Just One of the Guys

“Guess what, Buttercup?” I tell my dog as she pins me against the wall. “Mommy won an award.” She slobbers in admiration, and I kiss her head. “Thank you.”

I heat up a Stouffer’s pizza, reading the nutrition panel on the side. Yikes. Angela recently offered to teach me to cook—she’s doing an adult-ed class on easy French classics. Ryan mentioned last week that he wanted to have some people over for dinner, and did I think I could cook for eight or ten? When I was done laughing, he grudgingly said he’d call a caterer. I’m sure he’d approve of me learning to whip up a little coq au vin and crème brûlée.

I check the Eaton Falls Gazette Web site for naughty pictures and, finding none, heave a sigh of relief. Then I Google an address, clip the leash on Buttercup and head for the south end of town.

Lucia’s house is even smaller than mine, a snug little place on a tree-lined street. There’s only Lucia’s car in the driveway, and I don’t hear any noise coming from the open windows. Climbing the front steps, I knock and wait, then knock again. Buttercup flops down, exhausted. Finally, I hear the sound of footsteps. There’s a pause.

“Go away, Chastity,” comes Lucia’s voice.

“Nah,” I reply. “Come on. Open up.”

“No. Just go away.”

“I’m perfectly capable of kicking in this door, you know,” I say. “Or I might just lean on the buzzer and drive you insane.”

“I’ll call the police,” she says.

“Really?” I ask.

The door opens. “Probably not,” she admits. Her face is dull, her hair flat. Without makeup, she looks different…softer and definitely younger. I remember that we’re about the same age, though she always strikes me as older. She’s wearing pink silky pajamas, and the TV is on Mute in the background. Where are her friends, parents, sisters, brothers, dog, whatever? Where is that bitchy sister of hers from the E.R.? Why is she here alone on the worst night of her life?

“I’m so sorry,” I say, and without thinking, I put my arms around her and kiss her cheek. “What a shitty, shitty thing to have to deal with.”

Lucia bursts into tears.

“It’s okay, hon,” I say. “It’ll be okay.”

“That dog is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.” She sobs.

“Shh,” I murmur. “You’ll hurt her feelings. Can she come in?”

“Sure.”

Fifteen minutes later, Buttercup is belly-up in front of Lucia’s fireplace, jowls sagging to the floor, ears spread out, paws frozen in the air. She looks like roadkill. Lu herself doesn’t look much better, but I poured her a glass of wine and found a tissue box (in one of those little crocheted tissue-box-holder thingies).

“Have you talked to him?” I ask.

“Oh, of course.” She sniffles. “He says he loves me but he can’t help the way he is.” Her chest hitches as she stifles the tears.

“Have you told your family?”

She nods. “They all suspected. Just like you.”

I bite my knuckle. I wonder if her sister or mother or whomever had ever taken her aside and asked about Teddy Bear. I know I would have, had she been in my family. “I wish I’d said something, Lu. I just figured it wasn’t my place.”

She blows her nose, then drains her wine. “I probably would have taken your head off,” she admits. She stares sightlessly in front of her. “I can’t believe I was so dumb.” Her voice cracks.

“Oh, Lu,” I say, leaning over to pat her hand. “We’re all blind when it comes to the people we love.”

“Really?” she snaps. “Does your doctor have a boyfriend on the side?”

“Not that I know of,” I answer. “But you know how it is. We all shape people in our minds, one way or another.” Lucia nods. “I’m sure I’m shaping Ryan to be…well. Let’s not talk about me. This is your special night.”

She snorts, smiling reluctantly. “Chastity—” She breaks off, biting her acrylic talon of a fingernail.

“Yeah?”

She looks at her lap. “Teddy Bear was the one who put those pictures on the Web site,” she mumbles.

My mouth falls open.

“And he broke your Aragorn doll, too.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know about it!” Lucia snaps defensively. “He just told me today. He said it was because he knew I hated you—”

“Gosh, thanks.”

