Slightly Married - Wendy Markham

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out and pats my engagement ring. “But don’t worry, those days are way down the road for you. You just have fun planning your wedding.”

      With that, she’s gone, and I’m left wondering when the fun is going to begin.

      4

      My cell phone rings as I’m striding down Lexington Avenue on Wednesday afternoon, headed to Sushi Lucy’s for lunch.

      I bet my next paycheck that it’s Carol, wondering where I am. Everyone’s going crazy getting ready to present to McMurray-White again tomorrow.

      I snuck away while Carol was on the phone with the Client, who have made it abundantly clear that they don’t believe we Account people need meals, sleep or natural light.

      Checking caller ID, I see that it’s not Carol; it’s Will McCraw.

      I was just kidding about my next paycheck—you knew that, right?

      “Tracey, how’s it going?”

      Yes, I answer the call. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years now.

      “Funny you should ask that, Will, because it’s going particularly well, as a matter of fact. I—”

      “That’s great. I just wanted to call and thank you for the Valentine—”

      Yes, I sent him a Valentine, but it’s not what you think. It was a funny Shoebox one and I only sent it as an excuse to tuck in my new Tracey Spadolini, Account Executive, business card. Which apparently he didn’t notice, because he says nothing about the promotion.

      “—and I couldn’t wait to tell you I got a lead in a European touring-company production of La Cage Aux Folles!”

      Will starring as a gay man?

      “Wow, I’d love to see that,” I say truthfully. “Listen, I have news—”

      But he’s talking over me—“Yeah, it’s going to be great”—at least, that’s what I think he said. It might have actually been “I’m going to be great,” knowing Will, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

      “I’m sure it will be,” I say, “and I’ve got something to—”

      “I leave for Transylvania next week—”

      “Will, I have to tell—wait, did you say Transylvania?”

      “Right.”

      Huh. I didn’t even realize Transylvania is a real place. Had I known it was a real place, I would imagine it filled with dark, brooding types and, yes, vampires—not musical-theater buffs. You learn something new every day.

      “Will,” I jump in, realizing there’s been a lull, “I’m engaged.”

      Dead silence.

      “Hello?” That explains the lull; we must have gotten disconnected.

      Nope. He’s still on the line.

      “That’s great,” he says slowly, for once having been struck momentarily speechless. Ah, life is good. “Congratulations.”

      “Thanks.” I beam.

      “When’s the wedding?”

      “October, I think. We have to—”

      “October, I should be back by then.”

      Okay, back?

      Does he actually think he’s going to be invited to my wedding?

      I really want to say, “You don’t know Jack.”

      How I longed to tell Will McCraw, after he pretty much threw me away, that he was utterly clueless. About me. About life.

      But now, strangely, I don’t feel as though I have anything to prove to him.

      My work here is done.

      “Well,” he says, “good luck with the planning and everything.”

      “Thanks. Good luck to you, too.”

      Doing gay musical theater in Transylvania.

      For once, I think as I hang up the phone, both Will and I have simultaneously gotten exactly what we deserve.

      

      I get to Sushi Lucy’s and hang around in the small mirrored vestibule, trying to diagnose the painful bump on my nose. Yup. It’s a newly erupting zit, all right. It’s been ages since I’ve had one, but I know they’re brought on by stress.

      I bet I’ve escaped this problem until now because I could always rely on cigarettes to blow off steam. Now that I’m no longer smoking, all that tension is pent-up inside me, just waiting to erupt.

      Is it any wonder that my reflection reveals a big, ugly red blemish, thanks to the living hell that is Abate’s Summer Barbecue campaign?

      Mental note: stop for cigarettes—I mean, Clearasil—on way home later.

      There’s some in the medicine cabinet at home, but I noticed when I was rummaging around in there the other day that it expired in ’03.

      I know, you’re wondering why I don’t just toss it.

      Because it’s Jack’s, that’s why. The last time I got rid of one of his decrepit belongings—a single stray gray-white nubby gym sock that had been kicking around various surfaces in the bedroom for ages—he was annoyed.

      No, I don’t know why. But I decided on the spot that he would be responsible for disposing his own useless crap from there on in.

      And I’ve noticed he never does, even when I call his attention to stuff like expired medication, single socks and aging takeout leftovers he never should have saved in the first place.

      Magazines are the worst. Thanks to his media job on consumer electronics and men’s personal-care products, he gets comp subscriptions to just about everything but Modern Bride. There are towering stacks everywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if, near the bottom, there are cover stories on the pope’s passing, the Red Sox World Series or Nick and Jessica’s divorce. Their wedding, too, probably.

      Oh, well, that’s a fault I can live with, in the grand scheme of things. Nobody’s perfect.

      Nor, to my dismay, is my complexion.

      That’s a big fat ugly zit on my nose, all right.

      But I’m not here at Sushi Lucy’s strictly for pimple verification. I’m actually waiting for my friend Buckley to meet me for lunch so I can finally share my big news. I wanted to do it yesterday, but it was such a zoo at the office that I couldn’t get away.

      Today is a zoo, too. I shouldn’t be here, I should be working.

      But I want to tell Buckley about my engagement in person before he hears it from someone else because…

      Well, partly because I still haven’t been able to relish the pleasure of telling anyone in person. That will happen when we meet Jack’s mom and sisters for dinner tomorrow night, I’m sure, and when Raphael comes home from his honeymoon, and again when we fly up to Buffalo in a few weeks to tell my family—the soonest we could get an affordable flight.

      But I’m dying to share my news in person right away with someone who will appreciate it. And I’m sure Buckley will, because he’s my friend….

      Except…

      Part of the reason I want to tell him in person is that maybe there’s a lingering teensy, tiny shred of something other than friendship in our relationship.

      Did I mention that Buckley and I almost hooked up a few years ago? And that it overlapped with me and Jack, but not really with him and Sonja…?

      Oh, right. I did mention it.

      I guess I’ve just been thinking about that a lot lately for some

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