Just One of the Guys

As I was the last kid to leave for college, my room was spared from being made over into the den or sewing room, as were the two rooms that held the boys. Sitting on my old bed here in the gloom, Buttercup beside me, I look around. My basketball trophies still sit on the top shelf of the bookcase. The Goo Goo Dolls stare at me from a poster. My fuzzy lavender rug, which I thought so utterly feminine at the time, looks considerably more Rastafarian than it once did. Otherwise, not much has changed.

Tears are dripping down my cheeks. I try to take a deep breath and get a grip. I fail.

I once believed in everlasting love. I thought that, at the root of everything, beneath the irritation and impatience and bickering, my parents would always love each other. Would always be together, even when they were apart. I didn’t know that someone could be the love of your life and then fade from your heart. I didn’t know your heart could feel like a used-up eraser, rubbed down, grimy from neglect and overuse. It’s an unbearable thought. Unbearable.

The back door slams. “Betty?” My father’s voice is laced with panic. I didn’t hear his car.

“Betty, Jack just called me. Betty!” My father, who thinks nothing of tramping through burning buildings on floors weakened by flame, sounds like a frightened child. “You can’t be serious, honey. You can’t do this!”

Their voices come to me with horrible clarity, and though I hate hearing them talk, I’m welded to the bed. Buttercup rests her head on the purple rug and watches me.

“Mike, I’m sorry, but I am. I’m marrying Harry.” There’s no anger in my mom’s voice, just sadness and resignation and an underlying, bleak honesty.

“Oh, Betty.” I have never heard my father cry before. I’ve seen tears in his eyes, yes. Quiet with grief or sharp with fear, yes, but this raw sobbing punches me right in the throat.

“I’ll retire. I’ll do it tomorrow! I’ll call the chief right now, Betty—”

“It’s not that, Mike. It’s too late. I really am sorry.”

“You can’t! You still love me. Please! I love you, Betty. I always have.”

Mom’s voice is soothing and kind, horribly gentle—not the Father Donnelly voice, but the loving-mother voice, the one we heard when we were feverish or stomach sick or crying because we weren’t popular enough or hated being tall. “I gave you years to retire, Mike. If you do it now, it’s just because you don’t want me with someone else. It’s not really for me.”

“Please, Betty.”

“No. I’m sorry, Mike. Part of me will always love you, and we’ll always have the kids and grandkids, but it’s over now.”

My father’s crying breaks my heart.

Mom talks some more, but I don’t hear it. After a few minutes, the kitchen door closes and I hear an engine start, then Mom’s footsteps coming down the hall. She opens my door, leans against the door frame and looks at me.

“Is Daddy okay?” I whisper.

“I called Mark, and he and Luke are going over.” She looks at the floor. “I think you should go now, honey. I want to be alone.”

I DRIVE HOME LIKE A ZOMBIE and feed Buttercup. Standing there, watching her devouring her kibbles, her jowls flopping against the bowl, I feel the walls closing in. I can’t think about my parents—it’s too sad. I have to get out of here.

Where I want to go and where I should go are different places. I shove my feet into my high-tops and run down the block, toward the place I should go.

It’s full dark now, and the music of a summer night flows around me, radios playing and doors slamming, kids screaming, a baseball game down at Reilly Park. Restaurant courtyards are packed; fairy lights twinkle; people are laughing and drinking and eating and having a wonderful bleeping time. I keep running, my flat-soled high-tops slapping on the pavement.

Eaton Falls General Hospital is artificially bright and welcoming. Hi! Glad you’re here! Have a great time! the foyer seems to shout; it’s decorated with bright murals and fichus trees. Great choice, I think viciously.

“Can I help you?” The woman at the front desk beams.

“Which floor is the surgical floor?” I ask.

“That would be six,” she answers. “Are you visiting a patient?”

“No,” I answer. “I need to see Dr. Darling.”

“I can have him paged,” she offers, but I’m already loping to the elevators.

