Читать книгу Slightly Single - Wendy Markham, Wendy Markham - Страница 11

“You ready?” Buckley asks, turning to me.

“Wait, the credits,” I say, still fixated on the screen.

“You want to see the credits?”

Will and I always stay for the credits. But this isn’t Will. And anyway, I’m eager to discuss the film with Buckley, so I say, “Never mind.”

“We can stay if you want to.”

“Nah, it’s no big deal.” I stand, clutching my almost-empty jumbo box of Snowcaps.

“Want any more popcorn?” Buckley asks, as we make our way up the aisle. “Or should I throw it away?”

“No, don’t throw it,” I say, reaching into the bucket and grabbing a handful. I love movie theater popcorn, especially with butter. Will never wants to get butter, because he says it isn’t really butter—it’s some kind of melted chemical-laden yellow lard. Not that he’d be willing to get butter even if it was butter, because butter is loaded with fat and calories.

Buckley ordered extra. He didn’t even consult me. Maybe he just assumed I was an extra-melted-lard kind of gal.

Whatever.

It’s a relief to be with someone like him after that disastrous breakfast with Will. When we parted ways in front of his gym, it was awkward. He said he’ll call me tonight, but I almost wish he wouldn’t. I’m afraid he’ll bring up the fact that I wanted to go with him. Or maybe I’m afraid that he won’t bring it up, and it will always be this huge, unspoken thing lying between us.

Meanwhile, here’s Buckley, shoving the popcorn tub at me again, encouraging me to take more.

“So what’d you think?” he asks, helping himself to another handful. “Did the big twist live up to your expectations?”

“I don’t know.” I mull it over. “I mean, it wasn’t Sixth Sense-shocking. It wasn’t Crying Game-shocking. I guess there was too much build-up.”

“That’s why I wasn’t really into seeing this movie.”

“You weren’t into seeing it?” I ask, stopping in the aisle. “But you came with me. You didn’t have to come with me. Oh, God, you kind of did. Look, I didn’t mean to drag you here.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, come on, Buckley. I pretty much ordered you to come with me. I guess I just assumed—”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mind. Everyone I know has seen it too, so I figured this was my only chance.”

“Too bad it didn’t live up to all the hype. I mean, I was surprised that the whole thing turned out to be a dream, but wasn’t it kind of a letdown?”

“I don’t know. It was kind of like that short story ‘Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge.’ Ever read that?”

“Are you kidding? The Ambrose Bierce story? I was an English major. I must’ve read it a dozen times for lit and writing courses.”

“Me, too,” Buckley says. “I remember really loving that story when I read it the first time back in high school. I thought it was such an amazing twist, you know, that it was all just this stream-of-consciousness escape thing happening in the moment before he died. This was the same kind of thing. I liked it.”

“But you didn’t love it.”

He shrugs. “How about you?”

“I really wanted to love it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a great movie. The last one I really loved was the one with Gwyneth Paltrow that came out at Christmas.”

Naturally, Will hated that movie. He thought it was poorly acted, sappily written and unrealistic.

“Oh, I loved that one too!” Buckley says, pulling on his pullover hooded khaki raincoat as we pause just inside the doors. “Man. It’s still pouring out.”

“What a crummy day. I’ll never get a cab.” I sigh, hunting through the pockets of my jeans for a subway token I thought I had.

“Want to go have a beer?”

“A beer? Now?” Surprised, I look up at him. Then I check my watch—as if it matters. As if there’s a cutoff time for beer on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Manhattan.

“Or…do you have to be someplace?”

“No!” I say too quickly. Because I really want that beer. It beats the hell out of taking the subway back to my lonely apartment while thinking of Will uptown, packing his boxes.

“Great. So let’s get a beer.”

I pull on my rain slicker. It’s one of those doofy shiny yellow touristy ones, and it makes me look as wide as a big old school bus from behind. I’d worry about that if I were with Will—in fact, I was doing just that earlier, when he and I left the restaurant—but naturally, I don’t have to worry with Buckley. That’s the nice thing about having gay guys as friends. You get male companionship without the female competitive PMS angle and without the whole messy sexual attraction issue.

“Where should we go?” Buckley asks.

“I know a good pub a block from here,” I tell him. “I spend a lot of time in this neighborhood.”

“So do I.”

“You do?”

“Actually, I live here.”

“Really? Where?”

“Fifty-fourth off Broadway.”

“No kidding.”

“You live here, too?”

“No, I live in the East Village.”

“Really? Then why’d you want to meet way up here?”

I don’t want to get into the whole Will thing, so I just say, “I had an errand to run up here earlier, so I thought it made sense. So do you have someplace you want to go? Since this is your neighborhood…”

“No, let’s try your place. I’m always up for something new. Hey, I’m spontaneous, remember?”

I grin at him, and note that he’s wearing another crewneck sweater with his jeans. “I see you went with the beige today.”

