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
