Slightly Married

  Jack is The One.

  Buckley is…well, The One Too Many.

  “So what do you want me to do with this?” I finally ask Buckley. “Just file it away and forget about it…?”

  “That would be good.”

  “…because I don’t think I can. We should resolve this.”

  “Resolve what? I’ve got feelings for you, you’re about to marry someone else. I’d say that’s pretty much resolved.”

  “No, I mean…it’s not just you.” I can’t believe I just said that. In a mere whisper, but I said it, and he must have heard, because I can feel him gaping at me from behind his shades.

  “Before I make the wrong assumption here…can you elaborate?”

  “You’re not the only one who—”

  Nope. I can’t say it.

  “You mean you feel…?” Buckley can’t, either.

  “Something. Yeah.”

  I know what you’re thinking, but look, I’m just being honest here.

  Because that’s what Jesus would do.

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  “Oh my God.” The words rush out of Buckley on a gust of hope and I realize I’ve made a gargantuan mistake.

  “But Buckley,” I say quickly, “that doesn’t change anything.”

  “It does. For me, it does. Just knowing—”

  “It can’t,” I say firmly. “It can’t change anything. I mean…yes, I’m attracted to you. But I’m not in love with you.”

  He winces.

  “Maybe there was a time when I could have been, if I had let myself.” I’ve softened my tone, fighting the urge to reach out and touch his arm. “But that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it didn’t. And because I’m in love with Jack.”

  He winces again.

  “Yeah. Okay.” He plunks his beer bottle into the sand, sticks his feet into his flip-flops, and abruptly stands up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a walk on the beach.”

  “Should I come?” I start to look around for my own flip-flops.

  Then Buckley says, “No.”

  And walks away.

  “Do you ever think about what either of us would be doing if we had never met?” I ask Jack late one night a week later, when we’re sitting at the table addressing three hundred envelopes.

  Yes, three hundred.

  That’s how many people we’re inviting. It really was a compromise, I swear.

  I read in Modern Bride that you should count on two thirds of your guests showing up, so by inviting three hundred, we’re actually throwing a wedding for two-hundred.

  Forget that Jack’s ideal number was fifty guests, tops.

  I didn’t say the compromise was an even split.

  Fifty is just completely unrealistic. I mean, the wedding party alone eats up almost half of that number.

  Anyway, we’re not as worried about the guest list now that we’ve banked several thousand dollars courtesy of that engagement party Wilma threw for us.

  We even booked a Tahitian honeymoon—another compromise.

  Really, it is. I agreed to trade the hut-on-stilts for the less exotic but more affordable Sheraton.

  So lately, life is overall pretty good, if a little more hectic than I’d like. All right, a lot more hectic.

  I fully expect Jack to ask me why he would even be thinking about what we’d be doing if we’d never met—which is, of course, the safest answer.

  But he doesn’t say that.

  He seems instead to be giving my question serious thought.

  In fact, I address an entire envelope to Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Sellers of Armonk, New York, whoever they are—Wilma’s friends, I presume—in the time it takes Jack to come up with a suitable answer to my question.

  Well, an answer, anyway: “I guess we’d both be with other people.”

  “Really?” I’m stunned, I must say. “Why do you think that?”

  “I don’t know…what did you want me to tell you?”

  “I didn’t want you to tell me anything specific. I’m just surprised you can see yourself with somebody else.”

  “You said if we had never met. Not now.” He sounds a little defensive.

  “No, I know!”

  “What, you can’t see yourself with somebody else?”

  An image of Buckley pops into my head.

  “No way,” I say firmly, shoving Buckley out.

  “So you think there’s just one right person for you in the world? And I’m it?” Jack grins and reaches for another envelope.

  “Don’t you think that?”

  He tilts his head.

  “You don’t,” I accuse.

  “Not really. I think it all comes down to timing.”

  Yeah, I guess I pretty much think that, too.

  But I’m afraid to agree aloud.