“What can I say? It was a beige kind of day. Apparently, you beg to differ. Do you always wear black?” he asks, eyeing my outfit.

Black jeans. A black long-sleeved tunic-jersey-type shirt that camouflages my thighs—or so I like to think.

“Always,” I tell him.

“Any particular reason?”

“It’s slimming,” I say promptly, and he grins.

“And here I thought you were trying to make some kind of political or artistic or spiritual statement.”

“Me? Nope, I’m just a full-figured gal trying to pass for a waif.”

We splash out into the rain and cross the street against the light. Two minutes later, we’re sitting on barstools at Frieda’s, this semi-cool dive Will and I come to sometimes. They have awesome potato skins with cheddar and bacon, a fact I mention to Buckley pretty much the moment we sit down.

“You want to order some?” he asks.

“After all that popcorn?”

“You’re too full?”

“See, Buckley, that’s the thing. I’m never full. I could eat all day long. I’m always up for some potato skins. Hence the flab.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Tracey. It’s not like you’re obese.”

“You’re sweet.” Too bad he’s gay. “So tell me about your failed relationship.”

“Do I have to?”

“Nah. Not if you don’t want to. We can talk about something more upbeat. Like…where are you from?”

“Long Island.”

“You’re from Long Island?”

He nods. “Why do you look so surprised?”

“You just don’t have that Lo-awn Guyland thing going on. You know…the accent. You don’t have one.”

“You do,” he says with a grin. “Upstate, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“The flat a gives you away. You said ay-ack-sent. So where are you from?”

“You never heard of it. Brookside.”

“I’ve heard of it. There’s a state college there, right?”

“Right.”

“I thought about going there.”

“You’re kidding. Why?”

“Because it was as far away from Long Island as I could go and still be at a state school. My parents couldn’t afford private college tuition and I didn’t get any scholarships.”

“Really?”

“Why are you surprised?”

“Because…I don’t know. You just seem like the studious type.”

He grins. “Trust me, I wasn’t. With my grades, I barely made it into a state school.”

That really is surprising, for some reason. He just seems like the type of person who would do everything well. I like knowing he was just an average student, like I was. It doesn’t mean he isn’t smart, because I can tell that he is.

“So where’d you end up going to college?” I ask him.

“SUNY Stony Brook. I wound up staying on the island and living at home.”

“Why?”

I catch a fleeting glimpse of unexpected emotion in his expression. When he speaks, I understand why, but his face is carefully neutral. “My dad died the summer after I graduated from high school. I couldn’t go away and leave my mom and my sister and brother on their own. So I stayed home.” He says it like it’s no big deal, but I can tell that it is. Or was.

“I’m really sorry about your dad.”

“It was a long time ago.” He bends over and ties his shoe, his foot propped on the bottom rung of his barstool. I wonder if the lace was untied, or if he just needed a distraction.

“Yeah,” I say, “but that’s not something that goes away, is it?”

He straightens and looks me in the eye. “Not really. Sometimes it’s still hard when I let myself dwell on it. Which I usually don’t do.”

“I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

“You didn’t know. And anyway, it’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it.”

I don’t know what else to say, so I ask, “What happened? To your dad, I mean.”

“He had been having stomach pains, and when he finally went to the doctor, they found out it was pancreatic cancer. By the time they found it, it was too late—it had spread everywhere. They gave him six weeks. He died five weeks and five days later.”

“God.” I see tears in his eyes and feel a lump rising in my throat. Here I am, wanting to burst into tears for the loss of somebody I never even met—the father of this guy I barely know.

“I know. It was horrible,” Buckley says. He takes a deep breath, then sighs. “But like I said, it was a long time ago. My mom is finally getting over it. She even went out on a date a few weeks ago.”

“Her first date?”

“Yeah.”

I try to imagine my mother going on a date, and it’s all I can do not to shudder. But then, maybe Buckley’s mother isn’t a four-eleven, overweight, overly pious, stubborn Italian woman in doubleknit pants who doesn’t bleach her mustache as often as she should.

“Did that bother you?” I ask Buckley. “Your mother dating?”

“Nah. I hate that she’s alone. My sister just got married and my brother’s in the service now, so it would be good if she met someone else. I wouldn’t worry about her so much.”

What a guy. I find myself thinking that maybe he’s too nice for Raphael. Not that Raphael isn’t wonderful, but when it comes to romance, he can be sort of fickle. He’s broken more than a few hearts, and I can’t stand the thought of nice, sweet, noble Buckley getting his heart broken.

