart.

I really should say that.

But I don’t.

I say, “You know what? I have to go. My, um, boss needs me to do something right away.”

There’s a pause.

Then a curt “Oh.”

Will is obviously miffed that I have work to do while at work. Imagine that.

“Well, call me back when you have time and I’ll finish telling you.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Why don’t I just tell him to fuck off? Is that what you’re wondering?

Yeah. I’m wondering that too.

I guess it’s because there’s a part of me that almost enjoys these calls from Will, in a twisted sort of way. It’s some-what—I don’t know…
empowering?

Yes, empowering. That’s how it feels for me to maintain this connection—which is maintained, might I add, with zero effort on my part.

I never do the calling; it’s always him. And he calls pretty frequently—every few weeks, at least.

Every time we speak, I’m reminded of just what a loser he is and what a winner Jack is and how far I’ve come since the summer I spent pining away for Will.

Today, however, I can’t help thinking as I hang up the phone that I also still have a long way to go.

Yes, I’m in a healthy relationship now…but I want to share more with Jack than a toothbrush holder and a monthly Con Ed bill.

Yes, I have a stable job…but I was aiming to be a copywriter, not a glorified secretary for someone who was fired a few months ago yet still comes to work every day.

Yes, I’ve broken a destructive addiction to food and maintained a healthy weight for a couple of years…but I’m still hopelessly addicted to cigarettes.

I drop the pack onto my desk and stare at it, wondering whether I can actually—

“Tracey? Got a minute?”

Wow. Mike has poked his head into my cubicle like a genie who’s been summoned in the puff of a white lie to Will.

“Sure. How’s it going, Mike?”

And why are you still here?

When he returned from his two-week honeymoon, Carol ever so gently reminded him that he needs to start looking for another position elsewhere. You know, call me crazy, but I’m not convinced he got the message.

Neither was Carol, because she reportedly mentioned it again in so many words before she left on vacation.

I really think she needs to use just two words:
“Leave now.”

But until she says that, I suspect Mike will continue to show up every day in his little suit and tie to do—well, what seems like busywork to me.

What else can he possibly be doing? His client interaction with McMurray-White and his corporate credit card have been cut off, he is no longer invited to meetings, and he never receives phone calls from anyone other than the Fembot he married.

“Can you edit something for me, please?” he asks pleasantly, because he’s just the nicest boss ever. Which is most likely why he didn’t make it in this business.

That, and the fact that he makes Jessica Simpson look like an intellectual.

“Sure, Mike.” I wait for him to hand over his résumé, thinking it’s about time he asked me to whip that baby into shape. I’m so ready to roll up my sleeves and dig in.

But he doesn’t hand over his résumé. He gives me a draft of some lame memo about something totally unrelated to the fact that he’s supposed to be looking for a new job.

“Thanks, chief. No rush on that. Tomorrow’s fine,” he says, optimistic as Annie.

Tomorrow?

Doesn’t he realize that as soon as Carol gets back from her trip to Cabo San Lucas—which she’s expected to do
today
—she’s going to flat out fire him?

At least, that’s what her secretary told Brenda last week.

With any luck, I’ll be out to lunch with Buckley when she gets around to giving Mike the ax.

Poor sap. Look at him, lingering in my doorway…

Almost as if he wants to chat.

I mask my pity with a tentative raised-eyebrow, closed-lipped smile.

He returns it wholeheartedly.

Until I ask, “So…how’s married life?”

Exit wholehearted smile.

I think he actually winces as he says, “Married life? It’s great.”

Yeah, he’s about as convincing as Will McCraw would be, playing an NFL linebacker.

“Did you get your wedding pictures back yet?”

“No, but I’ll bring them in when I do.”

Let’s just cross our fingers and hope that’s sometime this morning, shall we?

Aloud I say, “I can’t wait to see them. Jack and I had a great time…”

…when we weren’t drinking ourselves blind to avoid dealing with a silently stewing partner, or silently stewing over a partner who was drinking himself blind.

“So when are you guys going to take the big plunge?” Mike wants to know.

“You’ll have to ask Jack,” I say lightly.

At least, I have every intention of saying it lightly, but it comes out sounding like a guttural Gestapo command.

It’s a wonder Mike doesn’t salute as he responds, “I’ll do that—if I ever see him around. I never do anymore.”

“Yeah, well…he’s been pretty busy. And I’m sure you have too.”

“Nah, things are pretty quiet around here.”

Yes, you idiot, because you’ve been fired for over a month.

“Oh, I didn’t mean around the office,” I say. “I meant at home.” I’m all
wink-wink-you-cunning-little-newlywed you.

Ew. Somebody stop me.

“I haven’t really been all that busy there, either.”

I can’t say I blame you.

