Just One of the Guys

Page 11

I snatch back the bag. “Have you tried them? They’re delicious. And yes, I am aware that it’s singles night. Were you?” I raise an eyebrow back.
“Of course. I’m checking up on everyone’s favorite sister. Plus, I needed coffee, remember?”
It’s now that I notice that there are three slips of paper sticking out of Trevor’s shirt pocket. Great. He sees me looking. “I guess you can never meet enough people,” he acknowledges, grinning again.
My heart stutters. Trevor at Singles Grocery Night. Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Sure enough…“Hi, Trevor!” comes a silky feminine voice. It is attached to a silky feminine body topped off by silky, supermodel face.
“Hey, Sally,” Trev replies easily. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” Sally says, gliding in front of me and stopping firmly. “Just had to grab a few things.” Note the denial of singles shopping. Liar. Sally is the cilantro sniffer. Her cart is filled with fresh produce, as well as yeast and whole wheat flour. Mother would approve. “So, Trevor,” she coos. “What’s new?” She sticks out her Pamela Andersons and flips her hair.
I roll my eyes and eat another Oreo.
“I’m just talking to my friend here. Chastity, this is Sally.”
“Hi,” I say with the enthusiasm of a concrete block.
“Hello,” she replies with equal fervor. She turns back to Trevor. “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for, Trevor,” she breathes, then whispers in his ear, very loudly. “And if you ever change your mind, you know where I live.” Then she sashays down the aisle, scrawny ass swinging. I could crush her in one fist.
“So. Sally.” I force a smile.
“We dated a few times,” Trev explains. Ah. Trevor is a bit notorious when it comes to dating. Women, as I may have mentioned, love Trevor. All women. Five minutes after seeing him for the first time, they fall deeply in love, move heaven and earth to be with him, are incredibly happy for a very short period before he gently breaks up with them, crushing their hearts. Then they fondly recall him as the one guy they never resented, disliked or mistrusted and would strangle their grandmothers for another chance to be with him. Obviously, I know the feeling.
“So, Porkchop,” Trevor says. I narrow my eyes at him. “Met anyone decent yet?”
I blink in surprise. This is indeed new. Trevor and I may be on great terms, occasionally get each other in the Christmas grab bag and, as of late, see each other at Emo’s here and there, but you can bet the farm we have never discussed my quest for a husband.
“Well, you know, uh,” I stammer, “I’m actually here with Mom.” He nods. What the hell. I decide to tell him the truth. “But yes, I guess I’m sort of…looking.”
He reaches out for an Oreo and nods again. I wait, actually breathless, for him to say something. What about me, Chas? Would you ever go out with me again? He remains silent. Tick…tick…tick…I can’t stand it anymore. “You know, I’m back here, plan on staying. So sure, it would be great to meet someone. Settle down. Have some kids. What about you?” There’s his opening. Take it, Trev. Go for it. Ask me to be the mother of your children. You can do it, buddy. My forehead is a bit damp, and these bleeping shoes are killing me. Should have worn my red high-tops. They’re rather dashing, after all.
Trevor glances into my cart, and I definitely get the impression he’s avoiding my gaze. “Well, I don’t know. I guess…I don’t know.” He looks up suddenly and forces a smile. “I’ve already been engaged once, so maybe I’m a little gun shy.”
“Right.” Of course. Perfect Hayden Simms, five foot five, one hundred and twelve pounds, blonde, cute, smart, openly adored by men, secretly hated by me.
Trevor is still looking at me. “But yeah, I’d love to be a father someday. Have a couple of kids. The whole nine yards.”
If ever there was a time for him to ask me out, it’s now. If ever there was a time for me to speak up, it’s now. Say something, Chastity. “Well, I…um…you know, I—” a bead of sweat trickles down my spine “—you know I’ve always thought you were…just…you know. Great.” My heart is thudding so hard I may barf up those Oreos. “And you’ll make a great dad, Trev.”
His eyes soften. Hot fudge. They’re the color of the best hot fudge on earth. “Thanks, Chastity. Coming from you, that means a lot.”
I wait for more. I did my part, damn it. I just gave you an opening, buddy. Speak now or forever hold your peace. He doesn’t say anything else.
For a second, I feel like I might cry. Okay, fine. I’m used to not being with Trevor. Fine. “So do you want me to be on the lookout for you?” I blurt. Just so he won’t guess that I’m still hung up on him. Just so it will seem like we’re just pals, like I’m just one of the guys who happens to have boobs and prettier underwear.
He pauses. “Uh…that’s not…No. That’s okay.”
“Hello, Trevor, honey!” Mom bustles up and kisses her favorite child on the cheek. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for a girlfriend? Chastity, you must know someone—”
“Trevor needed coffee, Mom,” I explain hastily, desperate to change the subject. “He’s only here for coffee. And half and half. Trev! Did the Yankees win?”
Trevor is grinning, whether at me or my mom or us both is hard to tell. “The game wasn’t over when I left. But it was eight-zip, so I felt pretty comfortable going. They’re looking great this year.”
“Please, God, another Pennant.” I relax a little, back on familiar turf.
“From your lips to God’s ears,” he says. “Gotta go, girls. See you soon. Bye, Mom.” He kisses my mother, smiles at me and takes off.
