Slightly Engaged

  I gesture out the window at the dead standstill ahead of us on West Forty-ninth Street, courtesy of hordes of gawking tourists and child-toting suburbanites making their way to the department store windows, Radio City Music Hall, the Rockefeller Center tree, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

  City sidewalks, busy sidewalks…

  Dirty, disgusting sidewalks, I add mentally, watching a vagrant hurtle a loogee onto the concrete in front of Saks.

  “No, I don’t mean it sucks about Jack’s flight and the traffic,” Brenda says over the blaring car horns as the light changes and our driver barrels across the intersection, nearly mowing down a cop and a family of five.

  Holding on to the seat for dear life, I ask, “Then what—”

  “Hello! Tracey! Come on!” That’s Latisha. “She means it sucks that he didn’t walk in the door and put a ring on your finger so that you can start making your wedding plans the second you get back to your hometown.”

  “Amen to that, sister.” That, of course, comes from Yvonne.

  I merely shrug and tell them all, “I’m sure Jack will give me the ring for Christmas, and we’re hanging around for a few days after, so I’ll be able to at least talk to the priest and book the reception.”

  “But you’ll have to look at places, and taste the food, and hear the bands…” Brenda shakes her head. “How are you going to do all that in a few days?”

  “Trust me, Bren, there aren’t many options in Brookside. I already know what I want. It’s just a matter of nailing down the date.”

  Please let it be October…

  Please let it be October…

  Brenda says, “I just wish he would get with the program already. Enough is enough.”

  She wishes?

  If my friends are this frustrated, imagine how I’m feeling right about now.

  At last, the cab pulls up in front of Tequila Murray’s Midtown, the newest branch of the semi-kosher Mexican restaurant—you’ll recall that I had my memorable first date with Jack at their site in the Village.

  Ah, memories. They were offering a two-for-one happy hour that night. Jack was late, I had an empty stomach—the better to show off my little black dress—and soon after he arrived, I found myself in the bathroom throwing up my pair of margaritas.

  When I think of that night…

  Well, it’s a wonder that we made it past the first date at all.

  It’s also a wonder that I’m still fond of Tequila Murray’s, though not for happy hour.

  Mental note: do not order more than one margarita, no matter how easily it goes down.

  Mental note, Part II: do not break diet!

  The four of us pile out of the taxi and troop into the restaurant for our celebratory lunch.

  What we’re celebrating: the holidays, which as far as I’m concerned will commence right after work tonight, which is when the office closes until after New Year’s, and Jack and I board our flight to Buffalo.

  What else we’re celebrating: Latisha’s big raise.

  Being the jealous type, I can’t help wishing we were also celebrating my big promotion to junior copywriter.

  Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen for a while because as of today, they’re still interviewing replacements for Mike.

  Meanwhile, he hasn’t found a job yet and apparently has a lot of time on his hands. He e-mails me at least three or four forwards a day—ancient jokes, dire warnings, political petitions, instructions to forward his e-mail to everyone I know and Bill Gates will in turn send me a million bucks—that kind of thing.

  And he keeps calling me and Jack, wanting to get together for dinner. We said sure the first time he asked, until we realized he meant the four of us—as in, me, Jack, Mike and the bitch-on-wheels he married. We’ve been coming up with excuses to put off the dinner ever since.

  The four of us are seated at a nice round table next to a group of cute businessmen who briefly check us out. I can’t help thinking that if I were still ten—okay, fifteen—pounds lighter, they wouldn’t have gone back to their fajitas and mole sauce quite so quickly.

  More inspiration to stick to my diet. Not that I need to be ogled by cute businessmen at Tequila Murray’s when I’ve got one of my very own at home, but still…

  “If Jack doesn’t give you that rock by Christmas, cut him loose.” That’s Yvonne’s unsolicited little nugget of advice for me, which she plucks out of thin air after ordering a double dirty martini.

  “He might be planning to do it on New Year’s Eve,” I protest, wishing we could just change the subject. “We’re having a party, remember? Maybe he’ll want to do it with all of my best friends around to witness the happy occasion.”