  “So you’re saying that if you and I weren’t together, we’d both still be out there looking for each other?” Jack asks.

  “I’m just glad I found you. That’s all I know.”

  Jack reaches across the stacks of envelopes and pulls me close. “Me, too.”

  I find myself wishing he were more the romantic type; that he’d told me I’m the only woman in the world for him. That it isn’t about timing; it’s about true love.

  Maybe it’s not realistic, and maybe neither of us believes it, but it would be nice to hear anyway.

  In all this disruptive wedding planning, I can’t help but feel like something—some part of who we were, or are, or wanted to be—has been…well, not lost, exactly. At least I hope not. More like temporarily misplaced.

  And I really hope we can get it back.

  “Oh my Gawd, Tracey. You look—”

  I’m sure big-eyed, big-haired Brenda, who is perched on a cushiony red bench nearby, said go-aw-jus, but I blanked out for a second there.

  Staring at myself in the mirror of the bridal salon, I’m pretty much stunned.

  Suddenly, I really look—and feel—like a bride.

  That’s because, for the first time, I’ve brought my headpiece to the fitting. Jeannie made it and it’s beautiful. Instead of illusion, she used a piece of exquisite French lace. It falls from a silk-covered comb: simple, old-fashioned and very unique. I even put my hair up in a bun to simulate how I’ll have it done on our wedding day.

  In this gown, with a veil on my head, I’ve gone all Natalie Wood in West Side Story, dreamy and swoony and I-feel-pretty.

  “We’ll have to take it in some more here,” says Milagros around a couple of pins clenched in her mouth. She bunches some fabric at the waist. “See? You lost weight again.”

  So I did. A couple of pounds, by the looks of it.

  “You really are getting so skinny, Tracey,” Brenda says, shaking her head. “Be careful. You don’t want to get anorexic.”

  “I’m not anorexic,” I tell her. “Just…too busy to eat, mostly. And…you know…it’s wedding stress.”

  Brenda nods. “I remember what that was like. It feels like there’s so much to think about, and worry about, right? But don’t wish it away, okay? Because someday you’ll just have mortgage stress and baby stress and trust me, that’s not as much fun.”

  “I’ll be right back, ladies.” Milagros bustles away to the back room, leaving the two of us alone.

  “This stress isn’t much fun, either,” I tell Brenda. “I quit smoking months ago and lately, I’ve been craving a cigarette. Not that I’m going to start up again.”

  “Don’t you dare. Your wedding is going to be great. You shouldn’t worry so much.”

  I stare at myself in the mirror, toying with the edge of my veil. I look worried. Probably because I am worried.

  “What?”

  I look over at Brenda. “What?”

  “Something’s wrong. Oh my Gawd, Tracey, you’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “No!” I frown at her. “I’m fine.”

  ?
??Are you sure? Because you don’t look fine.”

  “That’s because I’m not.” I want to sag onto the nearest bench, but I’m under strict orders from Milagros not to sit and crush the gown.

  “Oh my Gawd, you poor thing. What’s wrong?” Brenda is up and at my side, touching my arm. “It’s not too late, you know.”

  Too late for what?

  Labor Day has come and gone; it’s been several weeks since Buckley made his seaside confession. Neither of us ever said another word about it; by the time he got back from his walk, the others were out of the water, the sun was sinking fast and we were packing up to go. He was quiet the whole drive back to the city, but I don’t think anyone else noticed.

  I haven’t seen him since. We’ve spoken on the phone a couple of times, but we both carefully avoided mentioning what happened that day.

  Still, it’s been gnawing at me.

  Not nonstop.

  For the most part, I really am too busy with work and the wedding machine to do much of anything—eat, think, sleep.

  But it does hit me every so often:

  Buckley is in love with me.

  Buckley is hurting.

  And, frankly, so am I.

  But mostly for him, because he’s the one who’s alone.

