Just One of the Guys

The couch cushions are in disarray, one of them lying partly on us, the others askew. The coffee table is on its side, and I can see a few broken shards of glass. I’m going to have a bruise on my hip, and I’m fairly sure I’ve left some gouge marks on Trevor’s back.

I want to stay in that moment of rightness, but reality is knocking. A prickle of guilt pierces the fog of perfection, but I can’t bear to let it in completely.

“Trev?” I breathe.

“Yeah.” He lifts his head and looks at me, his face serious, cheeks flushed. Then he takes a deep breath and gets up. “Do you need a drink?” he asks, pulling on his jeans. Without waiting for an answer, he goes into the kitchen.

It’s not a good sign. I put my hand to my lips, which still feel swollen and hot. I lay there for another minute, then scramble up, reaching for my shirt, my underwear, my shorts. My socks are still on. I dress hastily, glancing into the kitchen where Trevor stands in front of the sink, his hands braced on either side, the water running. The muscles in his broad shoulders are bunched and tense, and his head is hanging. He doesn’t fill a glass, doesn’t turn off the water. He just stands there, motionless, and I can feel the regret pouring off him in waves.

Say something, Trevor, I plead silently. Make this be okay. I want him to come to me, wrap me in his arms, tell me that this wasn’t a mistake. He does nothing, just stands there watching the water run.

Though I want to go to him, reassure him, touch him, I don’t dare. Not when he can’t even look at me.

Then I’m distracted by a sudden buzzing at my feet. I look down. Trevor’s cell phone, which apparently fell during our acrobatics, is vibrating on the rug. I glance again at Trevor’s tense shoulders, then reach down and look at the screen.

Incoming call from Hayden.

I drop it back on the carpet and kick it under the couch. Trevor will have to find it later, won’t he? He’ll have to search all over and wonder, What the heck did I do with my phone? Where could it be?

He’s still staring at the water.

I have two choices here. Leave with dignity or give it all I have. And you know what? Screw dignity.

“Hey, Trev?” I say gently. “Maybe you could come in here?”

He turns his head and nods once. Then he reaches for two glasses and fills them, finally deigning to return to the living room. He sets the glasses on the table, picks up the pieces of the glass that broke, then reaches for his shirt. He can’t button it, though, since I’d ripped the thing off. Then he straightens the couch cushions and sits down.

“Chastity,” he begins, finally meeting my eyes. My stomach plummets at what I see there.

“If this is the ‘we shouldn’t have done this’ speech, can I just say something first?” I ask. My voice is rough, even a little scared.

“You’re seeing someone,” he says quietly.

I look down. Of course he’s right. I, who practically beat my brother Mark to a pulp when he cheated on Elaina, have just cheated on my own boyfriend. Shame burns my face. I sit in the chair adjacent to Trevor and swallow. “I know,” I whisper.

“And so am I,” he says.

Crap. I take a deep breath. “Trevor, you must know that I’ve always lov—”

“Don’t, Chas,” Trevor says, staring at his knees.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say it, and don’t break up with Ryan.”

I don’t think there’s anything else he could say that would hurt worse than that. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks up at me.

“I don’t want to be the reason things don’t work.” His eyes are intensely dark now, dead serious. “He’s a good guy, Chas. He can give you a lot that I never could. And he loves you.” He reaches over and takes my limp hand.

I’m not stupid. He loves you…and I don’t. No translation needed. My head hurts. My heart hurts, too. It actually hurts like there’s a bleeping ice pick stuck through it. I yank my hand back so hard that my elbow hits the arm of the chair with a thud. “So, okay, Trev,” I say, trying not to cry. “So we’re just going to, what, sleep together every decade or so, and I’ll be all messed up for another ten years and you’ll pretend to be my big brother?” My voice grows louder. “Huh? Is that how it’s going to go?”

“No, Chastity,” he says. “This won’t happen again. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. It shouldn’t have happened at all. You know it as well as I do.”