Which reminds me—Buckley’s ex. I wonder what happened there, but I couldn’t ask for details when he’d already shown a reluctance to talk about it. Just then, the waiter appears. He’s flamboyant and effeminate, and he’s practically drooling over Buckley as we order a couple of beers and the potato skins. The thing is, Buckley isn’t movie-star handsome. He’s nice looking enough, but something about him is even more appealing than his looks. Maybe it’s the warm expression in his crinkly Irish eyes, or his quick smile or his genuine Mr. Nice Guy attitude. Whatever it is, it’s not lost on the blatantly gay waiter, and it’s not lost on me.

Too bad he’s not straight.

It’s becoming my new mantra, I realize. If Buckley weren’t gay, and I didn’t have Will…

But if Buckley weren’t gay and I didn’t have Will, we probably wouldn’t be here together, and I sure as hell wouldn’t be ordering potato-cheddar-bacon skins or blabbing about my excess flab, which is what I do when I’m with Raphael or Kate.

Anyway, I doubt I’d be Buckley’s type.

Then again, it still amazes me, three years later, that I’m Will’s type. After all, he is movie-star handsome, and I’m no goddess. Luckily, relationships go deeper than looks. At least, ours does. Physical attraction was a huge part of why I was drawn to Will, but I think he was drawn to me because I was one of the few people who ever understood his dream of breaking out of a small midwestern town and making it in New York. That burning ambition to escape the mundane lives to which we were born was the thing we had in common, the thing that ultimately brought us together.

Now it seems to be driving us apart. Christ, Will is leaving me behind. Maybe not for good, but for now, and it hurts. It hurts enough that when the waiter leaves and Buckley looks at me again, he immediately asks, “What’s wrong, Tracey?”

I try to look cheerful. “Nothing. Why?”

“You’re down about something. I can tell.”

“I’m not surprised. I can never hide anything from you, Buckley. You always have known me better than I know myself,” I say in mock seriousness.

He laughs.

Then he says, “You know, it really does seem like we’ve known each other awhile.” I realize he’s not kidding around.

I also realize he’s right. It does seem like we’re old pals. And it would be great, having a friend like Buckley. A woman living alone in New York can never have too many guy friends.

“Yeah, we should do this again,” I say to Buckley as the waiter brings our beers. “I love seeing movies on rainy weekend afternoons.”

“So do I. Almost as much as I love beer and cheddar-and-bacon potato skins.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Cheers.” He lifts his bottle and clinks it against mine.

We smile at each other.

Can you see it coming?

Well, I sure as hell didn’t.

He leans over and kisses me.

Yup.

Buckley—nice, sweet, noble, gay Buckley, leans toward me and puts his mouth on mine in a completely heterosexual way.

I’m too stunned to do anything other than what comes naturally.

Meaning, I kiss him back.

It only lasts a few seconds, but that’s slo mo for what could have been a friendly kiss topping off a friendly toast to transform into a romantic kiss. The kind of kiss that’s tender and passionate but not sloppy or wet. The kind of kiss that you feel in the pit of your stomach, in that quivering place where the first hint of arousal always flickers.

Yes, I am aroused by this kiss. Aroused, and stunned, and confused.

Buckley stops kissing me—not because he senses anything wrong, though. He merely stops because he’s done. He pulls back and looks at me, wearing a little smile.

“But…” I just stare at him.

The smile fades. “I’m sorry.” He looks around.

We’re the only people in the place, aside from the bartender, who’s watching a Yankee game on the television over the bar, and the waiter, who’s retreated to the kitchen.

“Was that not all right?” Buckley wants to know. “Because I didn’t think. I just felt like doing it, so I did it.” He looks a little concerned, but not freaked out.

I’m freaked out. “But…”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, looking a shade less self-assured. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you’re gay!” I tell him, plucking the right words from a maelstrom of thoughts.

He looks shocked. “I’m gay?”

At least, I thought they were the right words.

“Yes, you’re gay,” I say in the strident, high-pitched tone you’d use if you were arguing with a brunette who was trying to convince you she was blond.

“That’s news to me,” he says, clearly amused.

There he goes with that deadpan thing again. But this time it’s not funny.

“Cut it out, Buckley,” I say. “This is serious.”

“This is serious. Because I always thought I was straight. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work out with my girlfriend.”

He’s kidding again. At least about that last part. But maybe not about the rest.

Confused, I say, “I thought he was a boyfriend.”

“He was a girlfriend. She was a girlfriend.” He twirls his stool a little and leans his elbows back on the bar behind him. He looks relaxed. And definitely still amused.

I need to relax. I need a drink. I sip my beer.

“Tracey, I promise you I’m not gay.”

I gulp my beer.

“Why would I be on a date with you if I were gay?” he wants to know.

I sputter beer and some dribbles on my chin. I wipe it on my sleeve and echo, “A date?”

“Wait, you didn’t think this was a date?” he asks, brows furrowed. “I thought you asked me out.”

“Who am I, Sadie Hawkins? I asked you to go to the movies with me. Not as my date. I wanted you to date Raphael.”

