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 you feel in the pit of your stomach, in that quivering place where the first hint of arousal always flickers.
Yes, I am aroused by this kiss. Aroused, and stunned, and confused.
Buckley stops kissing me—not because he senses anything wrong, though. He merely stops because he’s done. He pulls back and looks at me, wearing a little smile.
“But…” I just stare at him.
The smile fades. “I’m sorry.” He looks around.
We’re the only people in the place, aside from the bartender, who’s watching a Yankee game on the television over the bar, and the waiter, who’s retreated to the kitchen.
“Was that not all right?” Buckley wants to know. “Because I didn’t think. I just felt like doing it, so I did it.” He looks a little concerned, but not freaked out.
I’m freaked out. “But…”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, looking a shade less self-assured. “I didn’t mean to—”
“But you’re gay!” I tell him, plucking the right words from a maelstrom of thoughts.
He looks shocked. “I’m gay?”
At least, I thought they were the right words.
“Yes, you’re gay,” I say in the strident, high-pitched tone you’d use if you were arguing with a brunette who was trying to convince you she was blond.
“That’s news to me,” he says, clearly amused.
There he goes with that deadpan thing again. But this time it’s not funny.
“Cut it out, Buckley,” I say. “This is serious.”
“This is serious. Because I always thought I was straight. Maybe that’s why it didn’t work out with my girlfriend.”
He’s kidding again. At least about that last part. But maybe not about the rest.
Confused, I say, “I thought he was a boyfriend.”
“He was a girlfriend. She was a girlfriend.” He twirls his stool a little and leans his elbows back on the bar behind him. He looks relaxed. And definitely still amused.
I need to relax. I need a drink. I sip my beer.
“Tracey, I promise you I’m not gay.”
I gulp my beer.
“Why would I be on a date with you if I were gay?” he wants to know.
I sputter beer and some dribbles on my chin. I wipe it on my sleeve and echo, “A date?”
“Wait, you didn’t think this was a date?” he asks, brows furrowed. “I thought you asked me out.”
“Who am I, Sadie Hawkins? I asked you to go to the movies with me. Not as my date. I wanted you to date Raphael.”
“Who?” He looks around, then says, “Oh, Raphael. The guy from the party. You wanted me to date him?”
“Yes! You’re perfect for each other,” I say in true yenta fashion, though I suspect it’s a bit late for that now.
“Perfect for each other.” Buckley nods. “Except for the part about me not being gay.”
“Right.” I’m just aghast at this news, now that I’m positive he’s not teasing me.
I take another huge gulp of my beer, trying to digest the bombshell.
Physically, I’m still reeling from the kiss. I mean, he’s a great kisser. Great. And I realize how long it’s been since I’ve been kissed like that. Will and I never really kiss anymore. We just have sex—and like I said, even that doesn’t happen very often these days, and when it does, there’s no kissing involved and it’s blah.
Oh, hell. Will.
“I have a boyfriend,” I tell Buckley, plunking my beer bottle on the round paper coaster with a thud.
“You do? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t think to. It didn’t occur to me that you thought we were on a date.”
A date.
It’s just so incredible how the whole situation could’ve blown right by me. I guess I was so distracted by what’s going on with Will that I wasn’t paying enough attention to what was going on with Buckley. Rather, to what Buckley thought was going on.
I’ve cheated on Will. Completely by accident, but still, it’s cheating. And right here in his own neighborhood, in a bar that we sometimes come to together. What if someone had seen me here with Buckley? Kissing Buckley?
Again, I scan the bar to make sure nobody’s here besides the bartender, who isn’t paying the least bit of attention to us. The place is definitely deserted.
So I wasn’t caught cheating.
Will never has to know.
Still, I’m mortified.
I look at Buckley. He doesn’t look mortified. He looks amused. And maybe a little disappointed.
