CRITICAL PRAISE FOR SLIGHTLY SINGLE BY

Wendy Markham

“…an undeniably fun journey for the reader.”

—Booklist

“Bridget Jonesy…Tracey Spadolini smokes, drinks and eats too much, and frets about her romantic life.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This is a delightfully humorous read, full of belly laughs and groans…It is almost scary how honest and true to life this book is. It is a fun read for a beach day, or a steamy evening in one’s own un-air-conditioned abode like Tracey’s.”

—The Best Reviews

WENDY MARKHAM

is a pseudonym for USA TODAY bestselling, award-winning novelist Wendy Corsi Staub, who has written more than fifty fiction and nonfiction books for adults and teenagers in various genres—among them contemporary and historical romance, suspense, mystery, television and movie tie-in and biography. She has coauthored a hardcover mystery series with former New York City mayor Ed Koch and has ghostwritten books for various well-known personalities. A small-town girl at heart, she was born and raised in western New York on the shores of Lake Erie and in the heart of the notorious snowbelt. By third grade, she was set on becoming a published author; a few years later, a school trip to Manhattan convinced her that she had to live there someday. At twenty-one, she moved alone to New York City and worked as an office temp, freelance copywriter, advertising account coordinator and book editor before selling her first novel, which went on to win a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award. She has since received numerous positive reviews and achieved bestseller status, most notably for the psychological suspense novels she writes under her own name. She was a finalist in the 2002 Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Awards single-title suspense category, and her previous Red Dress Ink title, Slightly Single, was honored as one of Waldenbooks’ Best Books of 2002. Very happily married with two children, Wendy writes full-time and lives in a cozy old house in suburban New York, proving that childhood dreams really can come true.

Slightly Settled
Wendy Markham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For both of my beloved Jens:

Jennie King Eldridge, who was by my side

at the fateful office party, where the story began…

And Jennifer Hill, who has been there for Chapter Two:

Married Life in Suburbia.

And, as always, for Mark, Morgan and Brody, with love.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

1

Size eight.

That would be me, Tracey Spadolini. A size eight.

Can you believe it?

No, not my shoe size. My size, size.

I’m actually wearing a size eight dress—without one of those stretchy tourniquet tummy bulge compressors I used to live in—and I’m not even holding my breath.

When I started my summer diet, I figured I had about forty pounds to lose. But I’m down at least fifty, melted off with good old-fashioned diet and exercise, and kept off thanks to the little pink pills I take daily.

No, not the kind of little pink pills in a plastic baggie that you buy in a dark alley.

We’re talking a prescribed drug here.

Officially, I’m taking it to stave off panic attacks.

According to the pharmacy’s insert, potential side effects included diarrhea, constipation and severe flatulence. Not pretty, right? So I spent the first few medicated days close to home, not wanting to find myself on the crowded subway with a severe case of the runs—or, worse, uncontrollable gas.

But I’ve had nary a disgraceful rumble or abdominal cramp. In fact, aside from banishing my anxiety, the pink pills have brought on only one glorious side effect: a diminished appetite.

Happy Pills, my friend Buckley calls them.

He’s the one who referred me to the shrink in the first place, after the whole anxiety thing started this past summer. I thought I was just freaking out because my boyfriend, Will, had abandoned me. Technically, Will was away doing summer stock, but, essentially, he abandoned me.

Anyway, after a few sessions Dr. Schwartzenbaum suggested that although Will’s leaving probably triggered the panic attacks, I might have an underlying chemical imbalance. That must be true, because I’ve been on the medication for almost two months now, and haven’t had a single panic attack. Factor in that I’m rarely hungry and voilà—Happy Pills.

Back to the dress: scarlet and snug; a slinky cocktail dress with a high hem and a low bodice that, last June, would have revealed alpine cleavage. But I certainly don’t mind that my boobs shrank along with the rest of me. In fact, I barely notice. I’m too busy admiring my protruding collarbones—the protruding collarbones I’ve coveted on many an award-show red-carpet walker.

“Tracey?” Kate Delacroix taps on the dressing room door.

“It fits!” I squeal, turning away from the trio of full-length mirrors only for the second it takes to open the door and allow Kate to poke her blond head in.

“Wow. Tracey, you look ravishing in that.”

Ravishing. There are very few people who can get away with using a word like that and come across as genuine. Kate is one of them, Southern drawl and all.

Embarrassed that she might have caught my admiring gaze at my own reflection, I make an attempt to portray uncertainty.

I shrug. Tilt my head. Pretend to ponder. “Oh…I don’t know. I mean, I look okay, but…”

My jutting collarbones might be red-carpet-worthy, but an actress, I’m not. My brown eyes are still enraptured by the mirror, and I can’t seem to keep an exultant grin from tilting the corners of my—um, chapped lips.

Okay, it’s possible that I’ve been so focused on myself from the neck down that I’ve neglected the rest of me.

Mental Note: buy ChapStick at Duane Reade on the way home. P.S. Make appointment for lip wax ASAP. P.P.S. Haircut, too.

Back to skinny, ravishing below-the-neck moi. I look ten times better in this dress than I did in the silky teal shirt I wore into the dressing room. Kate gave the shirt to me for my birthday. It has a designer label and I know it cost her a fortune. But the cut and color are all wrong. Her taste is expensive, but not necessarily good. At least, not when it comes to others.

Kate’s big on teal. Aqua, too. Shades that complement her bluish-green colored contact lenses and year-round tanning salon glow. Shades that seem to cast the same sickly tint to my skin that fluorescent lighting does.

Naturally, I told Kate that I love the shirt. Naturally, I feel compelled to wear it. But only to places like the ladies’ dress department in Bloomingdale’s, where the chances of meeting a potential boyfriend are about the same as finding one strolling along Christopher Street in Greenwich Village on a Saturday night.

“You don’t think this dress is too skimpy for a corporate Christmas party?” I ask Kate now, tugging the hem southward.

She dismisses the query with a wave of one French-manicured hand. “Nah.”

“Are you sure? Because the last thing I want to do is look cheap.”

“Tracey, that dress is almost two hundred bucks on sale. It’s not cheap.”

“I know, but sometimes expensive things can look—Kate, what the hell are you wearing?”

She shrugs.

I grab her arm and pull her all the way into the dressing room.

“That’s a wedding gown!” I accuse.

“Yup.”

“Are you and Billy…?” Still clutching her white-satin-encased arm with price tags dangling, I jerk it up to examine her fourth finger for a telltale diamond.

Nothing.

Kate is unfazed. “I’m thinking we’ll get engaged at Christmas. He’s coming to Mobile with me to meet my parents and…well, he knows I’m not going to keep living with him forever without a commitment.”

“Forever? Kate, it’s been three months.”

Will McCraw and I were together three years. Three years, and instead of moving in together, we broke up. To be blunt, he dumped me. No, first he cheated, then he dumped me. And when he did, I passed out cold. Literally. I collapsed in an undignified, heartbroken heap on the parquet floor of his twenty-sixth-floor studio apartment.

But that was almost three months ago.

A lot can happen in three months.

Clearly, Kate thinks so. She sways her narrow hips slightly, the long white skirt rustling above her pedicured toes as she undoubtedly imagines herself at her reception in Billy’s arms.

I glance down at her feet. Pretty pink polished toenails in the dead of November. Huh. That Kate sure thinks of everything. I don’t even shave my legs at this time of year unless I think somebody’s going to see them.

Maybe that explains why she’s standing there in a wedding gown with a damned good chance of becoming a bride momentarily, while I don’t even have a date for the Blaire Barnett Christmas party next weekend.

But I’m not the only one. Brenda isn’t bringing her husband and Yvonne isn’t bringing her fiancé and Latisha isn’t bringing her boyfriend. It’s going to be Girls’ Night Out—to celebrate my triumphant return to the ad agency.

I quit my job back in September; in fact, on the same day the dumping/fainting incident took place. But Blaire Barnett, unlike Will, wanted me back.

What happened was this: the temp secretary who replaced me filed a sexual harassment suit against my ex-boss, Jake. Long story short, he wound up getting fired, and they offered me my old position back.

I was reluctant to take it, because I was making more money working for Eat Drink Or Be Married, a Manhattan caterer. But waitressing is hard, dirty work, it encompassed my nights and weekends and there were no benefits. Besides, I missed my old friends at Blaire Barnett; I was offered more money, and they promised me the opportunity to interview for the next junior copywriting job that opens up over in the Creative Department. Meaning I won’t be a secretary—or broke—forever.

All in all, it’s good to be back.

In fact, all in all, there’s not much about my life right now that isn’t good. My regular life, that is. My love life is a different story. The kind without a happy ending. At least, so far.

Kate—currently a vision in Happy Ending—gathers her long blond hair on her head with one hand while running the other along the row of satin-covered buttons at her back, feeling for gaps.

I step toward her, my legs engulfed in yards of swishy white, and attempt to fasten two buttons near her tailbone. It isn’t easy. They’re slippery, and the size of those mini M&M’s I haven’t had since July.

She says, “I swear, Tracey, three months is long enough to live together without a commitment. If Billy doesn’t get me a ring for Christmas, I’ll be shocked.”

“So will I.”

“I thought you just said—”

“It’s only been three months. That’s what I said. I didn’t say I don’t think you and Billy should get engaged.”

Nor did I say that I like Billy about as much as I like the teal silk hanging on the hook above my head. Kate is my friend, and Billy—like that ugly designer blouse—comes with the territory.

Besides, I can’t help wondering if maybe I’d be rooting for Kate and Billy if I had somebody, too. It isn’t easy to watch your best friend fall madly in love when two complete seasons have turned since you last had sex.

