vices—not that I can think of any.
But he doesn’t. He just shrugs, smiling and chewing his boring toast, confidently vice-free.
“Listen…what if I came with you, Will?”
Who said that?
My God, did I say that?
Apparently I did, because Will has stopped chewing and is looking at me, confused. “Came with me where?”
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t thinking. I just blurted it out somehow, and now I can’t take it back.
I frantically try to come up with something else to say. Something to add, something that would make sense…
What if I came with you…
What if I came with you…
What if I came with you……to the bathroom the next time you go?
No, there’s no way out of this.
Now that I’ve started, I have to finish.
I put down my fork, take a deep breath, then pick up my fork again, realizing that setting it down seemed too ceremonious, as though I’m about to make a major announcement.
I am, but I don’t want it to come across that way to Will.
That would only scare him off before he really has a chance to think about it.
I stab a hunk of green pepper-dotted egg and pop it into my mouth. It’s always easier to sound casual when you’re munching something. “What if I came with you this summer?”
So much for casual.
I sound like I’m being strangled, and he looks horrified.
“Come with me?” he echoes. “You can’t come with me!”
I attempt to swallow the sodden hunk of chewed-up egg and almost gag. “I don’t mean with you, with you,” I say quickly, to reassure him. “I just mean, what if I found a place to live in North Mannfield and got a job waitressing or something for the summer? Then we wouldn’t have to be apart for three months.”
“Tracey, we can’t be together this summer! I’m doing a different show every other week. I won’t have time to spend with you even if you’re two minutes away.”
I feel a lump in my throat, trying to rise past the soggy wad of pepper and egg making its way down. I can’t speak.
But that’s okay, because Will isn’t done yet. He’s put down his fork and is shaking his head. “I can’t believe you would spring something like this on me now. I mean, I thought we’d agreed that this summer stock thing is great for me. I have to do this for my career. You’ve known that all along, Tracey. Now you have a problem with it?”
I finally gulp down the egg and the lump. “I didn’t say I have a problem with it, Will. I just said I want to come with you.”
“But you know you can’t do that, right? Look, I know what this is. You’re just trying to make me feel guilty so that I’ll change my mind and stay here. And I—”
“I am not!”
There’s an uncomfortable pause.
“You honestly wanted to come with me?”
“Yes! Not with you, though…I just wanted to be near you.”
I feel a pathetic sense of abandonment and panic. I feel like a little girl whose Daddy is trying to dump her off at preschool against her will.
“But, Trace…” He’s at a loss for words. To his credit, he doesn’t mock me. Nor does he look angry anymore.
He looks…concerned.
I realize, with a sick churning in my stomach, that I’ve overstepped the line I’m always so careful not to cross with him.
I’ve gone and smothered Will, the Man Who Needs Space.
“Okay, well, I just thought I’d run it by you,” I say, trying to be nonchalant.
I pick up my coffee cup and notice that the cream has separated into clumps on top. Ugh. It must have been sour. I plunk the mug back into its saucer and fumble for some distraction, wishing there was something left on my plate besides the strawberry stem and orange rind from the garnish I already devoured.
I have nothing to eat.
Nothing to do.
Will says nothing.
Does nothing.
This is awful. I should never have brought it up.
Not like this.
I should have planned it more effectively.
I should have rehearsed what I was going to say, so that he wouldn’t be caught off guard. So that I wouldn’t seem like such a desperate cling-on.
But deep inside, I know that no matter when or how I approached him, he wouldn’t have thought my going to North Mannfield was a good idea.
So anyway, there it is.
It’s settled.
I’ll be spending the summer here in New York, without Will.
Five
“You ready?” Buckley asks, turning to me.
“Wait, the credits,” I say, still fixated on the screen.
“You want to see the credits?”
Will and I always stay for the credits. But this isn’t Will. And anyway, I’m eager to discuss the film with Buckley, so I say, “Never mind.”
“We can stay if you want to.”
“Nah, it’s no big deal.” I stand, clutching my almost-empty jumbo box of Snowcaps.
“Want any more popcorn?” Buckley asks, as we make our way up the aisle. “Or should I throw it away?”
“No, don’t throw it,” I say, reaching into the bucket and grabbing a handful. I love movie theater popcorn, especially with butter. Will never wants to get butter, because he says it isn’t really butter—it’s some kind of melted chemical-laden yellow lard. Not that he’d be willing to get butter even if it was butter, because butter is loaded with fat and calories.
Buckley ordered extra. He didn’t even consult me. Maybe he just assumed I was an extra-melted-lard kind of gal.
Whatever.
It’s a relief to be with someone like him after that disastrous breakfast with Will. When we parted ways in front of his