  I’m as sure of my love for Jack as I’ve always been…although it does bother me that our relationship has been so matter-of-fact ever since our future together was sealed with a ring. I guess taking each other for granted is just naturally what happens after a few years, especially when you’ve both pledged that you’re going to be there for each other forever. I mean, it’s only natural, right?

  Still, I can’t help but crave a little less predictability; a little more good old-fashioned romance. Candlelight dinners once in a while, maybe. Champagne. Roses. Poetic words.

  “Do you want to back out of the wedding?” Brenda asks me. “Is that it? Because there’s still time if you aren’t sure—”

  “No!” I shake my head vehemently. “I’m sure. I love Jack, and I want to marry Jack. Period.”

  No.

  Not period.

  “It’s just…okay, Bren, if I ask you something, do you swear you’ll tell me the truth, and do you swear you won’t tell another soul that I asked this question?”

  “I sway-uh,” she says solemnly.

  “You love Paulie, right?”

  Her plucked-thin pencil-darkened brows furrow. “That’s the question?”

  “No, I mean…you do, right? You love him?”

  “Of course. He’s my husband.”

  “So do you ever…I mean, have you ever…Okay, were you ever attracted to another guy?”

  “Yeah.” She nods. “Tony, my old neighbor. We grew up together. But we were mostly just friends. Why?”

  “Mostly?”

  She gives me a sly smile. “We might’ve fooled around a little once or twice on the Fourth of July. There was always a block party, and you know…”

  “Fireworks?” I grin.

  “Yup.”

  “But this was before you met Paulie, right? That’s not what I mean.”

  She hedges. “Nope. It was during Paulie.” Po-awww-lie, she says it. Her accent gets more prounounced when she’s nervous.

  “Brenda!”

  “What? He’s gorgeous, Tracey, I swear.” It takes me a second to decipher. He’s go-aw-jus, Tracey, I sway-ah is how it comes out in her thick accent.

  “I’ll bet he is, but…you cheated on Paulie?”

  “Not when we were married! I’ve known Paulie forever, remember? We’ve been going out since we were in junior high.”

  “Oh…so this Tony thing was when you were in junior high, then?”

  “Mostly,” she says cryptically. “And high school.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “And then there was one last time after that,” she admits. “When we were in college. One last hurrah. But when Paulie and I got engaged, that was it.”

  “You never hooked up with Tony again?”

  “Tracey! What do you think I am? I’m married!” She tilts her head at me.

  “But…? I smell a but.”

  “No buts. I don’t commit adultery.”

  “I didn’t think you did.”

  “And it doesn’t count if you fantasize once in a while.”

  Aha!

  “I mean…Tony’s a fireman. He looks like he should be in one of those hot-firemen calendars, you know?”

  “So you mean you’re still attracted to him even now that you have a husband?”

  “Hell, yeah. I’m married. Not dead.”

  Hallelujah.

  Brenda and Paulie have one of the healthiest marriages I’ve ever seen. If she’s not immune to the charms of a smokin’ hot fireman despite a ring on her finger, there’s hope for me.

  “Does Paulie know about this?”

  “About what?”

  “That you think Tony is…you know, hot.”

  “Are you sick? No, Paulie doesn’t know. And I swear to God, Tracey, if you ever say anything in front of him—”

  “I won’t! I promise!”

  “Why are you asking me all this, anyway?”

  “No reason,” I say airily.

  Which normally wouldn’t let me off the hook with her, but Milagros comes scurrying back in just then, and the subject is effectively dropped.

  “Tracey? It’s me.”

  Me, who? Oh…

  “Will?”

  “You didn’t recognize my voice?”

  “Uh, no.” Aware that obscurity is the ultimate insult to Will McCraw, I probably should apologize.

  Maybe the old Tracey, his ex-girlfriend, would have done that.

  But you know what? I haven’t felt like Will’s ex-girlfriend in ages. That time in my life is so long ago and far away that I can barely remember what it felt like to be hung up on someone who didn’t give a damn about me.