“Raphael doesn’t think I should have moved in with Billy,” she says, as I triumphantly manage to hook one minibutton into its microscopic loop. “He said something about Billy not wanting to buy the cow when he’s getting the latte for free.”

I roll my eyes, muttering, “Raphael has given out so much free latte, he should have Starbucks stamped on his, um, udder.”

“Tracey!” Kate giggles. “Raphael is the first to admit he’s a slut, especially now that he’s not with Wade anymore.”

“He was a slut even when he was with Wade,” I point out.

“Exactly. But he has old-fashioned standards when it comes to me—”

“And me,” I interject.

“Right. He wants to marry off both of us, so that we can make him an uncle.”

“He said that?”

“He said aunt. Auntie, to be specific.”

“Oh, Lord. I can see it now. Auntie Raphael.” I shake my head. Raphael is one of my best friends, but he’s definitely out there. In a good way, of course.

“Whatever you do, Trace, don’t tell Billy what Raphael said.”

“About the free latte?”

“About being the aunt to our future kids. He’d probably consider that grounds for a vasectomy. You know how he is about gays.”

Gays. That’s what conservative Billy calls Raphael and his kind.

His kind being another charming Billy phrase.

What Kate sees in him, I’ll never know. Yes, he’s as beautiful as she is, and yes, he’s rich as a Trump. But he’s shallow, and opinionated and ultraconservative—the latter being his worst crime, as far as I’m concerned.

I was raised in Brookside, New York, a small town so far upstate that it might as well be in the Midwest. The people there—including my own family—are overwhelmingly blue-collar Catholic Republicans.

Billy might be a white-collar Presbyterian Republican, but there’s little difference between him and my great-aunt Domenica, who is convinced that homosexuals will burn in hell alongside Bill Clinton and the entire membership of Planned Parenthood.

“Speaking of Raphael,” I say, changing the subject as I fasten Kate’s last button, “what time did you tell him we’d meet him for the movie later?”

In the midst of studying her bridal reflection, Kate drops her eyes.

Uh-oh.

“I can’t go,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Billy—”

Of course, Billy.

“—is taking me to see Hairspray.”

“You already saw Hairspray.” Raphael got us both comp tickets when the show first opened, back when he was dating the wardrobe master.

“I know, but Billy has orchestra seats, and we’re going with his boss and his fiancée. It’s like a work thing. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I know how it is.”

There’s an awkward silence.

She knows how I feel about her blowing me off for Billy. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. And Raphael is going to be pissed when he finds out that she’s not coming. These Saturday-night outings have been a regular thing for the three of us ever since Will and I broke up. Kate and Raphael teamed up loyally to make sure I wasn’t lonely.

But Kate didn’t come last week, either. Billy was sick, and she didn’t want to leave him.

You’d have thought he had pneumonia, the way she went on about it. Turned out it was just a cold. But she spent Saturday night being Martha Stewart-meets-Clara Barton: making homemade chicken noodle soup, squeezing fresh orange juice, hovering with tissues and Ricola.

Raphael and I spent Saturday night drinking apple martinis and bitchily dissecting the Kate-Billy relationship.

“Come on, don’t be mad, Tracey,” she pleads.

I sigh. “I’m not mad, Kate.”

After all, back when I was desperate to keep Will, I’m ashamed to admit that I’d have dropped my plans with Kate and Raphael, too.

But I didn’t like myself very much back then.

And sometimes, as much as I love Kate, I don’t like her very much when she’s with Billy.

I check out our reflections.

Six months ago, I couldn’t handle standing next to Kate anywhere, much less in a three-way dressing room mirror. Now, it’s not so bad. We’re like Snow White and Rose Red—literally, in these outfits. Svelte Kate with long fair hair and big blue eyes. Not-quite-as-svelte-but-no-longer-zaftig Tracey with long dark hair and big brown eyes.

She catches my eye in the mirror.

We smile at each other.

“You really do look good in that dress, Tracey.”

“And you look beautiful in that. I hope he gives you a ring for Christmas. It would be fun to shop for wedding dresses, wouldn’t it?”

She turns a critical eye toward the gown in the mirror. “Yeah, but remind me that I don’t like gowns with full skirts, will you? This one makes me look huge.”

“Huge? Come on, Kate. You’re teeny.”

“Not in this. It’s too froufrou. When I walk down the aisle, I’m going to go for sleek and sexy.” She reaches for the row of buttons. “Help me get out of it, will you?”

I oblige, still wearing the red dress. I’ve made up my mind to buy it for the Christmas party. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet somebody there. Blaire Barnett is a huge agency that employs plenty of single men. And a corporate Christmas party is as good a place as any to hook up, right?

2

Wrong.

A corporate Christmas party is no place to hook up.

At least, not according to this article in She magazine, where Raphael is assistant style editor.

The article is Ten Office Party Don’ts, and I stumble across it while I’m sprawled on his couch, leafing through the December issue and waiting for him to get dressed for our Saturday night out.

1. Don’t dress in a revealing manner.

“Uh-oh, Raphael,” I call. “I’m in trouble already.”

“Tracey! Trouble? What kind of trouble?” He peeks around the edge of the chartreuse folding screen that separates his “dressing room” from the rest of the loft.

“Are you wearing makeup?” I ask, realizing that his big dark Latin eyes appear bigger and darker than usual.

“No! It’s an eyelash perm. I got it yesterday. Do you like it?”

An eyelash perm. Oy.

I say, “It’s ravishing.”

The lunatic grins and flutters the fringe.

I go on. “So this article in She says I’m supposed to wear something corporate to the party next Saturday night. Something I’d wear to work. You know the dress I bought this afternoon? Well, I wouldn’t wear it to work unless my office was Twelfth Avenue after midnight and my boss was a guy in a long fur coat and a fedora.”

“Oh, please, Tracey. You should see the editor who wrote that article. We’re talking Talbots.”

This, coming from über-fashionista Raphael, is the ultimate insult. Still…

“I don’t know…maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s not a good idea for me to look like a trollop next Saturday.”

“It’s always a good idea to look like a trollop,” declared Raphael, who indeed looks like a trollop in a snug black silk shirt and snugger burgundy leather pants.

“I thought we were going to the movies,” I say as he steps into a pair of mules that match the pants.

“We are, Tracey. And afterward, we’re going dancing.”

I look down at my jeans and navy cardigan. “Raphael, I’m not dressed for a club.”

He turns to examine me. “You’re right. Tracey—” he shakes his head sadly “—that outfit—” clearly, he uses the term loosely “—has to go.”

Suddenly I feel like a contestant on that TV show Are You Hot?

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. You are not hot enough to proceed to the next round. Please exit the stage.

“Don’t worry, Tracey. After the movie, we’ll shop.”

“I’m broke, Raphael. I used up my weekly—” more like monthly “—shopping budget at Bloomingdale’s this afternoon.”

“Oh, my treat, Tracey. I’ll write it off.”

The beauty of Raphael’s stylist job is that he can actually do that. I can’t tell you how many times he’s treated me to a mini–wardrobe spree on the corporate credit card. Not to mention many an expensive sushi splurge.

“Isn’t accounts payable starting to get suspicious, Raphael?”

He shrugs, running a comb through his longish black hair. “Tracey, they love me there.”

“Raphael…” (I know—but I can’t help it. When I’m with him I tend to mimic his frequent name-user conversational style.) “I don’t want to get you into trouble at work. We’ll go to the movie, and then you’ll go dancing and I’ll go home.”

“Home?” Raphael echoes in horror.

“Yup, home.”

Home to my lonely studio apartment in the East Village. It’s still about the size of the elevator in one of those doorman buildings on Central Park South—and the only reason I know that is because I worked quite a few catered parties in them. The apartments, not the elevators.

My apartment will never be as fancy as a Central Park South elevator, but it’s definitely looking a little better since I started using my catering cash to buy “real” furniture, plus curtains, rugs and even a great stereo system.

Still, that doesn’t mean I want to spend the better part of a Saturday night there alone.

Looking as though I’ve just told him I plan to compose a “Farewell, world” note and scale a girder on the Brooklyn Bridge, Raphael declares, “Absolutely not, Tracey! You can’t go home. We see the movie, we shop, we dance. In fact—the hell with the movie. Let’s just shop and dance.”

“I thought you really wanted to see it.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, Tracey, but…” He looks over his shoulder as though expecting to find someone eavesdropping, then lowers his voice to a near-whisper. “I’m starting to think Madonna should stick with singing.”

“Raphael. You? I thought you said she should have been nominated for an Oscar for her last film.”

“Supporting actress only,” he clarifies, pausing to bend over a table and straighten one of his many small glass sculptures. His apartment is filled with outrageously expensive clutter that he and his delusional friends refer to as objets d’art. I call them chotchkes, and you would, too, if you saw them. I can think of a zillion better ways to spend what little cash I have.

“And anyway,” he goes on, “that was two films ago. Let me tell you, Madonna’s no Cher. Her acting went downhill in that last romantic comedy, which I said in the first place she should never have done. And I hear this new one isn’t very good, either. I might even wait for the DVD. Unless you really wanted to see it, Tracey.”

“Me? No! I was just going for you.”

“Then it’s settled.” He gives a single nod and declares with the veneration of a Hells Angel embarking on a nocturnal Harley journey, “Tonight, we shop.”

Shop we do.

Two hours, three cab rides and a pit stop at my apartment later, I’m sitting across from Raphael in a dimly lit bar. He’s traded the burgundy leather for a pair of equally tight retro acid-washed flare jeans he couldn’t resist. I’m in a fetching vintage Pucci print minidress. Raphael insisted on buying me a lime-green boa to go with it—They’re all the rage in Paris this season, Tracey—but it’s draped on the back of my stool over my brown suede jacket. Screw Paris.

