Slightly Settled Read Free Page A

this season, Tracey —but it’s draped on the back of my stool over my brown suede jacket. Screw Paris.
    “I’m just not the boa type,” I tell him when he begs me yet again to wrap it around my shoulders.
    “Maybe not a few months ago, Tracey, but the new you definitely screams boa .”
    I glance down, half expecting to see something other than my newly familiar shrunken self.
    I shrug and sip the lethal pink concoction Raphael ordered for each of us. He dated a bartender a few weeks ago, and now he’s into all the fancy cocktails of yesteryear.
    I forget what this one is called. At first it tasted like Windex, but now it’s going down easier. “I have to say, I’m just not hearing the screaming, Raphael.”
    “That’s because you’re not listening. You’re trying to keep the new Tracey hidden behind the old Tracey’s insecurities. I say, release her!”
    “And deck her out in a lime-green boa? That seems cruel.” I drain the last of my drink.
    Raphael leans his chin on my shoulder. “What do you think, Tracey? Want another cocktail here, or should we move on to Oh, Boy?”
    Oh, Boy is, of course, the club we’re headed to.
    I glance around the bar. It’s getting crowded. And I’m craving a cigarette, but like all bars in Manhattan, the place is full of No Smoking signs.
    I’m about to suggest moving on when I lock gazes with a Very Cute Guy standing with a small pack of Very Cute Guys back by the rest-room sign and the jukebox. He flashes one of those flirty, raised-eyebrow smiles that guys are always flashing at Kate. Never at me. Never until now, anyway.
    I realize this might be my fleeting last chance at heterosexual contact this evening.
    “Another cocktail here,” I tell Raphael, hoping Very Cute Guy doesn’t think Raphael and I are together. I glance at him, taking in the snug silk shirt, the pink drink, the eyelash perm.
    Nah.
    “Are you sure you want to stay?” Raphael asks. “Because this place is getting packed, Tracey.”
    VCG seems to be shouldering his way toward us. Or is he just trying to escape the bathroom fumes or the blaring Bon Jovi? Hard to tell. But just in case…
    “Let’s stay for one more,” I say decisively.
     
    Cute Guy’s name is Jeff. Jeff Stanton or Stilton—something like that.
    How do I know this?
    Because a few minutes after our second drink arrived, he popped up and introduced himself to me.
    His name is Jeff, he’s a broker—or trader. I don’t know, exactly; something boring and Wall Street.
    Oh, and he has an unhealthy obsession with Star Wars .
    How do I know this , you might ask?
    Because he has Star Wars sheets . Sadly, I am so not kidding.
    And if you’ve figured out how I know about his sheets, you also know that I’m not only dressing like a trollop these days; I’m conducting myself like one.
    Did I get wasted and sleep with Jeff Stanton/Stilton/Something that starts with an S and ends with an N?
    Yes.
    Do I regret it now that the morning light is filtering through the slats of his blinds and I can’t even recall which freaking borough I’m in?
    Hell, yes.
    It’s bad enough that I’m in a borough at all. I had him pegged for Manhattan, Upper West Side. Tribeca, maybe. But a borough?
    At least it’s not Jersey, I tell myself, sitting up in his twin bed—yes, I said twin bed—and pulling the StarWars flat sheet up to my chin as I assess the situation and try to remember how I got from Point A—the bar—to Point X-rated.
    It’s freezing in here, by the way. I’m surprised I can’t see my breath. And there’s no quilt on the bed.
    Oh, wait…there is a quilt. I can see it when I peer over the edge. It’s been passionately pitched into a heap on the floor beside my clothes—with the exception of my lime-green boa, which is draped over a dresser knob across the room.
    How the hell did it get there?
    And while we’re on that topic, how the hell did I get here? And where is here?
    I remember asking Jeff S-n, at one point in the