Slightly Engaged

by Wendy Markham

  “No,” she cuts in, “I really think I’m pregnant.”

  “Kate, you’ve thought you were pregnant every day for months now, and you never are.”

  “But this time I have a real feeling about it, Tracey. I think I just had morning sickness.”

  “Kate, it’s afternoon.”

  “I slept until eleven-thirty,” she drawls. “It’s morning for me. And I’ve been craving carbs like crazy.”

  “You always crave carbs, Kate,” I tell her impatiently, anxious to get back to my heartbreaking tale of the Engagement That Wasn’t.

  “Not like this. I had three bowls of Lucky Charms for breakfast.”

  I check my watch. It’s just past one. “You got up at eleven-thirty and managed to sneak in breakfast between then and now?”

  “See what I mean? I bet you anything I’m eating for two.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean you’re pregnant,” I say, having eaten for two throughout most of the fall and well into the winter.

  Now here I am, barely eating for one. I’m not complaining about having lost my appetite. But I honestly can’t wait to start feeling like my old energetic self again.

  We spend the rest of our lunch date talking about whether Jack will propose this coming weekend or next, and why Kate is positive she’s pregnant this time, and the decidedly not darling gowns we’re wearing as Raphael’s bridal attendants in less than three weeks.

  I take my time walking the ten blocks back to the office. The fresh air feels good, and my stomach is a little queasy again, thanks to Kate’s graphic parting description of her bathroom adventure.

  It’s a nice day for January—not bright sun and blue skies, but at least it’s not raining, sleeting, snowing.

  I can’t believe I only got one beach day out of that long-awaited Caribbean vacation. One beach day and zero proposals. What a bust.

  Upstairs, I find Latisha waiting for me.

  “Tracey,” she says urgently, all hush-hush, “I just heard they’re about to make a job offer to somebody for Mike’s old job.”

  “Really? It’s about time.” I sit down at my desk and open my top drawer in search of the Pepto-Bismol tablets I keep there.

  “Trust me, you don’t want this to happen. I met this chick when she came in to interview with Carol, and she was a bitch on wheels.”

  “How can you tell that from meeting her once, in passing?”

  “I have a feeling about these sorts of things,” Latisha says resolutely. “Listen, you need to go talk to Carol about giving you a shot at that job before it’s too late.”

  “Latisha, what I really need to do is go lie down.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing. I’m just still wiped out from being sick.” In my desk, I find a fresh shrink-wrapped packet of Post-it Notes I didn’t even know I had, and a whole box of rolling-ball pens. I really should go through my drawers more often.

  “You mean the food poisoning? That was a week ago.”

  “I was really sick,” I protest.

  “Well, pull yourself together, girl, and get your butt in there. I’m sick of your wishy-washy attitude.”

  I look up from the Pepto-Bismol hunt, surprised by her harsh tone. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, take a big step back and look at yourself. You need to stop dicking around waiting for stuff to happen and start taking control of your life.”

  “I’m in control of my life.”

  But even as I say it, I realize that I’m so not.

  Latisha’s right. I’ve been dicking around for months. Years, even.

  And not just about work.

  After I met Jack, the man of my dreams, I guess I might have slacked off a little, thinking I was all set. That he was everything I needed.

  All right, maybe I slacked off a lot.

  Maybe, when you get right down to it, I’ve spent almost two years just going along from day to day, waiting for things to happen to me, rather than making them happen for myself.

  Where is the Tracey who turned her life around? The Tracey who spent an entire summer losing weight—and, ultimately, a dead-weight boyfriend and a tyrannical boss?

  Here I am, stuck in a pathetic rut once again, without even realizing it was happening to me.

  And it isn’t just about wanting to marry Jack, and waiting for him to propose.

  It’s about wanting to be something more than an account coordinator for the rest of my life. Wanting to live in a real apartment with real furniture. To take real vacations to real resorts.

  You aren’t a total failure, I remind myself. You quit smoking.

  You even lost most of the weight you gained after you quit smoking.

  Yes, the smoking was a triumph, but the weight loss was a fluke. I don’t exercise anymore, ever, and for the most part, I eat crap.

  Not only that, but I’ve lived these last five months thinking that if Jack would just propose to me, my whole life would fall into place just like that.

  You know what?

  I don’t think it will.

  I don’t think Jack’s proposing will solve everything that’s wrong with my life.

  In fact, it won’t solve anything other than my being able to get the ball rolling on wedding plans.

  A ring on my finger won’t transform me into a junior copywriter or a junior account executive. It won’t melt cellulite off my thighs, or make my family laid-back, or expand our apartment by a few hundred square feet.

  Most importantly, it won’t magically erase the everyday problems Jack and I have as a couple. I’m starting to think that he’ll never be the kind of guy who would rather go out ballroom dancing than watch a ball game.

  Granted, I’m not into ballroom dancing either, but…you get the picture.

  We’re still going to have issues. Nothing is going to be perfect.

  Ever.

  Good, yes. Great, even. But not perfect.

  Not even good, unless I take Latisha’s advice and get off my butt and take charge.

  Starting right here, right now, with the job.