“I’m just not the boa type,” I tell him when he begs me yet again to wrap it around my shoulders.

“Maybe not a few months ago, Tracey, but the new you definitely screams boa.”

I glance down, half expecting to see something other than my newly familiar shrunken self.

I shrug and sip the lethal pink concoction Raphael ordered for each of us. He dated a bartender a few weeks ago, and now he’s into all the fancy cocktails of yesteryear.

I forget what this one is called. At first it tasted like Windex, but now it’s going down easier. “I have to say, I’m just not hearing the screaming, Raphael.”

“That’s because you’re not listening. You’re trying to keep the new Tracey hidden behind the old Tracey’s insecurities. I say, release her!”

“And deck her out in a lime-green boa? That seems cruel.” I drain the last of my drink.

Raphael leans his chin on my shoulder. “What do you think, Tracey? Want another cocktail here, or should we move on to Oh, Boy?”

Oh, Boy is, of course, the club we’re headed to.

I glance around the bar. It’s getting crowded. And I’m craving a cigarette, but like all bars in Manhattan, the place is full of No Smoking signs.

I’m about to suggest moving on when I lock gazes with a Very Cute Guy standing with a small pack of Very Cute Guys back by the rest-room sign and the jukebox. He flashes one of those flirty, raised-eyebrow smiles that guys are always flashing at Kate. Never at me. Never until now, anyway.

I realize this might be my fleeting last chance at heterosexual contact this evening.

“Another cocktail here,” I tell Raphael, hoping Very Cute Guy doesn’t think Raphael and I are together. I glance at him, taking in the snug silk shirt, the pink drink, the eyelash perm.

Nah.

“Are you sure you want to stay?” Raphael asks. “Because this place is getting packed, Tracey.”

VCG seems to be shouldering his way toward us. Or is he just trying to escape the bathroom fumes or the blaring Bon Jovi? Hard to tell. But just in case…

“Let’s stay for one more,” I say decisively.

Cute Guy’s name is Jeff. Jeff Stanton or Stilton—something like that.

How do I know this?

Because a few minutes after our second drink arrived, he popped up and introduced himself to me.

His name is Jeff, he’s a broker—or trader. I don’t know, exactly; something boring and Wall Street.

Oh, and he has an unhealthy obsession with Star Wars.

How do I know this, you might ask?

Because he has Star Wars sheets. Sadly, I am so not kidding.

And if you’ve figured out how I know about his sheets, you also know that I’m not only dressing like a trollop these days; I’m conducting myself like one.

Did I get wasted and sleep with Jeff Stanton/Stilton/Something that starts with an S and ends with an N?

Yes.

Do I regret it now that the morning light is filtering through the slats of his blinds and I can’t even recall which freaking borough I’m in?

Hell, yes.

It’s bad enough that I’m in a borough at all. I had him pegged for Manhattan, Upper West Side. Tribeca, maybe. But a borough?

At least it’s not Jersey, I tell myself, sitting up in his twin bed—yes, I said twin bed—and pulling the StarWars flat sheet up to my chin as I assess the situation and try to remember how I got from Point A—the bar—to Point X-rated.

It’s freezing in here, by the way. I’m surprised I can’t see my breath. And there’s no quilt on the bed.

Oh, wait…there is a quilt. I can see it when I peer over the edge. It’s been passionately pitched into a heap on the floor beside my clothes—with the exception of my lime-green boa, which is draped over a dresser knob across the room.

How the hell did it get there?

And while we’re on that topic, how the hell did I get here? And where is here?

I remember asking Jeff S-n, at one point in the night, if he lived in Jersey.

I remember him laughing and saying of course not, as though I’d accused him of being a rifle-toting redneck bootlegger from West Virgin-ee.

What I don’t remember is when Raphael abandoned me at the bar with Jeff S-n or how it was decided that I would be borough-bound to have sex with a complete stranger.

I only know that much liquor was involved, followed by a long cab ride over a bridge. It could’ve been the Golden Gate, for all I noticed while I was making out with Jeff S-n in the back seat.

So what happened when we got here, wherever we are?

Searching my mind for reassuring memories of doormen or elevators or quaint parkside brownstones, I vaguely recall a side street crammed with parked cars, apartment buildings and small houses.

An educated guess tells me Jeff lives in one of them. There are major gaps in my recollection of our pre-bed travels.

I do know that it was dark when we came in, and he didn’t turn on lights.

Ostensibly so that I wouldn’t glimpse Yoda on a pillow-case and flee screaming into the night.

Maybe it’s not so bad, I try to tell myself. Maybe it’s even kind of, I don’t know, sweet that a grown man sleeps in a twin bed with Star Wars sheets, you know?

I turn my head and glance at Jeff, wondering if I’ll be swept into a wave of post-coital tenderness.

Nope, nothing sweet about it. It’s freakish, that’s what it is.

His mouth is open, wafting beery morning breath. I can see all his fillings, and a hinge of thick whitish drool connecting his upper lip to his lower.

Oh, ick. I’m outta here.

He doesn’t even stir as I slip out of bed and dive into my clothes. Shivering from the cold, I glance around the room as I dress. I half expect to see cheesy posters on the walls: race cars or topless women. To his credit, there are none. The room is messily nondescript. But there is a shelf lined with trophies and another with a bunch of Tolkien and C. S. Lewis titles.

I take another look at Jeff, half expecting to realize, in the broad light of day, that he’s actually an adolescent boy. After all, he was pretty vague about what he does for a living—or was it just that I tuned him out when I found out he was in finance?

Hmm. I note a reassuring stubble of beard on his chin, right beneath the drool, and what’s visible of his chest is broad and hairy. He certainly looks like a grown man. Snores like one, too.

Lord, I just hope I’m not in his boyhood home. When we walked in, he whispered, “Shh! My roommates are sleeping.” Still, you never know. What if his roommates are of the parental variety?

Not that I wouldn’t consider dating somebody who still lives at home, but…well, I wouldn’t dream of conducting a one-night stand with anybody’s parents on the other side of the bedroom wall.

Nor would I, in my kinkiest fantasies, have dreamed of conducting a one-night stand while reclining on an Ewok’s face.

I look back at the slumbering Jeff S-n. Should I wake him to say goodbye?

He emits a snorting sound, smacks his lips, rolls over.

I wrinkle my nose.

Okay, but should I at least leave a note?

I could write down my phone number, I think, as I put on my suede jacket.

But what if he calls? Then I’ll have to see him again.

And what if he doesn’t call? Then I’ll feel like a real tramp.

Screw it. Like I haven’t already descended into the depths of trampdom?

Carrying my shoes, boa and purse, I step into a carpeted hall, half expecting to find a graying man in corduroy slippers and a cardigan padding toward the bathroom.

But all I see is a row of closed doors and one that’s ajar, revealing a fraction of a sink and toilet. I glance in longingly as I pass, wishing I had time to spare. I sort of have to pee; I’m dehydrated; my mouth tastes like somebody vomited in it.

But, sniffing the air, I can smell coffee brewing. One of the “roomies” is up. I can’t risk hanging out here a second longer.

So long, Jeff S-n. Thanks for the—uh, memory blanks.

I head down the stairs and out the front door, stepping out into what I sincerely hope isn’t the Bronx. Or Staten Island.

The instant the frigid fresh air hits my face, I wish I had snagged Jeff S-n’s quilt to wrap around me for the trip home. It has to be below freezing, and all I have is a thin leather jacket. Oh, and the boa. I wrap it around my low-cut neckline, hoping to stave off pneumonia.

I walk gingerly toward the street, swept first by a wave of nausea, then a wave of panic—until I reassure myself that my meds will keep a full-blown attack at bay—followed by a wave of homesickness for Manhattan, for my little studio, for Will….

Yes, homesick for Will McCraw.

It’s been three months, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely over him.

It doesn’t mean that when I’m out on the street, I don’t constantly, subconsciously, look for him on the crowded sidewalks, thinking that I’ve glimpsed his face on a passerby—but it never turns out to be him.

And it doesn’t mean that I’m over longing for the days of waking up next to a warm, familiar body in a warm, familiar place.

But Will has moved on. He and Esme—his summer stock costar, with whom he cheated on me—are a solid couple.

How do I know this?

Will told me.

That’s because Will thinks we’re friends.

Yes, you heard me. Friends.

Is that a cliché, or what? He wants us to stay friends. So he calls me every week or two to “check in.” Usually, he does all the talking. I hold up my end of our conversation by trying to sound enthused about his brand-spanking-new life that doesn’t include me. Except, of course, in said friend capacity.

Pausing on the sidewalk in front of Jeff S-n’s brick row house, I survey the block and light a cigarette. No real clues in the ubiquitous three-and four-story brick apartment buildings or small one-and two-family houses fronted by low wrought-iron fences. My gut tells me I’m in Brooklyn, but it could be Queens, for all I know. I can see a street sign, but it means nothing to me. There’s probably a Fifteenth Street in every borough. I could start walking until I find a cross street, but unless it’s a major, familiar one (even I know that Pelham Parkway is in the Bronx and Astoria Boulevard is in Queens), I’m still going to be lost.

Mental Note: Start carrying pocket atlas with street map of entire city.

Mental Note, alternative to above: Stop sleeping around.

An old lady trundles in my direction, pushing one of those wire carts full of plastic grocery bags. She’s wearing a down coat and sensible shoes, and I’m wearing a minidress and a lime-green boa.

“Excuse me, which way is the subway?” I ask her as she passes.

“Which line?” She doesn’t even bat an eye at my getup. Displaced sluts must be a common sight on weekend mornings in this neighborhood.

I shrug. “Any line to Manhattan.”

“The F train is two blocks that way.” She points and moves on, rattling off down the street with her cart full of groceries.