He sighs heavily.

Woe is Mike.

I really feel so sorry for him, married to the diabolic Dianne
and
on the cusp of joblessness.

He’s…well, he’s kind of like…

Me.

Not
now.

He’s like the
me
I used to be in the bad old days, valiantly plugging away at a doomed relationship with Will.

In fact, now that I think about it, the parallel is astonishing.

Especially when you take into consideration that Will lacking the
cojones
to just break up with me before he left for summer stock is to Carol lacking the
cojones
to kick Mike out of here on his ass.

But she won’t do it because Mike is—well,
pathetic
, and Will wouldn’t do it because I was…

Was I
ever
this pathetic?

Tell me the truth.

Oh, God.

I was, wasn’t I?

But not anymore.

Not…most of the time, anyway.

Look at how I turned my life around that summer. Look at all the weight I lost and all the confidence I gained.

About my looks, anyway.

But what about everything else? All the things that you could make better in your life if you could just find some initiative?

Okay.

That does it.

Starting right here, right now, I’m going to banish every last wishy-washy instinct, starting with…

I abruptly grab my pack of Salems and toss it into the trash can.

Mike blinks. “Hey, chief…what’s up with that?”

“I just quit,” I inform him, feeling better about myself already. Wait till Jack hears.

Fancy spa in Providence, here I come.

“You quit smoking?” Mike asks, his face riddled with confusion.

Duh.

“Yup.”

“You mean just
now?
” he asks, sharp as a tack.

“Just now.”

“Was it something I said?”

No, it was something you
are.

All I tell him is, “Because it was time.”

“Well…hey, good for you. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I say, gazing wistfully at my wastebasket and thinking I’m going to need it.

Chapter 7

A
s soon as we’re seated at a table for two at Sushi Lucy’s, our third all-time favorite lunch spot after El Rio Grande and Harglo’s, Buckley asks, “So what’s new?”

I’m talking the very
moment
we’re seated, before napkins are settled on laps and menus are open in hand.

He seems awfully eager for an answer, leaning expectantly across the table as if he’s holding a lottery ticket with four winning numbers so far.

What’s new?
What is he expecting me to tell him? Obviously, something big. But what?

That I’ve just quit smoking?

Not unless he’s psychic. Nobody but Mike witnessed that momentous turning point, and he ominously vanished into Carol’s office immediately afterward.

He hasn’t been seen since, which I assume means Carol located her
cojones
in Cabo.

I did call Jack’s voice mail to leave a message that my longtime love affair with cigarettes is over, lest I grow tempted to fall off the wagon before nightfall. Jack will be all over me if I don’t follow through.

But Jack couldn’t have spoken to Buckley, because he’s been at a client presentation since ten. So Buckley doesn’t know about the smoking.

Hmm. Something is definitely afoot. His greenish-brown eyes are so filled with eager anticipation that it’s almost as if…

He knows something.

That’s it! He’s obviously spoken to Jack—not today, but recently—about our getting engaged and he’s wondering if it happened yet.

Maybe Jack told Buckley he was planning to give me the ring for Sweetest Day.

So why didn’t he?

Maybe he changed his plans when I brought it up on the subway platform because he wanted it to be a total surprise.

“
Should
something be new?” I ask Buckley coyly, my heart rate picking up a bit.

“New with me?”

Puzzled, I say, “No. With
me.
”

Isn’t that what we were talking about? Me?

Apparently not.

Buckley looks clueless.

About me, anyway…

Oh, I get it. Sort of. I think.

It seems that we might actually be talking about
him.
That something might possibly be new with
him.

Yes, that’s it, I conclude, watching the cute Japanese waiter fill our water glasses, then our cute Japanese teacups. That wasn’t really eager anticipation I thought I saw in Buckley’s eyes just now. At least, it wasn’t eager anticipation for my non-news.

It was pre-enthusiasm for the news he’s going to tell me as soon as I confirm that nothing’s new with me, because unlike Will, Buckley feels obliged to at least feign an interest in his fellow man.

Granted, most of the time Buckley’s interest is genuine.

But today, he’s clearly merely waiting for me to tell him that nothing is new with me—which I quickly do—and to ask what’s new with him.

Which I am about to do, but before I can finish sipping my water and speak up, he says, “Tracey, I have great news.”

See? What did I tell you?

What am I doing wasting away my life in an advertising agency when I could give both Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum
and
Psychic Suzanna a run for their money?

Hmm…what can his news be?

Still holding my water glass, I gaze into it as if it’s a crystal ball, channeling my astral guides or whatever it is that Psychic Suzanna does.

Oh! I know! I’ll bet he landed that freelance gig he thought fell through at
Sports Illustrated…

That, or he just scored Yankee tickets for Game Three.