I lurch out of my chair. “It seems that I don’t know anything, Trevor, or else I wouldn’t have just shagged you senseless, now would I?”

“Chastity—” He stands, as well, holding his hands up to placate me, and I feel the strong urge to sock him a good one. “Chas, you—” He lets his hands drop and shakes his head.

“No, go ahead, Trevor. Say it.” I point a shaking finger at him. “If we were together and didn’t work, you’d be out your precious surrogate family. You’re afraid of losing them. At least admit that, Trevor. My family means more to you than I do.”

Trevor’s face changes. He takes a step closer to me. For the first time in my life, I see that he’s angry. Furious, maybe. “Wrong,” he growls in a voice I’ve never heard. “Very, very wrong, Chastity. If we were together and didn’t work, I’d be out you. You’re the one I can’t lose.”

My mouth opens and closes a couple of times. “What?”

“You’re the one who said we had too much to lose, remember?”

“But things are different now, Trevor. You can’t—”

His voice is sharp and hard and wrong. “You were right, that’s the thing. We’ll never disappoint each other this way, Chastity. We’ll never break up. Never get divorced.” He takes a step back, the anger draining out of him. “You can do better than me, Chas.”

“There is no better than you.” I say it with my whole heart, but he just shakes his head.

“You know how it would be. Firefighters make next to nothing. I’d be working two jobs, taking all the overtime I could get, and you’d start hating me after a while. Like your mom and dad.”

My eyes flood with tears. Again. He has a point.

“If we stay apart, we won’t end up like that,” he says, his voice gentle now. “I lost Michelle, I lost my parents, I don’t want to lose you, Chastity. I can’t.”

“Trevor,” I whisper. “I could never hate you. I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

And that’s when the bleeping phone rings. Not the cell phone under the couch, but his land line. We stare at each other as it rings once, twice, three times. I can feel the blood being forced through my heart, the pulse thudding in my throat. Trevor’s machine clicks on.

“Hi, babe, it’s me. Just wanted to make sure we were still on for tomorrow. Call me. Love you.”

Trevor closes his eyes, and his shoulders sag. I have my answer.

“You know what, Trev?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper. “I’m gonna go now.”

“That’s not what you think,” he says.

Oh, for Christ’s sake. Of all the stupid things to say! Suddenly, my temper comes crashing through, and I’m buzzing with fury. “Really, Trev? Because what I think is that Perfect Hayden wants you back. And all that ‘don’t want to lose you’ is utter bullshit. But just in case it’s true, guess what? You did lose me. Just now.”

“Don’t say that, Chastity,” he warns.

“Bite me, Trevor,” I snarl. “I’m not your sister, I’m not your best buddy, I’m not your girlfriend. You’re right. Someone out there loves me, wants me, thinks I’m great. So get the f**k out of my way and let me go to him.”

He does just that.

I WALK ALONG THE FEEDER CANAL. Correction. I stomp along the feeder canal, furious. I’m so angry I’m practically levitating. Wish I had a punching bag I could lay into right about now. God! Did I learn nothing twelve years ago? Did I not remember how relieved Trevor was to break up with me? Fool me once, Elaina likes to say, shame on you. Fool me twice, I’m a bleeping idiot.

I sit down on the edge of the bank, the dew seeping into my jeans. My hands are shaking, and my cheeks are wet with angry tears. The tree branches rustle with a passing breeze, and a police siren sounds on the other side of town. I sniff, then fish a frayed tissue out of my pocket and blow my nose.

At least I know. I put it all on the line, all my love and wanting. At least I said what I’ve wanted to say forever. I told Trevor I loved him. There’s no “what if” anymore.

Things he said filter back into my consciousness. That he couldn’t lose me. Twelve years ago, when I was eighteen, I’d said that to him. There’s too much to lose. And I do understand what he means…that if we’re only friends, we can stay friends forever.

But we’re not only friends. I love him, and I offered him that love, and it wasn’t enough to overcome that fear of his. The fear of being alone. Of losing another person in his life. Keeping things safe is what Trevor prizes most.