I look after her, envying her life’s simplicity. It occurs to me that I’d trade places with that gnarled grandma in a second….

After which it occurs to me that I’m probably still slightly drunk.

The F train. Okay, that tells me nothing. The F train runs from Brooklyn to Manhattan to Queens.

Then again, who cares what borough I’m in?

I head down the street, passing a couple of teenaged boys dribbling a basketball between them. They do a double take and snicker.

Well, who cares what they think?

I grab the dangling end of my boa and toss it over my shoulder with a flourish.

One of them mutters something as they pass. I don’t hear the words, but I know it’s about me and his tone is snide.

And suddenly, I care.

I don’t want to be this…this trollop.

I want to be me again. Tracey Spadolini. The only thing is, I have no idea who she is anymore.

Three years of entanglement with Will, followed by three dazed post-breakup months…

I’m not just lost and alone in some borough.

I’m lost and alone, period.

Brushing away tears, I make my way toward the F train, hoping to God that it’ll carry me home.

3

“You know, Tracey, you’re really lucky that he didn’t turn out to be some serial killer.”

That’s my friend Buckley O’Hanlon, referring, over lunch on Wednesday, to Jeff S-n and my initiation into the sordid world of one-night stands.

We managed to find a table for two in the crowded upstairs dining area of one of those Korean grocer/salad bar/Chinese buffet/deli/florist places that are unique to Manhattan.

Buckley’s doing some in-house freelance work in my office building, just as he was when we first met last spring—back in the bad old days when I was fifty pounds heavier and assumed he was gay.

Even though I know Buckley’s totally right about the risk I took going off with a complete stranger, I roll my eyes and tell him, “Of course he wasn’t a serial killer. He’s a trader.”

Yeah. Or a broker.

“So? Didn’t you ever read American Psycho?” Buckley sips his Snapple, then takes a bite of his turkey wrap.

“No, I never read it. But I saw the movie.” And now that I think of it, why didn’t that pop into my horny little head when I decided it was perfectly safe to dart into the night with a good-looking Wall Street guy? Scary, what a few pink cocktails and three celibate months can do to a gal.

“The movie was stupid. The book was better.”

As far as Buckley’s concerned, the book is always better. He likes to refer to himself as a literary geek, but trust me, there’s nothing geeky about him. He’s a copywriter, and he’s been writing a novel in his spare time. Of which, might I add, there isn’t much, now that he’s in a relationship.

Do I sound catty? Sorry.

It’s just that he gained a girlfriend right around the time I lost a boyfriend. Which is a real shame, because something tells me that Buckley and I have the potential to be more than friends. He’s cute and smart and funny—totally my type. Except for that pesky he-has-a-girlfriend thing.

“I don’t like the idea of you out drinking and getting picked up by strange men, Tracey,” Buckley informed me, frowning.

“I’m a big girl, Buckley. Not as big a girl as I used to be, mind you, but big enough to take care of myself. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Yes, I do. I can’t help it.”

I smile. “How sweet are you?”

He smiles back. “I’m the sweetest.”

“I’m serious. You are.”

“And I’m serious. Stay away from strange men.”

When Will dumped me, I cried on Buckley’s shoulder, and he promised me that, someday, I’ll be grateful to Will. He swore I’d want to thank him for dumping me, because it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I’m still waiting for that day to arrive, and I can’t help but feel like it might come sooner if I could replace Will with someone new. Someone better. Like, oh, I don’t know…Buckley.

“So how’s Sonja?” I ask, because it seems polite. And because it will change the subject from my one-night stand, which I’m not entirely comfortable discussing with someone as wholesome as Buckley, who has probably never had a one-night stand in his life.

“Sonja’s fine,” Buckley says.

I peer at him over my blah bundle of sprouts, aka the 200-Calorie Fat-Free Veggie Wrap. Lawn clippings in an envelope would be tastier.

“Are you sure?” I ask him.

“Sure about what?”

“That Sonja’s fine?”

“Yup. She’s fine.” He pokes an errant tomato back into his sandwich.

“Your mouth is saying yup, but your eyes are saying something’s wrong, Buckley. Oh, and you have a glob of honey mayonnaise on your cheek.”

He reaches for a napkin, then sweeps it across his face. He totally misses.

I take it from him and dab his cheek, asking, “What’s up?”

He sighs. “Sonja wants us to move in together.”

My heart sinks.

I smile brightly.

“So…that’s romantic,” I tell him.

He shakes his head.

“It isn’t romantic?”

“No. It’s stupid. We both have leases. We both have great places. We both live alone. There’s no reason to move in together already. We’ve only been going out a few months.”

Gotta love sensible Buckley. Why rush things? After all, you never know when somebody better might come along. Or when you might notice that somebody who came along a while ago just might be better. Psst, somebody whose initials are T. S. and is sitting right across from you at this very moment.

“So you don’t love her?” I ask, trying to sound casual. I’ve never let on to Buckley that I could be attracted to him.

“I don’t know. I mean…I really think I do.”

Oh.

He really thinks he does.

There goes any hope for Buckley ever falling for me. Everyone knows that when a man admits aloud to the merest possibility of being in love, it’s only a matter of time before he finds himself standing in the bridal registry at Michael C. Fina on a Sunday afternoon when the Giants are playing at home.

“Buckley, if you love her—”

“I think I love her,” he amends.

“If you think you love her, what’s the problem?” Shut up, Tracey.

Yet I babble on. Either Sonja’s spirit has been astral-projected into my body, or I’ve taken up the cause for oppressed would-be live-in girlfriends everywhere.

“I mean, Buckley, it’s not like you’re not dating other people.”

Say…for example, me.

“And Sonja’s great. She’s smart, pretty, fun…”

Somebody stop me.

But I can’t help myself.

“After all, you’re together all the time anyway. Why pay two rents?”

It’s as though I’m talking to Will, back when I wanted to move in with him and he wanted to move to another part of the state without leaving a phone number.

“I guess,” he says thoughtfully.

“Look, Buckley, if you’ve got a good thing going, you shouldn’t be afraid to take the next step. I mean, look at Billy and Kate. They moved in together less than two months after they met, and now they’re looking at engagement rings.”

“They are?”

“She is,” I admit. “But she’s thinking they’re going to be engaged at Christmas. She said she wants a June wedding.”

“A June wedding. I wouldn’t expect anything less from our little magnolia,” Buckley says, shaking his head.

“Do you think Sonja wants a June wedding?” I can’t help asking.

I brace myself for a look of horror, or at least dismay, but there is only resignation.

Buckley sighs. “Do you know a female who doesn’t?”

“Well, I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“Uh-uh. I want a fall wedding.”

At least, that’s what I secretly hoped for when I was with Will. I had the whole thing planned out in my head—what I’d wear, who would stand up, the flowers, the menu, the pumpkin cake with cream-cheese frosting….

“A fall wedding would be nice,” Buckley says. He adds hastily, “Not next fall.”

He’s so sweet, I think, watching him pop the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth. So different from Will and Jeff S-n. Buckley’s genuine. He’s a really good friend. And when he’s not brooding over Sonja, he’s one of the funniest people I know.

I wonder, not for the first time, what would have happened if Will had dumped me before I met Buckley.

He was attracted to me back then. I mean, he kissed me—which was how I figured out that he definitely isn’t gay. And it was a great kiss. So great that I still think about it sometimes.

Okay, all the time.

Maybe that’s just because it was the last time somebody kissed me that way.

Or maybe it’s because I could easily fall in love with my good friend Buckley.

But even if he were available, it’s too soon. I’m still not over Will. According to Kate, She magazine and pop psychology 101, any relationship I have right now would be strictly rebound.

Buckley crumples his sandwich wrapper into a ball and drains the last of his Snapple. “Ready to go back to work?”

“Nah. Let’s play hooky for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Seriously?” He looks intrigued.

“Nope. I was kidding. I’m in the middle of helping Mike with a New Business presentation. And then Brenda and Latisha and I are going to try to meet and figure out if we can organize a bachelorette party for Yvonne sometime in the next few weeks.”

“When’s she getting married?”

“Over Christmas. She and Thor are eloping to Vegas.”

Thor is Yvonne’s Swedish pen pal. When she met him a few months ago, they got engaged. She swears this is merely a green-card marriage, but we think she’s in love. When she’s with him, she’s all girly. As girly, that is, as a tough old broad like Yvonne can be.

“Okay, I guess I’ve got to get back to the office, then,” Buckley says reluctantly.

“Same here.”

We push back our chairs and carry our garbage to the can as a pair of hovering corporate drones descend on our vacant table. “But wouldn’t it be fun to blow off work and go ice-skating or something?” Buckley muses.

“Me on ice skates? Are you kidding?”

“You grew up near Buffalo. You must have learned how to skate.”

I shake my head.

“Really? I’ll have to teach you.”

An image flits into my mind as we make our way through a sea of office workers, down the stairs, through the deli and onto the street.

I see myself in one of those short, cute pleated skating skirts and a fuzzy white sweater. Buckley is in one of those clingy skating jumpsuits they wear at the Olympics, yet he looks incredibly masculine in it.

I know, I know, but it’s a fantasy.

So, anyway, we’re gliding around the ice in front of 30 Rock. Classical music is playing, a gentle snow is falling—big, lazy flakes—and there’s not a soul on the rink but us.

Fantasy, people! It’s a fantasy.

He lifts me in his arms a few times, and we effortlessly do some fancy moves. Complicated stuff. Then he kisses me, and it’s totally passionate, and he says…

“Do I have anything stuck between my teeth? Trace?”

Thud. I land on Third Avenue, where a jackhammer is rattling and taxis are honking and Buckley’s in my face with his teeth bared, revealing a lovely hunk of chewed-up lettuce.