My steps are fast and hard as I stride down toward the sixth-floor nurses’ station. “Is Ryan Darling around?” I ask.

A nurse stares at me disapprovingly. “He’s with a patient.”

“Is he in surgery?”

“He’s with a patient,” she repeats loudly, as if I’m hard of hearing. She looks me up and down, judgment heavy in her face “Why don’t you call his office and make an appointment?”

“Why don’t you back off, okay? He’s my boyfriend.” There should really be a better word than boyfriend. Something with dignity and solemnity. Boyfriend makes it sound like I’m fifteen.

“The fact remains that he’s—With. A. Patient.”

“Fine! Is there somewhere I can wait?”

The nurse, who is as sweet and compassionate as, say, Nurse Ratched, sighs dramatically. “There’s a waiting room reserved for families at the end of the hall. Please try to be sensitive to them, won’t you?”

Stifling the urge to punch her in the stomach, I barrel down the hall, not daring to glance in the rooms that line either side. I’m miserable enough without seeing sad families and sick people.

The waiting room is empty, though a few Dunkin Donut cups announce recent occupancy. CNN is on the television mounted on the wall, but I don’t look at that, either. My father’s broken voice echoes in my head. He never believed this would happen. He just didn’t listen.

Sooner than I might have expected, Ryan opens the door. He’s wearing scrubs and a white doctor’s coat, and if he’s been dealing with human suffering, it doesn’t show. He’s still as icily attractive as the first time I saw him. Mr. New York Times. “Chastity! What a nice surprise,” he says, giving me a kiss. “How are you? Just here to pay me a visit?”

“Ryan, I have some bad news.” My throat clamps shut again. “My mother is getting married.” My voice cracks on the last word.

“To Harry?” he asks, rather obtusely.

No, dumbass, I want to say. To Barack Obama. “Yes, to Harry,” I snap.

“Isn’t that nice,” he murmurs, then seems to see my expression for the first time. “Or not.”

“My father is devastated, Ryan,” I announce, a hard edge in my voice.

“Sure, sure,” he placates. “But still…” He thinks better of finishing and glances at his watch.

“But still what, Ryan?” I demand.

He tips his head and shrugs. “Still, Chastity, you have to look at the bright side. I know you’re probably sad that your mother’s moving on, but your parents are divorced, after all. Your mom is marrying someone who thinks very highly of her, someone who’s very comfortable financially. It’s a good match.”

A good match. Where are we, Medieval England? Tears are welling behind my eyes. I swallow loudly, anger flickering in my stomach.

“Don’t be sad, sweetheart,” he says, his eyes flicking to the clock.

“Do you have to go?”

“I have rounds,” he admits.

“Okay,” I say stiffly. “See you later.”

“Hey, do you think we’ll still go to the city this weekend?” Ryan asks, a note of concern finally tingeing his voice.

If I stay another second, I will punch him in the eye. “I gotta go,” I blurt. “See you.”

“Chastity,” he calls, but I’m already striding back past the bitchy nurse to the elevator. I stab the lobby button with unnecessary force, grinding my teeth as I wait for the stupid box to descend. I burst out of the door, rush past a family and back out into the sultry summer night. Running once more, a stitch in my side now, I head for downtown. To where I wanted to go in the first place. My eyes are streaming, my nose is running. So attractive.

Before I’m completely aware of it, I find myself standing in front of Trevor’s building. Someone nearby plays a guitar, the gentle strumming floating easily to my ears. A baby cries. Gazing up at the windows in the northeastern corner of the building’s top floor, I see lights. He’s home.

Someone’s just coming out of the building, so I don’t have to buzz myself up, just grab the door before it swings closed. I run through the lobby and up the stairs, taking them two at a time, whipping around each landing and charging up the next flight like a Marine. When I reach the fourth floor, I burst into the hallway and skid to a halt in front of apartment 4D.