  “That’s when Derek proposed,” Latisha comments. “New Year’s Eve. Right at midnight. But we were alone.”

  “Was that the first time?” Brenda asks.

  “No, the fourth.”

  “That was the time you accepted, right?” I ask, trying to think back over Latisha’s series of grand proposals from Derek.

  “No, I said yes the fifth time.”

  “Was that when he surprised you with two tickets to Yankees spring training?” Brenda asks.

  “You bet.” Latisha sighs and shakes her head. “How long did it take him to figure out the way to my heart? Men!”

  “I wish Jack would figure out the way to my heart,” I grumble as the waiter approaches with our drinks. “I’m a lot less complicated than you are, Latisha. All it would take are four little words.”

  Yvonne smirks. “I-won-the-lottery?”

  I smirk. “Will-you-marry-me?”

  “Maybe you should say no when he asks,” Latisha suggests. “Just to keep him on his toes.”

  “Are you kidding?” Brenda shakes her head vehemently. “She can’t say no after waiting for so long. What if Jack changes his mind?”

  “What if he already did?” Yvonne asks darkly.

  The three of us glare at her.

  “I call it like I see it,” she responds with a shrug. “Only a real weenie farts around for this long. They’ve been together two years, he’s supposedly had a ring for four months.”

  I bristle at that, but what can I say?

  Nobody calls my Jack a farting weenie but me?

  “How are we today, ladies?” the waiter asks, and answers his own question with an annoyingly presumptuous “Everybody merry? Great.”

  I moodily sip my frozen raspberry margarita, barely listening to the specials as he reels them off…until he gets to the part about the beef chimichangas.

  I was going to order a salad, but what the hell? It’s Christmastime. I order the beef chimichanga special.

  “Lunch size or regular?” asks the waiter, whose name is Sal and who looks like all three of my brothers morphed into one, which makes me fleetingly homesick. Good thing I’ll be there tonight.

  But back to the business at hand…

  Lunch size or regular? Don’t you hate when they ask you that? You want to ask how big the lunch size is without seeming like a glutton.

  At least, I want to.

  But I don’t. Because it’s Christmas, so what the hell?

  I say, “Regular.”

  What, you thought I was going to order the lunch size and take a chance that it’s served in a teacup saucer like my salad at Bloomingdale’s?

  Not when I haven’t eaten since the sausage pizza Jack had delivered at midnight.

  I’m so famished that I also order a quesadilla appetizer, then graciously agree to share Brenda’s shredded chicken nachos as well.

  “Did you want sour cream and guacamole on your quesadilla?” the waiter asks me, apparently as an afterthought.

  You betcha, Sal.

  Sal adds the obligatory dietary deterrent, “It costs extra.”

  Yeah, bring it on, Sally. They don’t call me Hungry Hilda for nothin’.

  All right, so they don’t call me Hungry Hilda at all.

  Yet.

  “Extra salsa, too?” Sal i
s on a roll.

  I consider.

  “No charge,” he adds helpfully—or perhaps, sadistically.

  “Sure, okay.”

  After all, it’s free. And anyway, salsa isn’t fattening.

  But the rest of it…

  “Oh my God, why did I just do that?” I ask my friends after our boy Sal has scurried off to alert the kitchen staff re: Hungry Hilda’s impending truckload of lunch. “I was supposed to be on a strict diet.”

  “It’s Christmas,” Latisha replies.

  “Not for another six days,” I protest. “If I keep this up, there won’t be room under the mistletoe for Jack.”

  “I bet it’s not too late to change your order, Tracey.” Brenda is just trying to be helpful, I’m sure.

  I probably shouldn’t glare at her as I respond, “I just really want that chimichanga. The quesadilla and nachos, too,” I tack on quickly, before she can suggest that I skip my appetizer—or my half of hers.