  “You’re right,” I tell Latisha, feeling as though I’m coming out of a daze.

  “Of course I’m right,” she says.

  Wondering why I didn’t see any of this before, I tell her, “So I guess it’s time to do something, then.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  But what?

  I only have to think about that for a moment. Then I ask Latisha, “Is Carol around?”

  She grins. “Last I saw her, she was headed into her office with a bag from the deli.”

  I’m already on my way down the hall, thinking I should probably at least figure out how to approach Carol before I go barging in there, but afraid I’ll lose my momentum if I do.

  Her door is ajar, and she’s at her desk eating a sandwich.

  “Carol? Hi.”

  She looks up and smiles. She’s a round-faced brunette with a cutesy pageboy haircut that turns under evenly all around her head, almost as though she used a curling wand to get it that way. Which she very well might have.

  “Tracey. What can I do you for?” She’s the type of person who also says hokey things like What can I do you for? and Anyhoo and Oh, fudge.

  I think she grew up in the Midwest.

  If she didn’t, she should go there. She’d fit right in.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with the Midwest. It’s just that folksy people like Carol probably do much better far from cutthroat corporate Manhattan industry, and leave that to icy blondes like Donald Trump’s henchwoman Carolyn from The Apprentice.

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a second,” I say. “Well, maybe longer than a second.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine, but…well, everything is actually not fine.” I swallow hard over a lump that seems to have risen in my throat.

  Do not cry, Tracey.

  Whatever you do, do not cry.

  Cr
y at the office, and you’re really pathetic.

  “What’s wrong?” Carol asks, looking concerned.

  I clear my throat and say thickly, “I wanted to talk to you about the vacant account exec position.”

  “Yes? Sit down.”

  “I was wondering if, uh, you could consider me. For the job.” I pause, take a deep breath, recover my professionalism and say, “I’d really like to be considered for that position. I know I don’t officially have experience as an assistant A.E. yet, but I know I’m capable of doing the job.”

  Carol nods, steepling her fingers beneath her chin and watching me.

  I can’t tell what she’s thinking. She doesn’t say, Get out of here. Nor does she say, Keep going.

  I do anyway. I tell her about all the work I’ve done in Mike’s absence. I’m tempted to also tell her about all the work I did when Mike was here, on Mike’s behalf, but that seems like an unnecessary dig at my old boss.

  Anyway, Carol knows he didn’t do anything around here. She fired him, remember?

  I sell myself. Hard.

  But when I get to the part about how she should consider downgrading the position to assistant A.E., she cuts me off.

  I know she’s going to say thanks, but no thanks.

  In fact, I’m already pushing my chair back in anticipation of slinking off with my head hanging in defeat.

  Then Carol says, “You’re a valued employee around here, Tracey. I’d have to speak to Ron about it—” he’s the head of the department “—but I’m not opposed to it. Not at all. In fact, I think it’s a great idea.”

  “You’re not opposed to…?” I prod, just to be sure I’m hearing things right.

  “I’m not opposed to letting you have a shot at the account exec position.”

  “Really?” Oh, God, that sounded like a squeal.

  I paste a calmly corporate I’m delighted expression on my face and lower my voice an octave as I say, “That would be great.”

  She nods. “You’ve done a bang-up job these last few months, and I don’t see why you can’t step in and take over where Mike left off.”

  So.

  Not only is Carol open to the idea of promoting me…but she isn’t even talking about a downgraded position.

  She’s going to recommend me for account executive!

  No, it’s not copywriter.

  Someday, I would still love to be a copywriter.

  But…account execs make more. A lot more.

  Carol tells me she’ll get back to me tomorrow, which is my cue to let her finish her sandwich. After thanking her—not too profusely, I hope—I go look for Latisha and the others, so that they can get their I Told You So’s in early.

  It’ll have to wait. Nobody’s around. They must have gone downstairs for a smoke.

  I dial Jack’s extension, hoping he picks up for a change. He’s been in Planning and he rarely answers his phone when he is.

  “Jack Candell.”

  This, I gloat, is a day in which everything is really going right for a change.

  “Jack? Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “No, guess.”

  “Give me a hint.” He says it hurriedly, and I realize he’s in the middle of something, so I let him off the hook and just tell him my news.

  “Trace, that’s great! I’m so proud of you!”

  “Well, it hasn’t happened yet…but it looks like it really might. Probably tomorrow. So we’ll have something to celebrate this weekend.”

  Maybe two things, I think hopefully, before reminding myself that this—a promotion—is reason enough for celebration.

  “This weekend?” Jack echoes. “Trace, bad news on that.”

  “What?”

  “I’m in Planning. It looks like I’m going to have to work all weekend.”

  My heart sinks. “All weekend?”

  “Probably. You know how it is when it gets like this…”

  He’s right. I do.

  He’ll be lucky if he gets home to shower and shave between now and next week.

  “Listen,” he says, still sounding rushed, “when this is over I’ll take you out to celebrate the new job. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Anywhere you want to go.”

  “Okay,” I say again, trying not to be disappointed. “I’ll let you hang up. I know you’re busy.”

  He doesn’t argue.

