Slightly Engaged. Wendy Markham

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      Dramatic pause. “It’s actually really hush-hush. I can’t really say.”

      Okay, ten to one that means he’s auditioning for the role of Pizza Deliveryman or Crowd Spectator #4 in one of those Lifetime trauma-of-the-week movies, or something of that ilk.

      “Well, good luck,” I tell him, methodically deleting spam without bothering to muffle the mouse clicks. “I hope you get it.”

      “I’ve got a good feeling about it,” says Will, who has a good feeling about everything he’s ever done, is now doing, or will someday do. On camera, onstage, in the bedroom, even in the bathroom, because I’m certain Will honestly believes that when he takes a shit white doves fly down from heaven to bear it ceremoniously away.

      There was a time when I almost believed that, too.

      Thank God, thank God, thank God he dumped me.

      If he hadn’t, would I have found the common sense to dump him?

      Or would I still be his girlfriend?

      Or, God forbid, his wife?

      I’ll tell you this: I’d definitely rather be not engaged to Jack than married to Will.

      The irony is that just a few years ago, I had this whole vision of our future mapped out, oblivious to the fact that all Will had mapped out was the fastest route to the bright lights of North Mannfield’s Valley Playhouse.

      When he left New York and then failed to call or write, then cheated, then ultimately dumped me, I had no idea he was doing me the biggest favor of my life.

      Which just goes to show you…

      Well, I’m not sure exactly what it goes to show you, but it showed me that I wasn’t always the best judge of character back then.

      I am now, of course.

      And I’m definitely as over Will as I am My Little Pony, jelly bracelets and slumber parties.

      As Will talks on about his latest audition and the hush-hush movie that he can’t discuss but it has some major stars and a famous director and if I knew I would just die, I click on through my e-mail, deleting most of it.

      Until I get to the most recent one, from my friend Buckley, which just popped up.

      “…and they said I absolutely have the look,” Will says, “and that I…”

      With Will, you barely even have to offer an occasional uh-huh to keep the conversation going, so I can to focus all my attention on Buckley’s message.

      Hey, Trace, writes Buckley, with whom I am just that cozy.

      Well, maybe not that cozy.

      Although I’ll confess that I wonder occasionally whether Buckley and I might have had a chance together if the timing had been different.

      I was attracted to him from the moment we met—and it was mutual. He immediately asked me out to the movies, which was why I logically assumed he must be gay.

      I know, but there I was, on the verge of losing Will, overweight and underconfident, certain that no guy as cute and normal as Buckley would possibly want to date me.

      By the time I figured things out, he was with Sonja. If he hadn’t met her, and I hadn’t met Jack, I might be living with Buckley now and wondering why we aren’t engaged.

      Funny, the way things work out. Or not.

      Buckley and I did attempt a fling once.

      It was post-Will, and post-meeting but pre-loving Jack. Oh, and mid-Sonja, although she doesn’t know. They were temporarily broken up at the time. Buckley and I fell into each other’s arms while crying into too many beers one night at a pool hall.

      At long last, I discovered the answer to that burning question: What is it like to make out with cute, boy-next-door-ish Buckley?

      I also quickly discovered—as did Buckley—that we made better friends than lovers.

      Not that we ever got that far. Lovers, I mean. A couple of passionate kisses—searing kisses, mind you—was the extent of our almost affair.

      Then Buckley moved on and in with Sonja and I moved on and in with Jack and here we all are, defiant sin-livers, the last of a dying breed.

      “…so then I went and changed into a pair of jeans,” Will is saying, “and that cashmere sweater that everyone says matches my eyes…”

      So Buckley and I are destined to be friends who double-date and read the same books and are aspiring copywriters.

      Well, I’m aspiring.

      Buckley is already a copywriter, lucky dog. He freelances all over the city and whenever he’s working near Blair Barnett, we have lunch.

      Which is why he’s e-mailing me today:

      

      Hey, Trace, are you free for sushi at one? My treat. I’ll meet you on the corner of Forty-eighth and Second.

      

      Yes! Lunch with Buckley is just what I need to take my mind off the most unromantic Sweetest Day ever, which Jack and I spent watching Game One of the World Series.

      The Yankees were losing from the first pitch, at which moment Jack’s euphoria instantly transformed into despondency. By the time Raphael called at what he thought might be “halftime” to inform me that he and Donatello were officially engaged, the Yankees were down by fourteen and Jack was downright miserable.

      In the wake of Raphael’s phone call, so was I.

      Not that I wasn’t happy for the happy groom-and-groom-to-be, because I was. And still am.

      But Jack’s reaction was less than encouraging.

      I waited until the commercial break to announce the glad nuptial tidings.

      Jack said, “You’re kidding, right?”

      “Not at all.”

      “That’s crazy.”

      “Why? Just because it’s not legal?”

      “That too, but—”

      “Just because it’s Raphael?”

      “That too,” he agreed again, “but—”

      Because it’s crazy to get married, period?

      Was that it? I thought it was. I was waiting for him to say it. Before he could—if indeed he was about to—the game came back on, and the Yankees lost spectacularly. End of conversation. All conversation.

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