  “Don’t we all just really want chimichangas, quesadillas and nachos?” asks Yvonne the former Rockette, who maintains her showgirl bod even at this advanced age. Technically, she shouldn’t even be involved in this conversation, since she becomes virtually invisible whenever she turns sideways.

  “Stay out of it, Slim,” Latisha chides.

  “Yeah,” Brenda and I chime in eloquently.

  Our skinny pal gives us the finger.

  “I’ll skip dinner,” I decide. “We’re flying tonight and by the time we land, it’ll be too late to eat.”

  Yeah, who am I kidding? When I called my mother this morning, she was making a lasagna, a tray of eggplant parm and a couple of pizzas.

  “You and Jack will be hungry when you get here” was her reasoning. In other words, doesn’t everybody require a three-course midnight snack?

  Not east of the Hudson River, they don’t. But back home, you never know when a bubbling casserole dish will magically appear.

  Our meals take a while to arrive. Tequila Murray probably had to have more food shipped in from his Village location.

  In the meantime, we discuss Latisha’s raise, Yvonne’s supervisor’s rumored extramarital affair and Brenda’s fear that she’s on the post-maternity-leave mommy track and thus, no longer taken seriously.

  I would never tell her that she’s right—or that she has never been taken seriously.

  But in the long run, does it really matter? Brenda is all about being a wife and mother, and we all know that the second Paulie makes NYPD sergeant, she’s trading her commuting Nikes and morning Post for a pair of terry-cloth scuffies and If You Give A Moose A Muffin.

  “What about you, Trace?” Latisha asks. “Have you talked to Carol about looking into a junior copywriter position lately?”

  “Not lately,” I admit. “But there’s nothing she can do until they bring in Mike’s replacement anyway, so…”

  “So meanwhile, you’re planning on sitting around twiddling your thumbs?” Yvonne says.

  “When I’m not doing Mike’s job.” I scowl at her.

  “Then go after it.”

  “Go after what?” I ask Yvonne. “I just told you, I can’t even think about getting promoted to copywriter until I get a new boss.”

  Yvonne shrugs. “Why don’t you become your new boss, then?”

  “She’s right. You should apply for Mike’s position, Tracey!” Latisha jumps right on board that train. “Why haven’t you talked to Carol about it?”

  “Because Mike is an account exec, Latisha.”

  “Was an account exec,” Brenda clarifies. “And you just admitted you’ve been doing his job since he left.”

  “I’m two steps down from account exec,” I remind her. “I haven’t even been an assistant A.E. yet.”

  “So maybe they’ll downgrade Mike’s position and let you step into it,” Latisha suggests. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

  She’s right. It can’t.

  Why didn’t I think of it?

  Because I’ve been too caught up in thinking about Jack and our future wedding, that’s why.

  You know, if he would just ask me to marry him, I could focus on other things. Things like advancing my career.

  Okay, don’t jump all over me. I know that’s a cop-out.

  I know that I could just as easily back-burner the whole engagement obsession and focus on other things.

  Well, not easily.

  In fact, it’s next to impossible for me to think of anything else because right now, nothing else seems to matter. Including work.

  That sounds pretty pathetic, I know. But come on. Is my longing to get engaged and married really so wrong? I’m in love. I want to spend the rest of my life with Jack.

  Until that’s settled, I just can’t see how I can devote much time and energy to anything else.

  “Now isn’t the time for me to go asking for a promotion,” I tell my friends conclusively. “People are getting laid off left and right.”

  “Which is exactly why you stand a good chance of getting Mike’s job,” Brenda informs me. “They’d be getting a competent person who’s already been trained, and they wouldn’t have to pay an account exec’s salary.”

  “Why should I do an account exec’s job for an assistant account exec’s salary?” I ask.

  “Because you’re already doing an account exec’s job for an account coordinator’s salary,” Yvonne snaps.

  Oh. Right.

  It would be nice to get a raise. Maybe then we could afford better furniture. Or even the rent on a bigger place. And maybe I could pay off my credit card, which is now dangerously close to being maxed out.

  “I’ll think about it over Christmas,” I promise my friends, catching sight of Sal the waiter lugging a huge pile of food our way.

