Slightly Married. Wendy Markham

just said you were starved.”

      “Did I? I meant for soup. What I really want is soup. And sashimi. No appetizer.”

      I shift my weight and find myself involuntarily playing footsie with Buckley under the table.

      “Sorry,” I say.

      “It’s okay. I don’t need an appetizer, either, I guess.”

      I open my mouth to tell him I meant that I was sorry about my foot rubbing against his shin, but that seems awkward, so I close my mouth again and pretend to study the menu, but of course I’ve already told him what I’m ordering: soup and sashimi.

      Sneaking a peak around the room, I’ve noticed that they’ve reconfigured the dining room since we were last here, to get more tables in. So that’s it. We’re at a newly installed table for two by the window. It’s close quarters, which is why my stocking-clad legs keep bumping up against Buckley’s jean-clad knees no matter how I position myself.

      “Oops, sorry,” I say again as I try to change position only to find myself all but intertwined with him under the table.

      “It’s okay,” he murmurs, focused on the menu, which is good.

      That way, he can’t see the alpine zit on my nose.

      Or how rattled I am, for no good reason.

      Normally, this physical contact with Buckley wouldn’t faze me…much less make me acutely aware of how good-looking he is.

      “Hey,” I say a little loudly, because Buckley flinches a little and looks up. “How was your weekend at the bed-and-breakfast in the Hamptons?”

      “Oh…we didn’t stay the whole weekend.”

      “Why not?”

      “Sonja didn’t really like it so we left Sunday morning.”

      A bed-and-breakfast in the Hamptons…what’s not to like?

      If you ask me, she’s unnecessarily picky.

      But Buckley didn’t ask me, and the waiter is back with tea, so I keep my opinion of Sonja to myself.

      “How’s work going now that you’re the big cheese?” Buckley asks me after the waiter leaves us alone to sip from steaming, handleless teacups.

      “Work? Oh, God, it’s crazy, actually. But—”

      “Don’t tell me the promotion is turning out to be one of those be careful what you wish for things?” he cuts in.

      No, I find myself thinking, but this might be.

      And, dammit, yes, I’m looking right at my engagement ring when I think it.

      Why would I think such a thing, even in passing?

      What the hell is wrong with me?

      I’m in love with Jack.

      I’m not in love with Buckley, by any means.

      Because I’m in love with Jack. I’m marrying Jack.

      You can’t be in love with two guys at the same time.

      And when you’re in love with someone, you shouldn’t be attracted to someone else. So I’m not.

      “No, I’m definitely not regretting anything,” I tell Buckley firmly—and I’m not just talking about the promotion at work.

      “Good. Because you deserve it, Tracey. And I’m really happy for you. You’ve got a great future ahead of you.”

      I know he’s not talking about being Jack’s wife, but I pretend that he is. It makes it that much easier to stick my left hand across the table and say, “Guess what?”

      He looks down, removing his chopsticks from their red paper sleeve.

      I wait for him to look up…

      But he doesn’t.

      Not right away, anyway.

      And when he does, his crinkly Irish green eyes aren’t wearing the ultra-ecstatic expression you’d expect.

      Well, the one I would expect, anyway, especially since I dutifully wore it for him when he announced he was engaged.

      “You’re engaged?” he asks, wide-eyed and, dare I say…

      No, I don’t dare say it.

      But I do dare think it.

      Dismayed.

      That’s what he seems to be.

      “Yes!” I say with gusto. “I’m engaged! Yes! See? Yes!”

      All right already with the gusto.

      “Jack proposed?”

      I nod vigorously and repeat my new favorite word, “Yes!”

      I add, “On Valentine’s Day, after the wedding!”

      Then I add, “So you didn’t know he was going to?”

      I add this part because I want to remind myself—and him—that he and Jack are friends.

      Maybe Buckley and I were friends first, but he and Jack are definitely friends now. Not that the two of them pal around together without me so much, come to think of it, the way they both do with their other friends.

      I’m the common denominator in their relationship with each other. Which is fine. It’s not as if I hang out doing girl things with Buckley’s wife-to-be, either. He’s my primary friend; she a friend by default. I’m sure that’s how she thinks of me, too.

      “No,” Buckley says, having broken apart his chopsticks.

      Huh? The conversational thread seems to have snapped as well—at least, for me.

      “No…what?” I ask him blankly.

      “No…I didn’t know Jack was going to propose. In fact…”

      He begins rubbing his chopsticks against each other to remove the splinters.

      “In fact what?”

      “No, it’s just…” He’s rubbing those chopsticks so hard I’m expecting them to ignite any second now. “I was thinking he wasn’t going to.”

      “Propose? Did he say that?” I ask, wondering if Buckley knows something I don’t know about Jack after all.

      “No! He never said that. I just thought that if he hadn’t done it by now, he wasn’t going to.”

      “Why did you think that? You took your sweet time proposing to Sonja.” I mean it as a quip, but it comes out more as an accusation.

      Buckley reacts with a defensive, “That’s different.”

      “How?”

      “Because I wasn’t sure.”

      “About wanting to get married?”

      “About anything,” he says cryptically, and the waiter arrives with two steaming miso soups.

      When he leaves a second later, I wait for Buckley to elaborate on what else, exactly, he wasn’t sure about.

      He merely eats a spoonful of soup.

      “Buckley.”

      “Yeah?” He looks up, spoon halfway to his mouth again.

      “You were saying…?”

      He blinks. “What?”

      “What were you saying? About not being sure you wanted to get married?” I add helpfully. And about anything else?

      “Oh. Right. I mean, you know better than anyone—well, except Sonja—that I wasn’t sure about it.”

      It, I want to ask, or her?

      Because