Slightly Single. Wendy Markham
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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