“There’s something green between your front teeth,” I advise him, sighing inwardly as I reach into my bag for a cigarette.

So much for fantasies.

Mike Middleford, my new boss, is nothing like sexist, philandering, narcissistic Jake.

For one thing, Mike treats me with respect. He asks my advice on PowerPoint presentations—poor guy isn’t very literate—and he doesn’t mind if I’m a few minutes late in the morning or if I sneak out for a few cigarette breaks.

For another, he’s totally in love with his girlfriend, Dianne. Whenever she calls, I’m suppose to hunt him down to come to the phone, unless he’s in the men’s room or a meeting. It’s refreshing to see a guy light up when he hears that his girlfriend is on the phone. Dianne calls a lot, and she sounds really sweet. She always greets me by name and makes an effort to chat before she asks for Mike.

Like today, she says, “Hi, Tracey, how’s it going? Are you psyched for the company Christmas party Saturday night?”

“Yeah, it sounds like it’ll be fun.” Blaire Barnett had rented out Space, an entire three-floor nightclub in Chelsea, for the party. “Are you coming with Mike?”

“Nah. He wants me to, but I wouldn’t know anybody.”

Wow. She must feel really secure about her relationship. If Will was going to a party and I had the option of going with him, there’s no way I’d opt out.

Then again, Mike goes out of his way to make sure he doesn’t miss her calls. Will lied and told me that the pay phone in his summer cast house didn’t take incoming calls. And, duh, I believed him.

“Are you bringing a date?” Dianne asks.

“Me? Nah. I’m not seeing anyone right now. My boyfriend and I broke up in September.”

Why, I wonder, do I feel compelled to tell people about Will? I’m always bringing it up. To elevator men, cabdrivers, dressing-room attendants in clothing stores…it’s like no matter who I’m talking to, I manage to find a reason to announce that I’m recovering from a breakup.

“That’s too bad,” Dianne says.

“Yeah, it’s hard. But I’m sure I’ll find somebody new sooner or later.” Buckley flits into and out of my mind. So does Jeff S-n. How depressing.

“I wish I knew somebody we could fix you up with, but I’m drawing a blank,” Dianne says. “Mike has a roommate, but he’s a real asshole.”

“That’s okay.” I’m not desperate enough to consider a blind date…yet.

“It stinks being alone around the holidays, though,” Dianne comments. “You get cheated out of boyfriend presents, jewelry, baubles…”

Baubles?

“I never thought of it that way.” I find myself thinking, wistfully, All those years with Will, and nary a bauble to show for it.

“Then there’s New Year’s Eve….”

“Right.” I hadn’t thought of that either. Gee, thanks, Dianne, for enlightening me.

She sighs. “Oh, well.”

Yeah. Easy for her to say.

“So…is Mike there?”

“He’s around somewhere.” If he’s not out shopping for diamond earrings or on the other line booking the presidential suite at the Sherry Netherland for December 31st. “I’ll go get him.”

I find Mike by the copier, trying to help my friend Brenda clear a jam. He bolts the second I tell him I’ve got Dianne on hold.

Brenda shakes her head. “Look at him drop everything and run. I hope she knows how lucky she is.”

“Look at you. You’ve got Paulie.” It’s all I can do not to pronounce her husband’s name the way she does—“Po-aw-lie.” Sometimes her accent is contagious.

“The honeymoon is over, Trace. I’ve been married four months, and already Paulie is telling me I’ve got to stop calling his cell during the day while he’s at work.”

“Well, Brenda, he’s a cop. It’s probably distracting when he’s chasing some crack fiend down an alley and his phone rings, and it’s you asking him to pick up some fresh mozzarell’ on the way home.”

We laugh, and I help her clear the jam—not without cursing the damned machine and whoever invented four freaking places for paper to get wedged. As we work on clearing it, we chat about the bachelorette party we’re going to plan for Yvonne, and then about the upcoming Christmas party.

“Paulie’s having a bunch of guys over to watch the fight that night,” Brenda says, gingerly running one of her raspberry-colored talons along the paper output slot. “So I’ve got to clear out of there before six-thirty.”

“You want to come over to my place before we go to the party? It doesn’t start till eight.”

“By the time I take the PATH in and get a cab over to the club, it’ll be past seven-thirty anyway, so let’s just meet there.”

I tug on a piece of paper that’s stuck between the rollers. “I don’t know, Brenda. We probably shouldn’t get to the party right when it’s starting.”

“Why not?”

The paper tears. I curse under my breath, then tell Brenda about the article in She magazine while I pick out bits of torn paper.

“So getting to the company Christmas party on time is a major Don’t?” she asks, incredulous. She removes her hand from the copy machine and inspects one of her nails for damage. “You’d think being punctual would be a good thing.”

“Not in this case. ‘Don’t—’ and I quote ‘—be the first one to arrive. Don’t be the last to leave.’ End quote. Hey, hold this compartment open for me, will you, Bren?”

She reluctantly obliges, and I continue to pull scraps of paper from the roller. Brenda’s a fanatic about preserving her weekly manicure; my nails are always a mess. I think I’m the only woman in New York with unpolished, unfiled fingertips. But I can think of better ways to spend the weekly fifteen bucks my friends dole out in nail salons.

Then again, glossy scarlet nails would be dazzling with my red trollop dress.

Mental Note: See if manicurist has available slot after lip-wax appointment at salon tomorrow.

“So what other Don’ts are there?” Brenda wants to know.

“Let’s see…I told you about the ‘Don’t dress provocatively’ one, right? Then there was ‘Don’t drink too much.’ You’re supposed to nurse white-wine spritzers and alternate them with plain seltzer throughout the evening.”

“Oh, Madonna,” Brenda says with a Carmella Soprano eye-roll and my grandmother’s old-country accent.

The Jersey Italian in Brenda’s blood always comes out when she’s peeved. One minute, she’s a lady, the next, she’s flipping someone off with an Ah, fongool.

“Spritzers? That’s bullshit, Tracey. We should do shots. It’s girls’ night out. What else did the article say?”

“Don’t smoke. Don’t gossip. Don’t flirt. Don’t dance. Don’t—”

“Geez, who the hell wrote this article? The president of Bob Jones University?”

I shrug, peering into the copy machine to make sure all the paper has been removed. “Okay, all clear. Press Start.”

She does.

The machine whirs.

Lights flash.

Nothing.

We lean over to look at the little screen on top.

Paper Jam.

“Forget it,” Brenda says, picking up the stack of originals from the tray. “I’m going down to seven to make my copies. And Tracey, forget about that stupid article. Let’s just go have a great time.”

I head back to my cubicle, still thinking about the article. It’s easy for someone like Brenda to blow off the advice. She’s content to stay a secretary, and, anyway, she plans to quit to stay home when she has a baby—which is planned for next year. So for her, this isn’t a career; it’s a job.

But if I’m going to work my way into a copywriting position, I’ll have to watch my step. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression of me at this party. I don’t want them to lump me together with the other secretaries.

Okay, I know that sounds snobby. And it’s not that I don’t adore my friends. But sometimes, it kind of bothers me that I’m—I don’t know…one of them.

Back when I had Will—and supposedly a future with him, even if it was all in my deluded head—it didn’t seem to matter as much.

Now that I’m on my own, I can’t help feeling that I’d feel much better about myself if I had a “real” career.

Yeah, and you’d probably feel much better about yourself if you hadn’t had that one-night stand with a full-grown Star Wars fanatic, too.

Let’s face it: I might be skinny, and I might be bringing in a regular paycheck with benefits…but things could definitely be better. Much better.

I find Mike leaning over my chair to check out the proposal I’m typing for him on the computer screen.

He’s a smallish, wiry guy, and I don’t like to stand next to him because he’s a few inches shorter than I am and we probably weigh about the same. I’m not secure enough, despite the weight loss, to feel comfortable around guys who make me feel large and gawky even now.

“How’s it coming, Chief?” he asks cheerfully. Mike has this cute thing where he calls everyone “Chief.”

“Pretty good. I caught a couple of typos for you.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

I smile. They weren’t typos, really. He’s a crummy speller, but I never want to embarrass him. He’s such a sweetie.

“Hey, I like your tie,” I tell him. For somebody who seems clueless about some things—like getting his hair cut when it needs it—he’s got great taste in ties.

“Thanks. You want some caramel popcorn? I just got a huge barrel of it from some magazine,” he says. “It’s in my office.”

At this time of year, the agency people get loads of corporate Christmas gifts from magazines and television networks. You wouldn’t believe the caliber of some of the gifts. Last week Mike got a crystal Tiffany ice bucket and a hundred-dollar bottle of champagne from one place.

Too bad he didn’t offer to share that.

I pass on the popcorn. It sounds good, but I’ve got to be careful. At this time of year, it would be easy to slip up and gain a few—or twenty—pounds back.

“Listen, Chief,” Mike asks, “would you mind going down to accounts payable before the end of the day to get me that cash advance for my trip to Philly tomorrow?”

“Not at all.”

That’s another great thing about Mike. He doesn’t give orders. He asks me to do things. Getting his cash from AP is part of my job, but he makes it seem as though I’m going out of my way for him. He really makes being a secretary bearable for somebody who has bigger aspirations.

Someday, I hope, I’ll be a copywriter like Buckley. But until I am, working as a secretary at Blaire Barnett is pleasantly painless. I even get to sit in a cubicle instead of in the secretaries’ bay, where I was when I worked for Jake.

I head toward the elevator bank. I reach it just as a junior account executive does. Her real name is Susan, but Yvonne calls her Miss Prim, and I have to admit, the shoe fits. She’s always buttoned up in a tailored suit with pearls and pumps, her hair pulled severely back in a clip, and I’ve never seen her smile at anybody who isn’t an executive.

