Slightly Engaged. Wendy Markham

coming to him.

      Yes, I’m serious.

      I’m the first person in my family to move more than a few blocks away from my parents. They’ll never forgive me for moving four hundred miles away, and I’m sure they’re assuming I’ll eventually get what’s coming to me. That would explain why my mother’s always offering up novenas in my name.

      Forgiveness doesn’t come easily in the Spadolini family. My parents still haven’t forgiven me for daring to say that I don’t like the abundant fennel seeds in Uncle Cosmo’s homemade sausage, for missing Cousin Joanie’s first communion, for forgetting to call my grandmother on her birthday.

      I sent her flowers.

      But I didn’t call.

      In my family, you call.

      You can send somebody three dozen roses, imported Perugina Baci and front-row tickets to see Connie Francis, but if you don’t call, you’re out.

      So yeah, I’m out.

      Especially now that I’m living in sin.

      In my family, living in sin is one step away from killing somebody.

      Actually, it’s probably worse than killing somebody, considering my parents’ pride in our Sicilian roots, and how they’ve alluded to the fact that our ancestors weren’t exactly antigun lobbyists and didn’t take any crap from anybody.

      My father likes to share a colorful anecdote about his father’s compare Fat Naso, and what may or may not have happened to Scully, the neighbor who called Fat Naso’s mother something so heinous it can’t be repeated at Sunday dinner.

      Never mind that Fat Naso’s mother callously dubbed her own son Fat Naso because of his weight problem and prominent beak. Back then in Sicily, it was okay to insult somebody as long as you gave birth to them. Conversely, it was never okay to stand by while somebody else insulted the person who gave birth to you.

      Pop never comes right out and says what Fat Naso did, but I do know that he didn’t just stand by, and that Scully was never seen again. Pop is real proud of that.

      But he definitely isn’t proud of me, his daughter, the puttana.

      Okay, he’s never actually come right out and called me a puttana. But I know that to him and the rest of my family, a woman who blatantly sleeps with a man who isn’t her husband is a whore.

      The thing is, I don’t feel like a whore. Should I?

      I ask my friends just that.

      “You? A ho? Get outta here,” is Latisha’s response.

      “A whore is somebody who turns tricks for money, Tracey,” Yvonne informs me, in case I didn’t know the Webster’s definition.

      But Brenda, who grew up in an Italian-American Catholic family like mine, gets it. “My parents would have killed me if I lived with Paulie before we got married. They’d have called me a puttana and worse.”

      “What could be worse than puttana?” I ask her, and she shrugs.

      So do I. Then I say, “I wonder if it’s even worth it.”

      “If what’s worth what?” Yvonne asks, releasing a smoke ring that wafts into my face. Funny how my own smoke—the smoke I’m inhaling directly into my lungs—doesn’t bother me, but secondhand smoke does.

      Mental note: Stop for patch on way home. Time to quit.

      This isn’t the first time I’ve thought of that. Jack has been after me to quit smoking for a while now. He even promised me a weekend trip to a fancy spa outside Providence if I can go for an entire month without a cigarette.

      So far, I’ve made it through an entire morning. Several times.

      It’s the afternoon lull that’s a deal-breaker for me. I can never seem to get past the postlunch hump without lighting up. But I swear I will, sooner or later. I’ll do it for Jack. I’d do anything for Jack.

      “I wonder if living with Jack is worth the grief that my parents give me,” I tell my friends. “Maybe if I weren’t living with him, I’d already have a ring on my finger. Do you think I would?”

      Without the slightest hesitation, they all nod.

      Terrific.

      I definitely should have held out, like Dianne did. Well, it’s too late now.

      “What do you think I should do?” I ask the three of them. “And don’t tell me to break up with Will, because I know I can’t.”

      “Will?” Latisha echoes, her eyebrows edging toward her cornrows.

      “What?”

      “You said Will, Tracey,” Brenda points out. “Instead of Jack.”

      “I did not.”

      “Oh, yes, you did. And I bet it’s Freudian,” Yvonne informs me. “You’re in the same boat with Jack that you were with Will a few years ago.”

      “I am not,” I protest, even though I realize she might be onto something. “Jack isn’t Will. Jack loves me. Jack wants to live with me. Jack—”

      “Doesn’t want to marry you,” Yvonne cuts in. “Right?”

      “Wrong. He’s just not ready yet. It happens all the time with men.”

      Nobody says anything.

      I glance from Brenda (who started dating the devoted Paulie in junior high) to Latisha (who turned down dedicated Derek’s repeated proposals for over a year) to Yvonne (who only intended to have a green card marriage and was promptly swept off her feet by dashing Thor).

      Well, what do they know? Their relationships are the exception.

      “You know what they say, Tracey,” Brenda tells me. “If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never will.”

      “Was,” Yvonne corrects, stubbing out her cigarette. “If it doesn’t, it never was. Not Will.”

      “Why does everybody keep slipping up and saying ‘Will’?” Latisha asks slyly. “Does Brenda have a subconscious thing for him, too? Bren, are you secretly lusting after Will?”

      “Yeah, and I’m secretly lusting after Carson from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, too.”

      Did I mention that all my friends were convinced Will was closeted and I was a deluded fag hag? No? Well, they did. And obviously still do. At least the Will-being-closeted part.

      “Look, Tracey, the point is, maybe you need to set Jack free and see what happens.”

      Maybe Brenda’s right. Good Lord, is this dismal, or what?

      “Come on,” Latisha says cheerfully. “I bet it’s time for dinner.”

      After a ladies’ room pit stop, where I ensure that I am still looking ravishing in red—so why doesn’t Jack want to marry me?—we troop back out to the ballroom, where the band is playing “Always and Forever.” That song, I recall, is supposed to be Mike and Dianne’s first dance together. But the dance floor is empty, the newlyweds are nowhere in sight, and the crowd seems vaguely uneasy.

      “What happened to the bride and groom?” I ask Jack, sliding into my seat.

      He sips his scotch. “Oh, they left.”

      “They left?”

      “Yeah, you just missed it. They started dancing and then they had an argument. You should have seen it, Trace,” he says almost gleefully. “She was shaking her fist at him and everything. Right out there on the dance floor with everyone watching. Then she went stomping away and he chased after her. Wuss.”

      “Don’t call him that,” I say sharply, despite the fact that I silently called him the same thing a