Wendy Markham - Slightly Single

I feel a lump in my throat, trying to rise past the soggy wad of pepper and egg making its way down. I can’t speak.

But that’s okay, because Will isn’t done yet. He’s put down his fork and is shaking his head. “I can’t believe you would spring something like this on me now. I mean, I thought we’d agreed that this summer stock thing is great for me. I have to do this for my career. You’ve known that all along, Tracey. Now you have a problem with it?”

I finally gulp down the egg and the lump. “I didn’t say I have a problem with it, Will. I just said I want to come with you.”

“But you know you can’t do that, right? Look, I know what this is. You’re just trying to make me feel guilty so that I’ll change my mind and stay here. And I—”

“I am not!”

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

“You honestly wanted to come with me?”

“Yes! Not with you, though…I just wanted to be near you.”

I feel a pathetic sense of abandonment and panic. I feel like a little girl whose Daddy is trying to dump her off at preschool against her will.

“But, Trace…” He’s at a loss for words. To his credit, he doesn’t mock me. Nor does he look angry anymore.

He looks…concerned.

I realize, with a sick churning in my stomach, that I’ve overstepped the line I’m always so careful not to cross with him.

I’ve gone and smothered Will, the Man Who Needs Space.

“Okay, well, I just thought I’d run it by you,” I say, trying to be nonchalant.

I pick up my coffee cup and notice that the cream has separated into clumps on top. Ugh. It must have been sour. I plunk the mug back into its saucer and fumble for some distraction, wishing there was something left on my plate besides the strawberry stem and orange rind from the garnish I already devoured.

I have nothing to eat.

Nothing to do.

Will says nothing.

Does nothing.

This is awful. I should never have brought it up.

Not like this.

I should have planned it more effectively.

I should have rehearsed what I was going to say, so that he wouldn’t be caught off guard. So that I wouldn’t seem like such a desperate cling-on.

But deep inside, I know that no matter when or how I approached him, he wouldn’t have thought my going to North Mannfield was a good idea.

So anyway, there it is.

It’s settled.

I’ll be spending the summer here in New York, without Will.

“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…”