“Hi,” I say, since we’re both going to stand here waiting for the down elevator, which is bound to take a few minutes. The elevators in this building are notoriously slow.

“Hi.” She studies her sensible pumps.

You just wouldn’t catch her picking up a total stranger and having sex with him in some godforsaken borough.

“These elevators take forever, don’t they?” I feel compelled to say.

She merely presses the lit Down button again, as though she can’t stand another moment trapped here with lowly me.

It irks me that she won’t make eye contact, much less conversation, with a mere secretary. I want to tell her that I have an English degree and a future in copywriting. I want to tell her to let her hair down and live a little; or at the very least, unfasten her top button, for God’s sake.

I wonder what she’s going to wear to the Christmas party. Somehow, I can’t quite picture her in anything remotely festive.

Again, my mind flits to that article chock-full of Don’ts.

The hell with the article, and with Miss Prim, too, I think, as I step into the elevator with her.

I’m going to wear my red dress, and I’m going to get there when it starts, and I’m going to have a helluva good time.

Just watch me.

“Hold the elevator!” a voice calls.

I half expect Susan to reach for the Door Close button, but she doesn’t. Nor does she hit Door Open as they begin to slide closed, even though the button is like, two inches from her claw.

I wedge my shoulder between the doors to hold them for whoever is rushing toward the elevator, heels tapping hurriedly along the floor, accompanied by an odd jingling sound.

When I see who it is, I almost wish I’d let the doors close.

“Hi, Mary,” I say, as she steps on board with a huge, panting sigh of relief.

“Hi, Tracey,” she trills. “Hi, Sue.”

I get the impression Susan doesn’t appreciate being called Sue.

Mary Kohl doesn’t seem to get this impression, or any impressions at all. She’s too busy plucking an oversized round jingle bell from the crevice between her oversized round boobs. The bell is suspended around her jowly neck on a red cord and festooned with sprigs of plastic holly.

If I were sharing this elevator with anybody but wenchy Susan, I might be inclined to turn and share an eye-roll with them. Mary, who is an administrative assistant in our department, is easily the most annoying human being of all time. In fact, if this elevator happens to get stuck between floors, as elevators in this building have been known to do, I’m going to find myself wishing I carried cyanide capsules in my pockets like the astronauts do.

Mary presses her floor with a chubby forefinger, and the doors slide closed with the finality of clanking steel bars on death row.

“Did we all sign up for Secret Snowflake?” Mary wants to know.

She wants to know this in the chirpiest voice ever. Think Baby Bop on helium.

I sort of smile and shake my head.

Susan plays deaf and dumb.

“Uh-oh.” Mary shakes her head sadly, her jingle bell jangling noisily from boob to boob. “Didn’t everyone hear that Secret Snowflake is mandatory this year?”

I murmur something about it being news to me, although I knew damn well. Who could miss the bright red memo Mary sent out on December first? She signed it with her name spelled Merry, and requested that we all use this spelling for the duration of the season.

“You’re kidding! Didn’t you get the memo?”

“I guess not,” I tell Mary, as Helen Keller pointedly ignores both of us.

“Not only is Secret Snowflake mandatory, but I’m matching up the names on Monday,” Mary informs us. “So you’ll both need to sign up by the end of today. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, because mandatory is mandatory.

“Great! Sue?”

“What the fuck is a Secret Snowflake?” Susan barks, just before the elevator bumps to a stop.

“Oh, it’s really fun. It’s where the whole department picks names and we all—”

Too late.

Susan has fled. This wasn’t even her floor. A bike messenger steps on board.

“Happy holidays!” Mary chirps at him.

He glares at her, clearly wondering who died and made her Mrs. Claus.

Unfazed, Mary turns to me and breezily resumes her Secret Snowflake monologue. “Anyhoo, we all pick names and then buy a gift for our Secret Snowflake each day for a whole week. The following week, we have the luncheon and find out who our Snowflake was. It’s just a blast.”

I smile and nod at Mary, thinking she really needs…what? A life? Some serious counseling? To be smacked upside of the head?

Um, how about all of the above?

Okay, maybe I’m just being mean. Maybe the whole New York attitude has gotten to me at last and I’m too jaded. Maybe I could use a little of Mary’s childlike Christmas spirit. Maybe we all could.

I look at her, taking in the jingle bell, the mistletoe earrings, the sprig of holly tucked into her graying bun.

The woman is a freak. That’s all there is to it.

“Going to the party on Saturday, Tracey?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say truthfully. “How about you?”

“Oh, I’ll be there with bells on!”

Right.

I find myself picturing her hitched to Santa’s sleigh. On, Dasher, On, Dancer, On, Mary. Er, Merry.

The thing is, I might be jaded, but I’ll take that any day over terminally cute and festive, and not just at this time of year.

Mary decorates her cubicle—and her person—seasonally. I heard she actually showed up decked out as a leprechaun last Saint Patrick’s Day, and in a witch costume on Halloween. Mercifully, I wasn’t here for either of those events. I was, however, forced to participate when she organized a Thanksgiving feast last month, where we all had to bring something. I brought canned cranberry sauce. The crummy Key Food store brand kind. Mary brought pies she made from scratch using sugar pumpkins she grew on her fire escape.

It’s like she’s embraced her inner preschool teacher, corporate decorum be damned. Reportedly, upper management thinks she’s fun and boosts morale. The rest of us think she’s a pain in the ass, but the rest of us don’t count. We just have to make like pilgrims and Secret Snowflakes, and come February, she’ll probably have us all making construction paper hearts and tramping through the woods to cut down cherry trees.

The elevator stops at my floor.

“Don’t forget to sign up before you leave tonight,” Mary calls after me as I step out into the empty corridor.

I suppose I should be looking forward to the whole Secret Snowflake thing. At least somebody will be buying me Christmas presents. Not that a shrink-wrapped drugstore coffee mug filled with hard candies in shiny red wrappers can compete with boyfriend baubles.

From someone other than Will, that is—he was as stingy with his baubles as he was with his affection.

As I wave my card key in front of the sensor beside the locked glass doors leading to the floor reception area, I find myself wondering what it would be like to be showered with gifts from somebody who is head over heels in love with me.

Will I ever find out?

Wah. I want to find out. I want baubles and happily-ever-after, dammit.

“Hi, Tracey,” Lydia, the hugely pregnant receptionist, says from her desk, where she’s reading today’s Newsday. “Going to the office party?”

“Definitely. Are you?”

She laughs. “If I’m not in labor. Are you bringing a date?”

“Nope.”

Is it my imagination, or is that pity in her mascara-fringed eyes?

Look, I know I’m not supposed to go through life obsessed with finding Mr. Right. I’m not supposed to feel inadequate because I’m single; I’m not supposed to need a man.

I’m supposed to be an independent woman who can stand on her own; a woman with a promising career and cultural interests and plenty of good friends.

I’m supposed to be like Murphy Brown, Mary Richards, Elaine Benes. I’m suppose to make it after all—a hat-tossing single woman in the city, confident and savvy and solo. Or does that just happen on television sitcoms? Old, outdated television sitcoms?

As I make my way down the hall toward accounts payable, I decide there is a certain irony in the fact that I’m spending my nights watching Nick at Nite and TV Land reruns about women who actually have lives. Fulfilling lives that are too busy for endless speculation about how and when and where to meet a soul mate.

In real life, I don’t know many—okay, any—willingly single women. Everyone I know, aside from Raphael’s lesbian friends, either has a man or wants a man.

Is that so wrong?

Well, maybe I’ll meet somebody any second now. Maybe I’ll round the next corner just past the water fountain and I’ll crash into the perfect man. Maybe he’ll steady me by holding my arms just above my elbows, and we’ll look into each other’s eyes, and…

Kismet.

What? It happens.

It happens all the time.

Well, it does.

Okay, it happens all the time in Sandra Bullock movies, and sometimes it happens in real life, too.

I find myself holding my breath as I approach the corner, wondering if this is more than a fantasy—if maybe it’s a premonition.

I decide that if I round the corner and crash into a man—any man—that it’s fate. As long as he’s single and reasonably attractive.

Okay, here I go.

This could be it.

I squeeze my eyes shut and turn the corner.

Open my eyes.

Empty.

The long carpeted hallway stretches ahead, empty as my love life.

Oh, well. Deep down, I knew it would be.

Deep down, I don’t believe in kismet after all.

4

“Where is everyone?” Seated beside me on a bar stool, Brenda lifts the hand that’s not holding a blood-orange martini to check her watch.

The four of us have been here at Space for a half hour and a round and a half of cocktails. We’re sitting at the curved stainless-steel bar beneath a vast black “sky” dotted with tiny white lights that are supposed to be constellations. The bartenders are wearing silver jumpsuits. Mirrors line every surface, making the place look infinitely expansive—and reflecting me in all my slinky red glory.

I’m not looking at my own reflection. Well, not most of the time. The thing is, when I do happen to catch my eye, I can’t seem to get over that this is really me. It’s enough to banish any lingering doubts about being the only woman in the place baring a little cleavage and a lot of thigh.

“What time is it?” Yvonne asks.

“Eight. And the party starts at eight. Are the four of us the only punctual people in the whole freaking—”

“Nope,” Latisha cuts in, pointing across the cavernous room toward the door. “Look who’s here.”

“Let me guess. Judy Jetson?” My quip strikes me as more amusing than it should, courtesy of the potent second drink I just sucked down.

“Nope, Mary,” Latisha says, gesturing.

“Madonna,” Brenda murmurs, wide-eyed.

“Oh, so we’re talking Mary, Mother of God?” I swear, I’m cracking myself up.

“No, Mary, the office freak. Look.”