“Who?” He looks around, then says, “Oh, Raphael. The guy from the party. You wanted me to date him?”

“Yes! You’re perfect for each other,” I say in true yenta fashion, though I suspect it’s a bit late for that now.

“Perfect for each other.” Buckley nods. “Except for the part about me not being gay.”

“Right.” I’m just aghast at this news, now that I’m positive he’s not teasing me.

I take another huge gulp of my beer, trying to digest the bombshell.

Physically, I’m still reeling from the kiss. I mean, he’s a great kisser. Great. And I realize how long it’s been since I’ve been kissed like that. Will and I never really kiss anymore. We just have sex—and like I said, even that doesn’t happen very often these days, and when it does, there’s no kissing involved and it’s blah.

Oh, hell. Will.

“I have a boyfriend,” I tell Buckley, plunking my beer bottle on the round paper coaster with a thud.

“You do? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think to. It didn’t occur to me that you thought we were on a date.”

A date.

It’s just so incredible how the whole situation could’ve blown right by me. I guess I was so distracted by what’s going on with Will that I wasn’t paying enough attention to what was going on with Buckley. Rather, to what Buckley thought was going on.

I’ve cheated on Will. Completely by accident, but still, it’s cheating. And right here in his own neighborhood, in a bar that we sometimes come to together. What if someone had seen me here with Buckley? Kissing Buckley?

Again, I scan the bar to make sure nobody’s here besides the bartender, who isn’t paying the least bit of attention to us. The place is definitely deserted.

So I wasn’t caught cheating.

Will never has to know.

Still, I’m mortified.

I look at Buckley. He doesn’t look mortified. He looks amused. And maybe a little disappointed.

“So you have a boyfriend?” he says. “For how long?”

For a second, I don’t get the question. For a second, I think that what he’s asking me is how much longer do I expect to have a boyfriend. I bristle, thinking he just assumes Will and I are going to break up after being separated this summer.

Then I remember that he doesn’t know about that. His true meaning sinks in, and I inform him, “I’ve been with Will for three years.”

“That long? So it’s serious, then.”

Naturally, I’m all, “Yeah. Absolutely. Very serious.”

Well, it is.

“You know what?” I hop off my stool. “I just remembered something I have to do.”

“Really?”

No. But I’m too humiliated to stay here with him any longer. Besides, that kiss really threw me.

Basically, what it did was turn me on, and I can’t go around being turned on by other men. I’m supposed to be with Will, and only Will.

I pull on my raincoat and fumble in my pocket for money. I throw a twenty on the bar.

“You’re really leaving? Just like that?”

“I just…I have to run. I can’t believe I forgot all about this thing….”

The thing being Will.

“Well, at least give me your number. We can still get together. I can always use another female pal.” He grabs a napkin and takes a pen out of his pocket.

Yes, he has a pen in his pocket. Dammit. How convenient for him.

“What’s the number?” he asks.

I rattle it off.

“Got it,” he says, scribbling it on the napkin.

No, he doesn’t. I just gave him my grandparents’ number with a Manhattan area code.

“Take this back,” he says, shoving the twenty at me. “This is on me. You’re not even going to get to eat any of the skins.”

“That’s okay. I’m not that hungry after all.”

He’s still holding the twenty in his outstretched hand, and I’m looking down at it like it’s some kind of bug.

“Take it,” he says.

“No, that’s okay. I can’t let you pay.”

“Why not? Really, I won’t think it’s a date if I pay,” he says with a grin.

That does it. I’m getting out of here.

He shoves the twenty into my pocket and I take off for the door, rushing out into the rain with my slicker open and my hood down.

I’m drenched before I get to the corner.

My first instinct is to rush right over to Will’s.

If I were in my right mind, I would stop, reconsider and go with my second instinct, which is to slink home on the subway, take a hot shower and crawl into bed—rather, futon.

Instead, I go with my first instinct.

In the lobby of Will’s building, I buzz his apartment.

Nerissa’s hollow voice comes over the intercom.

“It’s me,” I say. “Tracey.”

“Hi, Tracey,” says Miss Brit in her polished accent. “Will’s not here.”

He’s not?

But he’s supposed to be here. Packing.

Well, maybe she’s lying.

No, that doesn’t make sense.

Maybe he had to run out for more strapping tape or a new marker.

“Do you know where he is?” I ask her.

“No, I don’t. I just got back from rehearsal. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

No offer to let me come up and wait for him, I notice. Well, the apartment is pretty minuscule, and she probably doesn’t feel like hanging out with me until Will comes back from wherever he is.

But still, I have a right to be there if I feel like waiting for him. More right than she does, since Will’s name is on the lease, I think irrationally.

“See you later, Tracey,” she says breezily. Her later comes out “light-ah,” heavy on the “t.” Tracey is “trice-ee.”

“Yeah. Cheerio.”

I stalk back out into the pouring rain.