  What a pleasant surprise. I’ve grown up and moved on. Yay, me.

  Shuffling papers on my desk in search of a report I need for a meeting in about five minutes, I nearly knock over the half-full cup of cold coffee that’s still on my desk from this morning. Crazy day, as usual.

  “I guess it’s been awhile,” Will says.

  “I guess it has. So how are you?”

  “I’m good. Back from Transylvania.”

  Oh! Right! Transylvania!

  How long has it been since I’ve even thought about that? Or him?

  Well, it’s about time I got to that point, wouldn’t you say? We’ve been broken up for over three years now.

  But I never have been very good at putting things behind me and not looking back. I guess I just don’t like endings. Even those that are long overdue.

  “How was your show?” I ask, finding the report and tucking it into a folder.

  “It was great. I’m sure you were wondering why I wasn’t back before now—”

  Um, no.

  “—but they extended our run a few times. I may be going back after the holidays, which would be terrific.”

  Terrific. Transylvania in the dead of winter.

  “Listen, Will, I’m glad you’re back, but I’ve got this meeting and—”

  “The guy who was subletting my apartment didn’t do a great job forwarding my mail while I was away,” he cuts in. “Some of it got lost in the shuffle. So I was just wondering about the invitation to your wedding.”

  He was? Uh-oh.

  “You’re still getting married in October, right, Tracey?”

  “Right.” But you’re not invited.

  Just tell him, urges Inner Tracey, clearly over Will at last.

  But I hedge. “The third weekend in October. In Brookside.”

  “So the invitations must have gone out then…”

  “Right.”

  Tell him!

  I should…but that would be quite a blow to him.

  So? How many times did he hurt your feelings?

  “I knew it. I did
n’t get my invitation,” he says, sounding a little put out. “It must be on its way to Transylvania. I swear, I told—”

  “No, you didn’t get an invitation because you’re not on the list, Will.”

  Silence.

  “You’re kidding…right?”

  “No,” I say firmly. “I’m not.”

  “But—I mean, you and I have been friends for years, Tracey.”

  Not really. We were much more than friends for the first few years, and far less than that for the last few.

  “You’re not inviting me to your wedding?”

  “I’m sorry, Will.”

  “Oh, I get it,” he says. “Is your fiancé jealous?”

  “Of you?”

  “I guess that makes sense,” says Will, who is undoubtedly imagining Jack, green with envy over my past with an international stage sensation such as himself.

  “No, it’s not that. We really just had to limit the guest list,” I say, and suddenly, I feel like a little girl who’s been dragging around a flaccid balloon on a string, a sorry relic from some long-ago birthday party.

  “So you cut me off the list?” he asks incredulously.

  “Actually—you were never on it.”

  Silence.

  “I’ve got to get to that meeting,” I say, knowing that if I leave it like this—if we hang up now—I’ll never hear from him again in my life. It would be the end of an era.

  “Okay, then…” he says a little awkwardly.

  “Goodbye, Will,” I say.

  And I hang up, letting go of Will McCraw at last…for good.

  “What do you think of my fixing up Billy’s sister with Buckley?” Kate asks casually a few days later.

  I look up, startled, from the pile of white onesies we’re folding. She got them—and a truckload of other layette loot—for her baby shower earlier that afternoon.

  “I think that’s a really bad idea,” I tell her.

  “What? Why? He seems so lonely lately, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know…I haven’t seen much of him. Have you?”

  “Billy and I ran into him at the movies the other night. He was there alone. We asked him to sit with us, but he said no. I think he’s depressed.”

  And I think he, like the rest of us, isn’t overly fond of Billy. But of course I can’t say that to Kate.

  “Amanda’s boyfriend just dumped her,” she says, referring to Billy’s sister, a snobby, elegant ash blonde who was here for the shower. “I think she and Buckley would be perfect for each other.”