I knock sharply, my breath ragged, and when Trevor answers the door, looking more than a little surprised, I don’t wait. I just throw myself into his arms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

“CHASTITY, WHAT IS IT?” he asks, trying to pull back to see my face. I don’t let him, just clench him against me, feeling the warmth of his neck against my cheek, the comforting strength of his arms around me, the smell of soap and shampoo. Oh, God, I recognize these smells, this feeling. I remember everything about him.

“My mom…” My voice is unrecognizable even to me.

“Is she hurt?” His voice is calm and quiet, even asking such a question.

“No!” I sob. “She’s fine.”

“Come on in, sweetheart.” Trevor disentangles himself from me, takes my hand and leads me into his apartment. I’ve never been here. His living room is painted a warm yellow, there’s a fireplace and a lot of plants, and I can’t see anymore because of the tears in my eyes. He pushes me gently onto the couch and leaves the room, returning in a second with a box of tissues, which he hands me.

“What’s the matter, Chastity?” he asks as I blow my nose loudly. I need several tissues to mop up my tears. My hands are shaking, and so are my legs. I can’t answer right away. “Chas, honey, what’s wrong?” Trevor kneels in front of me and takes my hands.

“She’s getting married, Trevor,” I whisper, then start bawling again. “She’s getting married to Harry and my father is so…he sounded so…and I just—I never thought—they loved each other—but now…”

Trevor slides onto the soft brown couch and holds me, letting me cry into his neck. He strokes my hair and murmurs things I can’t quite hear over the raw, seal-like barking of my sobs. He shifts so I’m closer, kisses the top of my head, and, crap, I give in.

I can’t hide from myself anymore. I love Trevor. Always have, always will. I never stopped, and right now, I love him more than ever. For twelve years, I’ve been trying to make him just one of the guys.

He’s not.

I love him. And like Mom’s love for Dad, that love might be worn down by time and dejection. Someday I might look at Trevor, my Trevor, the way my mom now sees my father…the man who used up her heart.

“Trevor, I—” My voice breaks off. I pull back to look at him.

He knows. I can see it in his eyes, he feels how much I love him still, and maybe he’s always known. He cups my face in one hand, his thumb sliding away my tears, stroking my cheek.

I kiss him.

It’s a kiss filled with longing and heartbreak and sorrow and hurt…and love, of course, because it’s burned in my soul, somehow, that I was meant to love Trevor, that no matter what he feels toward me, I love him with my whole heart and every molecule and muscle and fiber of me, every ounce of blood. And I don’t want that to be worn away.

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t respond, and the echo of rejection starts to sound in my heart once again.

And then he kisses me back, hard and soft at the same time, his mouth desperate and hungry on mine. Oh, thank God, I think. Thank God.

His hands are on my skin, under my shirt, burning hot. I slide my hands through his thick, still-damp hair, opening my lips underneath his, and wrap my legs around him. My foot connects with the coffee table, which falls over with a thunk, but we don’t stop. There’s nothing that matters but us. The two of us, coming together again, at last. It’s been so long, but it’s like we were never apart. He feels so warm and smooth and hot and so, so good. So perfect. Absolutely right.

I yank his shirt open, tearing off a few buttons, but who cares? I’ve loved him for so long.

We’re not gentle, and we’re not graceful. We’re a force of nature as we pull off clothes and kick off shoes. Something else breaks, but it’s just background noise. The couch cushion slides and we roll onto the floor and don’t even come up for air. I can barely hear, my heart is pounding so hard. My skin is burning, and when I feel Trevor against me, his skin just as hot as mine, I suck in a ragged breath. “Chastity,” he says, his voice tight and rough.

“Please. Please, Trevor.” Please don’t stop. Please don’t send me away. Please love me again.

He says nothing more, his eyes dark and molten, and when we come together, I know that this is how it’s meant to be. That’s all. It’s just the way things should be. He’s my home, and I belong exactly where I am. Then my brain stops formulating thought, and only feeling is left. I love him so much my heart practically cracks in two.

It takes some time for my breathing to return to normal, for my vision to clear. Trevor is still, his heart thudding against mine, his face against my neck. His own breath is ragged, his arms still tight around me.