“—and he wanted to make you look bad and maybe get fired so I could get your job. Because he thought I deserved it.” She swallows repeatedly, her eyes full once again.

I sigh. “Wow.”

“Are you going to tell?” she asks, chewing her nail yet again.

“Do you want me to?” I say.

“I think he’s probably suffering enough,” she whispers, the tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Okay, then. I won’t say anything. It’s good to know I don’t have a stalker.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, handing her another tissue.

“You know what, Chastity?” Lucia says, blowing her nose loudly. “I thought you were such a bitch, but you’re really not that bad.”

I can’t help laughing. “Thanks, Lu. Right back at you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I LEAN MY HEAD AGAINST the cool window of Ryan’s Mercedes to ease its throbbing. We’re headed back to his place. It’s raining that soothing June rain that thrums on the car roof and against the windows. I wish we could drive all night.

“I thought that went well,” Ryan says, turning into his reserved parking place.

“Did you?” I ask, getting out of the car before he can open the door for me. “I thought it was torture.”

We’ve just had dinner with my mother and Harry. I’m starting to worry about that.

Or maybe not. Maybe Mom just wants me to run to Dad. Hey, Dad. Mom seems really fond of that Harry…better get off your ass and do something. Maybe I should. I wonder how far Mom is going to take this Mexican standoff. Surely not much longer, because I can’t imagine her letting Harry think there’s actual potential there. Plus—

“What are you doing this weekend?” Ryan asks, taking out his keys and unlocking the door.

“Hm? Oh, sorry. It’s my practical exam. If I pass it, I’m free and clear and an EMT.”

“I see. And it’s an all-day test?” he asks.

“Yes. Saturday.” I force a smile. It’s not his fault I’m feeling glum. It’s not just my mom and Harry…it’s the stupid EMT thing.

I aced my written test…multiple choice, come on. But the practical is the hard part, consisting of eight or so stations, each one presenting a different aspect of emergency care—cardiac arrest, poisoning, immobilization, bleeding control, shock. Volunteers will be faking a variety of injuries, from broken legs to childbirth. Chances are, I’ll pass. Fake blood has not yet freaked me out, and I’m a good student. But what then? I wonder. Will I actually be able to take this knowledge and translate it to somehow being helpful?

Last week, the Eaton Falls Gazette did a story about a kid who was stung by a bee at school. The kid had never had an allergic reaction before, and when he felt odd, he went to the bathroom, where he collapsed, all alone. By some miracle, another kid came upon him. This second boy had a peanut allergy. He saw the first boy’s bluish face, and without waiting for direction, he yanked out his Epi-Pen and stuck it in the other kid’s thigh, calling for help while he did it. Five minutes later, the bee-stung boy was sitting up, dazed and alive. The heroic little boy was modest. “It’s lucky I have a peanut allergy,” he told the cops. “Good thing, huh?”

Then CNN carried the story of the lady who lifted the tree branch off her husband. That branch weighed almost eight hundred pounds. “I couldn’t just let him lie there,” she’d said. “Though it was tempting.”

Ryan takes my raincoat—the manners of a prince, this guy—and goes into the kitchen. I hear the squeak of the cork and the glugging of wine as he pours.

“So, honestly, Chastity,” he says, coming in and sitting next to me on the couch. He hands me a glass of wine. “Why are you taking this class? You don’t want to be an EMT, do you?”

I take a sip of my wine. “I don’t know. I guess I’m hoping to…I don’t know. Join the ranks of my heroic brothers. Live up to the O’Neill legacy.”

“And what is the O’Neill legacy?”

I turn disbelieving eyes on him. He gazes back innocently, waiting. “Well, Ryan, you’ve been to my house. You’ve been to my mother’s house. Didn’t you see all those newspaper articles in the hall? All those pictures of my various brothers with various mayors and victims and all that? Jack has a Congressional Medal of Honor! Mark saved a kitty-cat! Trevor pulled a little girl from the river! My father alone has—”

“Okay, okay, sorry. Calm down. There’s no need to yell.”