Still giggling, I set down my empty glass and turn to see that Mary—excuse me, Merry—has just made her entrance. Her roly-poly figure is encased in a bright red dress with white fake fur trim. Incredulous, I gape at the shiny black boots below and the Santa hat perched jauntily on her round head. All that’s missing is a sack full of toys slung on her back.

“Now, that’s a real shame,” Yvonne says dryly, shaking her pink bouffant, an unlit cigarette in one hand and a martini glass in the other.

Mary spots us and makes a beeline for the bar. “Hi, everyone!”

I can’t resist. “Mrs. Claus, I presume?”

She titters and warbles, “Oh, Tracey, you’re so funny. Um, Yvonne, you’re not allowed to smoke in here.”

Yvonne rolls her eyes in the direction of the Little Dipper.

“She knows,” I say. “She just likes to hold her cigarette. It’s a habit.”

A habit Little Miss Merry Two-Shoes couldn’t possibly understand.

A jumpsuited bartender materializes. “Can I get you something?”

Mary orders a spritzer.

That’s enough to make me order my third martini. I rationalize it by deciding that blood-orange martinis aren’t as potent as the regular kind, but basically, I’m about to get trashed.

I’m just one big Office Party Don’t, but I can’t seem to help it. Blood-orange martinis are my new best friend.

I’m not in the mood for spritzers, and I’m sick of being one big Do all my life. Maybe it’s just my martini fog, but it seems to me that Don’ts have far more fun than Do’s do.

Soon, thank God, Mary disappears and the place fills up. You don’t grasp just how huge an agency Blaire Barnett is until the whole company is in one place. I see plenty of faces I don’t recognize, and some that I do. The music throbs, and there are a few people out on the dance floor, most of them self-conscious-looking entry-level drones or grooving mail-room staff.

“Who’s that guy? He’s cute!” Brenda says, nudging me and pointing at someone I’ve never seen before. He’s got blond hair, which is usually not my type. Not Brenda’s type, either, but look at her gaping.

“You’re married, Bren. Remember?”

She shrugs. “I’m not dead. I can look. And you should look. Maybe you’ll meet someone.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You should start mingling.”

“Maybe I will,” I say again, but I’m having a good time just hanging by the bar with my friends.

Then again, it’s getting a little warm in here. The music seems to be abnormally loud, and I’m thinking I should switch to a spritzer after I finish this drink. The insert the pharmacy gave me with my happy pills says that I’m not supposed to overindulge in liquor.

I spot a very familiar face approaching as Brenda and I pose for a picture Latisha is about to take with my camera.

Yes, I brought my camera. Is that a Don’t? It’s not on the list, but it probably isn’t considered a Do. Especially when Latisha and I keep cracking ourselves up pretending to be private detectives furtively taking photos of Alec, a married account executive who looks a little too cozy at the bar with Mercedes, the buxom and boozy sixth-floor receptionist. Which is a borderline violation of She magazine’s Don’t Gossip rule.

The familiar face stops in front of me, and its mouth says, “Hey, how’s it going, Chief?”

“Hi, Mike!” Am I slurring? “Here, get in the picture with us!”

“How about if I take it?” he offers, setting down his bottled Molson Ice and taking the camera from Latisha. She gets into the picture with me and Brenda and we all pose with our arms around each other, flashing big, cheesy smiles.

God only knows where Yvonne is. Last I knew, she was heading outside for a smoke. I decide I’ll join her just as soon as I’ve had a courteous—and hopefully sober-sounding—conversation with my boss.

“Hey, Mike, great tie,” I say, admiring the green silk background imprinted with teeny-tiny Santa Claus faces.

“You like it? Thanks.”

I do like it. Somehow, what’s grotesque overkill on Merry seems pleasantly festive on anybody else.

“Ooh, anybody want to Slide?” Brenda squeals as a familiar refrain of “boogie woogie woogies” erupts from the DJ booth.

Mike and I pass. I’d do it, but I’m afraid my boobs would pop out of my dress every time I did the leaning-over step. Pleased with my foresight, I stand sedately with my boss and watch Brenda and Latisha join the line dance.

“Dianne said if she ever saw me doing the Electric Slide, she’d break up with me,” Mike confides.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Well, then, she’s kidding.”

“She’s not,” he says. “She thinks it’s a ridiculous dance.”

I glance at the ranks of office workers gliding four steps back, four steps forward in perfect sync—except for Merry, who keeps going the wrong way and crashing into people.

Okay, it might be a ridiculous dance, but it’s fun. Suddenly I feel sorry for Mike, banned from the Slide and God only knows what else.

“You know, Dianne’s not here,” I point out. “You should try the Slide.”

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can. She’d never find out.”

He looks around the room nervously, even skyward, as though expecting to spot Dianne in a trenchcoat and dark glasses astride one of the fake shooting stars.

I find myself thinking of Alec the married account exec, flirting madly with Mercedes. And even Brenda, wearing the rock that consumed a few months’ worth of Paulie’s NYPD salary, yet blatantly checking out other guys. And Buckley, dragging his heels about moving in with Sonja.

Of course, in the back of my mind there’s always Will, who cheated on me with Esme Spencer, who played Dot to his George in a summer-stock production of Sunday in the Park with George.

Maybe it’s good that I’m single. Maybe I don’t want to meet someone after all. At least, not for a while.

I look at Mike, who’s wistfully watching the dance floor.

“So, are you allowed to Macarena?” I can’t resist asking, expecting a big laugh and maybe even applause.

He fails to see the hilarity. In fact, he takes the question seriously and actually looks uncertain. “She never mentioned that, but…”

You know, maybe it’s the martinis again, but I’m starting to really dislike that Dianne. She seems so sweet on the phone, but as a girlfriend, she’s a little Nazi-ish, don’t you think?

“I need a cigarette,” I announce to Mike. “And you need a new beer. That one’s empty.”

“Okay,” he says obediently, and once again I’m saddened. Poor, poor Mike. He may be the boss in the office, but clearly his power stops there.

I head for the door and gratefully indulge my craving for menthol out on the litter-strewn sidewalk with a bunch of other banished addicts.

We smokers are an eclectic bunch. There are stressed-out upper-management types and administrative assistants who wear sneakers with their stockings on weekday subway commutes; fresh-out-of-Ivy-League assistant media buyers and well-past-retirement-age grandmotherly career secretaries who seem reassuringly immune to lung cancer.

We puff away and talk about the good old days when you could actually smoke in a bar in New York. One old-timer (not Yvonne, but she might as well be, given the overall blowsy broad persona, complete with raspy voice and borough accent) waxes nostalgic about smoking at her desk.

Then an icy wind gusting off the East River has us hastily stubbing our half-burned butts and scuttling back inside.

I head directly to the bar. Mostly because I don’t see any of my friends in the crowd, and the bar is always a safe place to park oneself. But also because I need another drink.

I order yet another blood-orange martini and try to sip it slowly as I watch everyone on the dance floor bopping around to “Love Shack.” I spot Latisha out there more or less dirty dancing with Myron the mail-room guy, who’s been after her since before she dumped her loser boyfriend Anton last summer. She’d better not screw things up with Derek, her new boyfriend, a single dad who shares her passion for the New York Yankees…and, according to Latisha, her passion for—well, for passion.

I wonder morosely if I’ll ever experience passion again. God forbid my sleazy romp between the StarWars sheets was my sexual swan song, but I can’t seem to conjure up any situation in which I’ll be having sex any time soon. I’ve sworn off one-night stands, so unless somebody sweeps me off my feet…“Hi.”

I turn around to see a strange guy standing beside me. Not Jeff S-n strange; just strange as in I’ve never seen him before in my life.

I look over both shoulders. Huh. Apparently, he was talking to me.

“Hi,” I counter, cautiously.

“I’m Jack.”

“I’m Tracey.”

And they lived happily ever after.

Yeah, right. I wish.

This guy is so cute that I find myself wondering why he’s come over to me, having momentarily forgotten that I, too, am now cute.

“Do you work at Blaire Barnett?” Jack asks.

Well, duh. Everybody in the room works at Blaire Barnett.

“No,” I find myself saying, “I’m a nurse at Bellevue. Mental ward.”

“You are?”

I laugh at the befuddled expression in his big brown eyes. “No. I’m just being a wise-ass.”

And probably sabotaging my chances of any kind of future relationship with this guy, but I can’t seem to help myself.

“Actually, I work at Blaire Barnett,” I confess, and sip my drink. This one is stronger than the last. Much stronger. So strong I taste no blood orange; I swear it’s all vodka.

“Yeah, I work there, too,” Jack says.

Have I mentioned how much I love big brown little-boy eyes on a grown man? No?

That’s probably because I never realized it until this very moment. He’s tall—much taller than I am, and I’m wearing heels. He’s broad-shouldered. His hair is the same melted-milk-chocolate color as his eyes; kind of wavy and combed back from his face. He’s got a great mouth with a full lower lip. And the best part of all: dimples. He has two dimples, one on either side of his mouth. They’re there even when he’s not smiling.

“So what do you do?” Jack is asking.

Okay, so he’s not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. Or maybe he’s just hard of hearing. But who the hell cares about his brain or his ears when he’s got eyes like that?

“I work at Blaire Barnett,” I repeat patiently, feeling almost like a nurse in Bellevue’s mental ward.

“I know…. I mean, what do you do there?”

Oh. Good. He’s not stupid or hearing impaired.

“I work in account management.” Please don’t make me say the S word.

“Doing what?”

I feign confusion. “What?”

Okay, he’s not stupid or hearing impaired, but now he thinks I’m one or both. Would it be better to just admit that I’m a secretary? I’m afraid he’ll think that’s all I am. That he won’t believe it if I tell him I’m in line for a promotion.