  I’m sitting staring into space when the phone rings a few minutes later.

  “Tracey Candell,” I say, picking it up, thinking Jack might have a few minutes to chat after all.

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  “Did you get married?”

  I recognize Will’s voice.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “You said Tracey Candell.”

  “I did?” I gasp and clasp a hand over my mouth. He’s right. I did.

  So much for not having marriage on the brain. Thank God it’s him and not Jack.

  “Tracey, I can’t believe you got married and didn’t invite me, but congratulations,” he says hollowly.

  For a split second, I debate letting him think I really am Tracey Candell. After all, Jack has a ring. Sooner or later, I will be.

  Then I remember that I am now a grown-up, take-charge person, and grown-up, take-charge people don’t lie. Not even to pain-in-the-ass old boyfriends.

  “It was a slip of the tongue,” I tell him. “I just hung up with Jack, so his name was…you know, on my tongue.”

  “Oh.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, anyway, I wanted to tell you about my trip to Belize.”

  “You went to Belize? When?”

  “Over Martin Luther King weekend. It was amazing. I snorkeled in—”

  “Really?” I cut in. “Jack and I went to Anguilla that weekend, and it was amazing, too.”

  There’s a pause. Clearly Will is not accustomed to two-sided conversations.

  “Did you snorkel?” he asks at last.

  I so want to lie, but I don’t dare. If I do, the next thing you know I’ll be telling Will that we eloped.

  “We were so busy with everything else we didn’t have time to snorkel.”

  “Well, I snorkeled in Belize, and it was incredible. I saw the most beautiful—”

  “Did you go dancing?” I interrupt.

  Again, he seems caught off guard. “Dancing? No, but I—”

  “We went dancing in Anguilla,” I say, and tell him all about it. Well, not all about it. In my account, Gregory and Daniel are much more buff, and straight, and I leave out the part about the do-si-do, of course. My description is like that scene in Pulp Fiction, with me in the Uma Thurman role and the Boyfriends as dueling John Travoltas.

  Will is quiet, as though he isn’t quite sure what to do with this information.

  Big trouble in little Willville, folks.

  Yet he tries again, stubborn, narcissistic little bugger that he is. “In Belize, the food was unbelievable.”

  “In Anguilla, it was, too. I had oysters that were to die for.”

  All right, I know…but, change the for to from and it isn’t technically a lie.

  I must say, this is the best conversation I’ve ever had with Will. Probably because I’ve decided to take an active role for a change.

  It’s so much fun that when we hang up—too soon for me, because I didn’t get to share the news of my impending promotion, but probably not soon enough for Will—I debate calling my mother, just to check in.

  I waited to tell her about my food poisoning until we were safely home from Anguilla, but she’s now embroiled in retro-panic. She’s been leaving messages a few times a day, needing repeated reassurance that I’m not at death’s door.

  Still, I decide against calling her now.

  My new stronger self is still in the fledgling stages. The last thing I need is to be undermined by Buzz Kill Connie’s “See what happens when you recklessly travel to a foreign land?” diatribe.

  Anyway, I
can hear the girls coming back from their smoke. I meet them in the hallway outside my office, motion them inside and shut the door.

  “I’ve got news,” I say excitedly.

  “You’re pregnant?” That came from Yvonne, obviously channeling Buzz Kill Connie.

  “Why do people always think that’s what it is when somebody has news?” I ask.

  “Because babies are really exciting,” Brenda says, and the three of us exchange dubious glances.

  No offense to Brenda, but her bundle of joy seems to spend most of his time lying around sleeping, or stinking up the place to high heaven. Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

  “No, I’m not pregnant,” I say firmly. “But now my real news is going to seem less exciting.”

  “You’re engaged!” That’s our little doyenne of domesticity again, grabbing my left hand and searching it for a ring.

  “No!” I pull my hand out of Brenda’s grasp. “Come on, guys.”

  “Oh! I know what it is.” Latisha breaks out into a big grin. “Come over here, baby girl.” She opens her arms wide and gives me a bear hug. “You’re getting that promotion to assistant A.E., aren’t you.”

  “No,” I say again…this time, taking great satisfaction in it.

  Latisha’s smile fades. “Then what?”

  I can’t hold it in any longer. “I’m not getting promoted to assistant A.E.—just plain old A.E.! I mean, it’s not official, yet, but Carol pretty much guaranteed it!”

  Their reaction is all I could have hoped for.

  As the four of us dance around, squeal and hug, I remind myself that I am blessed. My girls have been with me from day one at Blair Barnett; they’ll be my bridesmaids if—no, when—I walk down the aisle with Jack, and they’ll be my friends forever.

  “Let’s go out this weekend and celebrate!” Brenda says. “I’ll get Paulie to stay with the baby. He owes me one.”

  “And I’ll make a reservation at Tequila Murray’s,” Latisha offers. “How’s nine on Saturday?”

  “Perfect,” Yvonne declares. “I’ll wear something snazzy.”

  I grin, teary-eyed. “You guys are the best.”

  And right here, right now, I don’t need anything more than what I have.

  Part VI

  Valentine’s Day