It’s just that I thought maybe I was worth a little risk.

My breath is still hitching out of me in shocked little sobs. I can still feel Trevor’s skin against mine, still taste him, but to him, it’s a mistake. That hanging out at my house once in a while, watching the Yanks and shooting pool, means more than what just happened. That I’m more precious to him if I just stay one of the guys.

And then there’s bleeping Perfect Hayden. He once loved Hayden enough to ask her to marry him. He loves her enough now to be, at the very least, considering that again. Hayden is worth two tries. I’m worth none.

My cell phone rings, startling me. Maybe it’s Trevor. Maybe he’s sorry. Maybe…

Nope. “Hi, Ryan,” I say.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He pauses. “Are you crying?”

Fresh tears spurt out of my eyes. “A little,” I admit, guilt and shame washing over me.

“Is it your mom?” I don’t deserve the concern in his voice.

“I—yeah.”

“Want me to come over? I’m done at the hospital.”

I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and look at the stars. “No, thanks, Ryan. I just need to be alone, I think.”

“I understand,” he says. “But I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Ryan?”

“Yes?”

“I’m really looking forward to going away this weekend,” I say truthfully.

“Me, too.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Good night.”

“Good night. I love you, Ryan.” I wince as I say it. Even though it’s not untrue, those words mean something very different from when I said them to Trevor a half hour ago.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

SOMETHING’S DEAD IN ME. Now that’s a pleasant thought to have on a romantic weekend with one’s gorgeous boyfriend, isn’t it?

Ryan and I check into the SoHo Grand Hotel, a place so stylish and swanky that the maids are better dressed than I am. But apparently Ryan is a regular, because the concierge greets him with, “Wonderful to see you again, Dr. Darling.”

We are shown to our painfully chic hotel room, a corner suite with minimalist furniture and stunning views of the city. “This is beautiful, Ryan,” I say after he’s tipped the bellboy/aspiring actor who is nearly as handsome as Ryan himself.

“Well, I wanted it to be special,” he acknowledges a little sheepishly. Then he kisses me and glances at the bed. “Care to…?”

“You know what, Ryan? I’m a little tired,” I say. It’s not a lie. The truth is, I’m tired of comparing the two men in my life. Correction. There aren’t two men in my life, are there? There’s just this one.

We lie on the beautiful, sleek bed, holding hands. I tell him a little bit about where I hung out when I was a graduate student, places I ventured when I worked in Newark and came to the city for fun. He talks lovingly about his endless residency at Columbia Presbyterian, his horrible hours, the little Thai place that he frequented, the parts of Central Park where he relaxed.

Looking at Ryan, I don’t feel the soul-wrenching ache I feel—felt—for Trevor. There’s a lot to be said for that. If I’m not mistaken, Ryan is going to pop the question this weekend, and I’m going to accept. Enough beating of the poor proverbial already deceased horse. The dead thing in me will harden and crumble away into tiny bits. Just like it did for Mom.

We have drinks in the lounge, stylish, deliciously expensive drinks (who knew a martini could cost $25?) and head up Broadway to see Wicked. It’s wonderful. I love the show. Ryan agrees that it was excellent. Then we have a late dinner at yes, the Rainbow Room. Because my boyfriend is a wealthy surgeon, I feel no compunction about ordering filet mignon and another gold-standard martini. Later, we dance to the orchestra and, of course, Ryan is a smooth dancer.

“You’re good at this,” I say, smiling up at him, since I had the sense to wear flats.

“Ballroom dancing lessons were part of my education. Seventh grade,” he confesses.

“I’ve never danced with a guy who really knew what he was doing.”

“You’re pretty good yourself,” he says, giving me a quick kiss.

“I love you,” I tell him, more for my sake than his.

“I love you, too,” he says. “In fact—” he releases my hand to reach into his breast pocket “—I’m hoping you’ll do me the honor of being my wife.”