He starts to ask, “What do you—”

“So what department are you in?” I quickly interrupt.

“Media.”

Mission accomplished. Line of questioning derailed. Celebratory sip of drink in order.

I take two sips, then ask, “Are you a buyer?”

“I’m a planner.”

“Oh.” I nod, fascinated. Well, not really. But I hope I look it.

Actually, Media Planning is a fun job. Relatively low-paying, but I’m not a gold digger like Kate, so what do I care?

“I’ve never seen you around the agency before,” Jack tells me while I check out his clothes. I’m no Raphael, but his suit looks good on him and it’s basic black; he’s wearing a white starched spread-collar dress shirt and a black tie with a white pattern.

“I’ve never seen you around either,” I tell him, hoping he didn’t catch me looking him up and down.

Maybe he did, because I suddenly feel like he’s looking me up and down, too.

Now I feel awkward. And drunk. Not to mention confused. Why is this Jack over here talking to me?

Cut it out, Tracey. I can almost hear Buckley’s voice. Why wouldn’t this guy want to talk to you? What’s wrong with you?

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with me. I just have to remember that.

Lately, Buckley has been trying to point out that Will really did a number on my self-esteem. The whole time I was with him, I felt unworthy. I’m trying, but it’s hard to get past that. I might have lost all that extra poundage, but I’m still carrying around a tremendous amount of baggage.

And now, here’s this guy coming up to talk to me; the kind of guy I’d normally be wistfully checking out from afar. It seems too good to be true.

Especially since he just appeared out of nowhere. If this were a movie, he’d have stepped into a dazzling pool of light, and a choir would have sung one big loud Hallelujah. But it’s not and he didn’t and they didn’t.

He’s just here, and I have no idea why. I mean, even setting all the usual Tracey insecurity aside, I’m still the lone Don’t at the party, and he’s…

Well, he’s so normal. Good-looking normal, with dimples and a real job.

Unlike Will, the actor. Will was good-looking, too, but he didn’t have dimples and he wasn’t normal. Ask Kate. Ask Raphael. Their hobby, when I was dating Will, was pointing out just how abnormal Will is. That he’s narcissistic and untrustworthy and selfish.

And closeted—or so they both suspected.

Kate, because she assumes every man who wears black turtlenecks and cologne and dabbles in theater must be secretly gay.

Raphael, because he and his constantly blipping gaydar think every man is secretly gay.

I try to think of something to say to Cute Normal Jack of the warm brown eyes and stable job.

“So…um, Jack…you just saw me standing here alone and decided to come over and talk to me?”

Okay, I agree, awkward silence was better. But I can’t seem to help myself. Three martinis and I start to blurt things. Anyway, it could have been worse.

He shifts his weight, doesn’t answer right away.

Uh-oh.

Maybe it couldn’t have been worse. Maybe he really wasn’t talking to me all this time. I look over my shoulders again, half expecting to see some supermodel standing there.

“Yeah, I wanted to meet you,” he says, obviously uncomfortable. “Oh.”

Something tells me there’s more to it, but who am I to pry? If Cute Normal Jack wants to meet the Queen of the Don’ts, so be it.

From there, the night unfolds in a series of highlights: Jack asking me to dance to an old song by the Cure; Jack meeting my friends; Latisha snapping pictures with my camera; more drinks; more cigarettes in the bitter cold.

Until now, I’ve felt that there are two breeds of men in New York: men who smoke, and men who think nobody should smoke.

Jack breaks the whole If you’re not with us, you’re against us mold. He’s not a smoker, but not only does he not seem to mind that I am, he comes outside with me, gives me his suit jacket to keep me warm, takes my lighter from me and lights my cigarettes.

He makes me laugh harder than I’ve laughed in a long time, especially when he sings along to a Billy Joel song that’s playing, acting like he’s doing a nightclub act and using a beer bottle as a microphone. I can’t tell if he really can’t sing or if he’s just pretending for the sake of the act—not that it matters. After all, Will had the voice of a choirboy but the disposition of an asshole.

Unlike Will, who never shared my sense of humor, Jack also laughs at all my jokes, proving that even in my bibulous blur, I’m not just amusing to myself.

He’s a good dancer, too. Not many guys are—not at fast dancing, anyway. Some are embarrassingly unable to get the beat; some don’t even try. Some try to hold on to you when you’re fast dancing with them, like they want you to jitterbug or something. But Jack just dances—not too close to me, and not too far away. He doesn’t try to spin me and he doesn’t have that goofy, intense, I’m-so-into-the-music look on his face.

Merry has that look, especially when the DJ plays Madonna’s “Santa Baby.” She pretty much does a spotlight solo for that song, which nobody else considers danceable.

Mental Note: Never, under any circumstances, dance alone, no matter how much you love the song.

“Man, I’d hate to be Merry on January second,” Brenda comments as my friends and I and Jack stand around watching her from the bar.

“Yeah,” I say. “She’s probably curled in a fetal position with pine needles in her hair.”

“Nah, by then she’s booking her flight to Punxsatawney and airing out the groundhog suit,” Jack says unexpectedly, and we all laugh.

“He’s a keeper,” Yvonne rasps as he flags down the bartender to order another round for all of us.

“Yeah, Tracey, how’d you hook up with him?” Brenda asks.

I shrug. “We just started talking.”

Another big plus: My friends approve. And he seems to like them, too. He’s even a good sport about Latisha, aspiring photographer, who insists on taking a picture of me and Jack together. He puts his arm around my shoulder and smiles, like we’re old pals. Or a couple.

He seems to know a lot of people who work at the agency, and he introduces me to them as Tracey from account management.

He’s too good to be true.

What’s the catch?

There has to be a catch, dammit. There’s always a catch. Men like this don’t just drop into your lap when you least expect it. Well, they certainly don’t drop into mine.

The crowd is starting to thin out. Brenda keeps looking at her watch, saying Paulie is going to kill her.

I don’t want to leave yet.

Or ever.

I’m boozy and blissful, leaning against the bar talking to Jack while the DJ plays one of my favorite U2 songs, “With or Without You.”

As the song heats up, Jack leans over and kisses me.

I kiss him back.

Everything falls away. Brenda and her watch, the music, the bar. There’s just me and Jack, floating in space. At Space. In front of a few hundred co-workers and, for all I know, my boss.

When we come up for air, my friends are gone.

Oops.

In fact, almost everybody’s gone, and the DJ is announcing last call.

“Where do you live?” Jack asks, taking my hand and strolling me toward the coat check.

“East Village. How about you?”

“Brooklyn. Let’s get a cab.”

To where? The East Village? Brooklyn? (Yeah, I know, a borough, but Jack’s the exception to the bridge-and-tunnel-people-aren’t-cool rule.) His intent isn’t clear, but what the hell?

I’ve got other things to worry about right now. It’s all I can do to concentrate on finding my coat-check tag. Jack helps me look. We both crack jokes and laugh hysterically the entire time.

I guess you had to be there. And drunk.

Ultimately, we arrive at the hilarious—at least, to us—conclusion that I’ve misplaced the tag. I then have to focus on not slurring when I describe my outdated wool coat to the utterly unamused and fashionable coat-check girl.

Outside, the arctic air hits me, along with a big dose of reality. Suddenly nothing seems funny.

I just made out with some guy at the office party. Now I’m leaving with him.

Does he think he’s coming to my place? Does he think I’m going to his place?

I should insist on separate cabs to our respective places, just to make sure this doesn’t go any further.

For some reason, Buckley’s face pops into my head. I hear Buckley’s voice warning me to stay away from strange guys.

I promised him. At least, I think I did.

But Buckley doesn’t have to know…

No. Stop it, Tracey.

Sleeping with some guy you just met and will never see again is one thing. A bad thing.

Sleeping with a co-worker you just met is…

Well, it’s just out of the question.

It’s the ultimate Don’t.

I stand on the sidewalk by a garbage can and smoke a cigarette, trying to sober up while Jack stands in the street and tries to hail a cab. They’re few and far between, and when he finally gets one, I’m not about to tell him to let me take it alone. I mean, that would make me a Don’t and a Bitch. A Bitchy Don’t.

I giggle. I can’t help it.

Jack looks at me. “What’s funny?”

I wipe the goofy grin off my face. “What?”

“Didn’t you just laugh?”

“Me? Nope. Not me.”

Jack looks confused.

I smile pleasantly. At least, I hope I do. For all I know, another burst of maniacal laughter can escape me at any moment.

Oh, Lord, am I ever trashed. I try to send myself Sober Up vibes as we climb into the back seat, which smells of mildew unsuccessfully masked by fruity air freshener. I immediately tell the driver my address.

“And after that, I need to go to Brooklyn,” Jack says through the plastic window.

Instant relief. He’s not planning on coming home with me.

Bitter disappointment. He’s not planning on coming home with me.

As the cab barrels down Ninth Avenue, I focus on the driver’s name on his license fastened to the dashboard. To inebriated moi it looks like Ishmael Ishtar, and I vaguely wonder which is his first name and which is his last.

Then Jack puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. Kisses me. I feel weak.

In the front seat, the driver speaks in a foreign language into his two-way radio.

In the back seat, Jack makes me forget everything I promised myself five minutes ago.

All too soon, we’re at my building. Jack opens the door, and we both step out onto the sidewalk.

“Can I come up?” he asks, low, in my ear.

“You already told Ishmael you’re going to Brooklyn.”

“Huh?”

I gesture at the driver.

“Oh.” He shrugs. “I’ll give him a big tip.”

He kisses me, an intensely sweeping kiss.

Life comes down to a few Moments of Truth. This is one of them.

What will happen if I say yes?

What will happen if I say no?

There’s no way of knowing.

Nothing to do but take a deep breath—and make a decision.

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