I chug Ryan’s expensive pinot whatever. “I’m calm, Ryan. I’m just surprised you hadn’t noticed.”

“Obviously I knew they work in emergency services,” he says, his voice taking on that Ivy League drawl. “I wasn’t aware that they had a legacy.” He pauses. “Jack has the Medal of Honor?”

“Yes! Which I told you on our second date. How can you forget the Medal of Honor? There’s only, like, thirty-five hundred of them ever given!” Ryan continues to look blank. “The stranded unit? Jack’s helicopter? The guy with the shattered leg? Enemy fire? Afghanistan? Carrying a Marine for a mile and a half? Sound familiar?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.” He takes a wine-snobby sip of his drink, then eyeballs me again. “So you feel that becoming an EMT will somehow elevate you to hero status?”

My mouth drops open. “Harsh, Ryan!”

“I hate to be the one to point it out to you, but an EMT is barely a blip on the screen in the medical world.” His voice drips contempt.

Just before I’m about to slug him, it clicks. “Are you trying to start a fight?” I ask.

He blinks. “Um…well, yes,” he murmurs.

“That was really mean, Ryan.”

“Sorry. It’s just…you know. Fighting’s kind of…stimulating.” He grins.

I sigh. “Ryan, maybe we…well, maybe it would be nice if things could be just as…passionate?…without us fighting.”

He doesn’t answer for a minute. “Right.”

He sounds so dejected that I close my eyes. “But, sure, it is fun.”

“Oh, it’s great,” he agrees instantly. “And it does clear the air.” He reaches out and strokes my earlobe. “I’m sorry, Chastity. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

Though I wonder how that comment could be interpreted as anything but offensive, I pat his leg and forgive him. A half an hour later, we’re in bed, cuddled together after twenty minutes of pretty good sex. Back to meat loaf. Too bad.

“I love you,” Ryan mutters, his voice slow with sleep.

I pause. “Sleep tight,” I whisper.

When I’m sure that Ryan is fully asleep, I slip out of bed, grab his robe and go into the living room. In my purse, I have an emergency six pack…of Oreos, that is, the kind that moms put in their kids’ lunchboxes. Sitting on the leather couch, the rain streaming down the sliding glass doors, I rip open the package and inhale appreciatively—is there anything that smells better than fresh Oreos? I pop one in my mouth and chew and stare and think.

Ryan has a lot of good qualities. Truthfully, I’ve never had a relationship quite like ours—when the guy calls when he says he will, where we have dinners and meet each other’s families, talk almost every night. Fellowship of the Ring is one of his favorite movies. We both like to run. Honestly, I enjoy myself with Ryan. I might even love him.

Just not the way I want to. He’s not the love of my life.

Only once did I feel the certainty that I was with The One. I haven’t let myself think about that in a long time, not fully, because after all, it’s pointless to rehash a seventy-two-hour love affair. But here in the dark, the rain beating against the roof, I can’t dodge the fact that I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved Trevor.

When Trevor and I kissed, I felt hot and shaky and weak and strong at the same time. When he touched me, there was not just a tingle, there was a jolt. There was no meat loaf, no sir. Gourmet all the way.

For that short time, it felt like my heart had locked into the place where it was meant to be. There was that pulse of perfection, two pieces fused together so it seemed that there was only one. My heart had fit with Trevor’s like that.

I think back to our breakup under the chestnut tree. I think of the summer he brought Perfect Hayden home. The years that have passed without him ever indicating anything but fraternal affection for me. So much for hearts fitting.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

TWO DAYS LATER, I PASS my practical and become a licensed emergency medical technician. To my surprise, Jack was one of the instructors at the test, and word quickly spread throughout the realm that Chastity had aced her test. Now there is great rejoicing in the land, or at least in Emo’s.

“To Lou Gehrig, pride of the Yankees,” Dad says, honoring the tradition of toasting St. Lou before anyone else. “And to my daughter, Chastity. Good job, Porkchop.”