  With any luck, things will fall into place any second now anyway, and my engagement worries will be a thing of the past by the time I get back to work in January.

  A few hours later, as Jack and I are going through security en route to Buffalo, I naturally can’t help wondering if he can possibly be toting my diamond in his back pocket.

  I doubt he’d have stashed it in the luggage he just checked downstairs, since his duffel bag doesn’t lock and he didn’t seem very concerned when the airline employee carelessly tossed it onto the conveyer belt.

  “I hope you didn’t buy me fine china for Christmas,” I quipped, watching the bag land with a jarring thud.

  “Huh?”

  “You know…if you bought me fine china and it was in that bag, it would be in shards.”

  “Oh. Right.” Pause. “I didn’t.”

  “I figured.”

  “Did you want fine china?” he asked, looking a little uncertain.

  “No!” I said quickly. Too quickly. So quickly that I will probably never receive a piece of fine china from Jack.

  I love fine china. Love, love, love it.

  Not that I actually have any.

  But I’d like some. Wouldn’t every woman of a certain age?

  Yes, I’m twenty-five.

  That’s the certain age when a woman’s thoughts automatically turn from the snappy convenience of Rubber-maid to the exquisite permanence of fine china. In fact, I’ve already picked out our pattern in Modern Bride, so when it’s time for us to register, we’ll be ahead of the game.

  But as we all know, what I want for Christmas from Jack this year is not a Royal Doulton Old Country Roses place setting—or even two.

  Now, watching him empty his pockets into the small plastic tub the airport security guy hands him, I shrewdly take note of everything he puts in, wondering if my gift is concealed somewhere on his person.

  Keys.

  Wallet.

  Cell phone.

  Pack of gum.

  Slip of paper.

  Slip of paper?

  I peer over his shoulder. Something’s written on it. It looks like a phone number.

  A craned neck and squint reveals that it is a phone number. One with a 718 area code. br />
  Brooklyn.

  Or Queens.

  Now, of course, I can’t help wondering…

  Maybe he’s involved with somebody else, Tracey, and he’s planning on giving her the diamond.

  Damn that Raphael anyway. Why did he have to bring that up the other night? Now I’m all paranoid.

  Well, not all paranoid.

  But slightly paranoid.

  Slightly paranoid enough to ask Jack casually, “What’s that?”

  Except it doesn’t come out casually.

  In fact, it sounds like a shrill accusation.

  “What’s what?” Jack asks, not even pausing as he puts his boots on the conveyor belt and steps into the X-ray archway.

  My repeat question is curtailed when an alarm goes off instantly.

  I get my hopes up.

  A diamond ring in his pocket would definitely make the alarm go off.

  So, I find out as the guard waves a hand wand over Jack, would a metal belt buckle.

  “Next,” the guard says, callously dashing my hopes as he clears Jack’s person of explosives and precious gems.

  Okay, so Jack doesn’t have a ring in his pocket.

  No, but he has somebody’s phone number.

  That’s never a good sign. I learned that back in the days of Will the Cheater. Not that I ever caught him carrying Esme’s phone number around in his pocket, but that’s probably just because I didn’t think to look. Back then, when I was naive and innocent—not to mention stupid—I wouldn’t stoop to—

  “Next!” the security guard says again, impatiently waving me through.

  Oops. I was so busy worrying about Jack’s secret girlfriend from Brooklyn—or Queens—that I forgot to take off my shoes and empty my pockets. Now the entire line behind me is making exasperated mouth sounds while I unzip and remove my boots, then take out my keys, wallet, cell phone, pack of gum.

  No slip of paper with a scribbled phone number in my pocket, though. I don’t have a secret boyfriend from Brooklyn. Or Queens. Or any other borough, for that matter.

  No, sir. I would never—

  My watch just set off the alarm. Oopsy.

  “Step aside,” the guard barks, immune to my charming smile.

  I step aside, glaring at Jack’s back as he bends to pull his boots on again.