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 evenmore 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
“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 evenmore 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
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