Slightly Married by Wendy Markham Page A

account group would be meeting to talk about trimming the fat…and, being naturally food-and-weight-obsessed, I took it literally.
    Trimming the fat…they were talking about layoffs.
    Duh.
    “What, Tracey?”
    “Nothing, I just…I think Adrian might have mentioned something about layoffs on that account, but at the time, I…you know…”
    “Didn’t think you should say anything?” she supplies.
    “Right,” I say, because it’s more appealing than didn’t get it .
    Hmm. So what do you know? Maybe I do hear things now that I’m up here with a view. I just don’t know what those things mean.
    Idiot.
    “Listen, tell Julie I said…uh, good luck. Okay?”
    “You have her number, right?” Latisha seems a little terse. “Call her tomorrow and tell her yourself.”
    I sigh inwardly, watching Latisha walk away.
    Maybe it’s been years since middle school, but suddenly I’m right back in the thick of it, a pimple-faced loser in comfortable shoes, being dissed by the popular girls.
    You are not , I tell myself. You’re a glowing, newly promoted bride-to-be .
    With zits.
    Wearing Aerosoles.
    Not invited to the party.
    I glumly shove the pointy pumps into my bag along with everything else, and throw the strap over my shoulder.
    Damn, it’s heavy. Mostly due to Modern Bride , of course. By the time I actually become one, I’m going to need an exotic-honeymoon package that throws in a masseuse and a chiropractor.
    I reach over to turn out the desk light, then hesitate. I should probably wait a few minutes. I don’t want to ride down the elevator with Latisha and whoever else is on the way to Julie’s “goodbye thing” to which I wasn’t invited.
    Really, what’s up with that? Since when do they go out together without me?
    Could I possibly have done something to upset Julie? Or someone?
    Nothing that I can think of.
    Hurt, I linger a few more minutes in my office until the coast is clear.
    Out on the street, swept into the familiar throng of rushing commuters, I breathe some cold, fresh February night air to clear my head.
    Maybe I should have point-blank asked Latisha why they left me out.
    Then again…she probably doesn’t know why. She didn’t even realize I wasn’t invited in the first place. She assumed I was.
    Well, of course she did. Why wouldn’t she? I was there when we all went out for Chinese to celebrate Julie’s birthday after New Year’s. And I was there when—
    My thoughts are interrupted by my ringing cell phone.
    Maybe it’s Julie, calling to say it was an oversight and that I should get my butt over to the Royalton.
    I pull the phone out of my pocket and check caller ID.
    Jack.
    Middle school again, and who cares about the popular girls? A cute boy is calling me.
    “Hey, cute boy,” I say into the phone, feeling better instantly.
    “Cute boy? Huh?”
    “Where are you?” I ask, deciding against telling Jack I’ll be calling him Cute Boy from now on.
    “I’m just leaving Penn Station.” He had to take the train to Jersey for a meeting this afternoon and is just getting back into town. “The uptown subway isn’t running so it’s an absolute madhouse over here. I’ll have to walk up.”
    I don’t bother to ask him about a cab. As any New Yorker knows, you can stroll to Long Island in the time it would take to snag a rush-hour cab from Penn Station when the subway isn’t running.
    “Where are you? ” Jack asks.
    “Heading across Forty-eighth Street toward Gallagher’s.” Which is just a few blocks northwest of the oh-so-hip, monochromatic lobby bar where the entire cubicle population of Blaire Barnett Middle School is enjoying flavored mojitos.
    “I’ll be at Gallagher’s in about ten minutes,” I tell Jack.
    “You’ll beat me, then. The reservation’s under Candell. Go ahead and sit down. Tell Mom I’m on my way. And don’t tell her or my sisters the news until I get there.”
    As if. We’ve been looking forward to this for days. We still haven’t had a