At the end of the aisle, another woman stops him, and I turn away so I won’t have to see them standing there together.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN HIGH SCHOOL ENDED, I couldn’t wait to go off to college. Home had become boring—Jack was married, Lucky was married, Mark was full of himself and Matt was, well, Matt was actually okay, though off at the fire academy fulfilling his destiny. Trevor, too, was away, but at college. I was so bored at home, so tired of the same old classmates, so dismissive of my hometown. I was dying to go somewhere where no one would know me, where I could make my own mark, to be something other than an O’Neill of the O’Neills—Mike’s daughter, Betty’s daughter, MikenBetty’s daughter, Jack’s sister, Lucky’s sister, Mark’s sister, Matt’s sister, the O’Neill sister, the O’Neill girl. I couldn’t wait to be just Chastity O’Neill. No expectations, no legacy, just me and the new college friends I’d make and all those cool professors and fascinating classes. Binghamton University was waiting for me.
Oh, and Trevor. Didn’t I mention that? Right. Trevor happened to go to Binghamton University, too. Just a happy coincidence, I told myself. Definitely not the reason I’d applied there. He was a junior; he liked it; he was a great family friend, so that was a nice bonus, someone to share rides with. That was all. You betcha.
When we arrived at the beautiful campus, I tried to hide my excitement as Mom morosely made my bed and my father glumly inspected the fire exits and sprinklers. I chatted with other girls on my hall, lugged in the tiny fridge that bore the dents and scratches of three of my four brothers, hung up my Dave Matthews poster on my side of the room.
An hour after we arrived, Trevor popped in to welcome me to college.
“Hey, Chas,” he said, grinning, gorgeous, those hot-fudge eyes causing warm things to happen to me south of the border.
“Trevor!” my mother barked. “You’ll look after her, won’t you?”
“Sure, Mom,” he said, slinging his arm around me. I tried not to blush.
“No drinking,” my father growled, angry at the fact that his baby girl dared to leave home (or, for that matter, leave infancy). “No drugs, no idiot boys. You hear the fire alarm, you get the hell out of this goddamn building, you understand?”
“Yes, Dad. Thanks.”
We walked around campus, bought the requisite sweatshirts at the bookstore, admired the big shade trees and lush flower beds. When they could stall no more, my parents trudged toward the parking lot, Trevor and me trailing behind.
“I’ll miss you,” I said. A clamp seemed to circle my throat, and panic zipped up my legs.
My father stared at the ground. “Be good,” he muttered.
I burst into tears. So did Mom. Dad, too. We fell into each other’s arms, sobbing. “Have fun.” Dad choked.
“Study hard.” Mom hiccupped.
“I love you, Mom,” I squeaked. “I love you, Daddy. I’ll miss you so much.”
“Okay, okay,” Trevor said, good-naturedly pulling us apart. “She’ll be fine. We’ll come home soon. Come on, Chas, let me get you drunk.”
“You think you’re funny?” my dad asked, wiping his eyes. “You’re not funny. No drinking, Chastity.”
“And no unprotected sex!” Mom added, buckling herself into the seat, then blowing her nose.
“No sex at all!” Dad yelled. “And no drugs of any kind, young lady.” He got into the car and pointed at me. “No drinking, drugs or sex. You understand me? I will personally kill you if I hear anything different. Love you. Call us tonight.”
As they drove off, it started to dawn on me just how alone I was about to be.
“So, Chas,” Trevor said, “you okay? I have some stuff to do, but I could hang out for a while.”
“I’m fine,” I said, wanting very much for him to hang out for a while but being too much of a tough cookie to actually ask.
“Good girl. Want to have dinner one night?”
“Sure,” I said, still gazing in the direction of my parents’ car.
“Great. I’m in the directory. Give me a ring.” He gave me a quick, perfunctory hug, then loped away. I watched as four girls surged toward him. He stopped, chatted, continued, turning to wave at me as he rounded the corner of the building.
Sure, I’d been dying to get away from the irritating, know-it-all attitude of Mark. From Jack and Lucky’s constant stream of advice and input. I couldn’t wait to go to class, read, write papers, do labs, make friends, have a boyfriend.
But it was surprisingly hard.
I began to realize how much being the O’Neill girl defined me. Here, no one knew why I ate so quickly, showered faster than a Marine, swore with such color and energy. I found out rather quickly that most college boys don’t want to be instantly pinned during a friendly little wrestling match, outscored three to one in a basketball game or thrashed during a pool match.
Likewise, it was harder than I’d imagined to make friends with girls. Elaina and I had been best friends for eons already, that kind of tight-knit, unbreachable bond that kept other friends at a distance. Who needed friends when you had a best friend forever, four brothers, their wives and girlfriends, and Trevor? These girly-girls in their capri pants and tiny canvas shoes, their hair-tossing and flirting, were exotic and mysterious to me. On some level, I wanted to be like them; on the other hand, I knew it was impossible for me, five foot eleven and three-quarters, one hundred and fifty-seven pounds with the legendary O’Neill shoulders, to fit in with the cashmere sweater-set clique.
It was lonely.
At least until crew tryouts, that is. Thanks to Lucky’s tutelage, I aced the first round. Coach put me on the exclusive four, which meant I had three instant best friends, all of whom happened to be upperclassmen and who quite admired those O’Neill shoulders. Suddenly, I belonged somewhere based on my own accomplishments. I was judged only for myself, not what my brothers had or had not done. It felt fantastic. I had finally come into my own.
I was meant to row. No tiny little shiny-haired girls on crew, no sir. Every day, we prided ourselves on being tireless, strong, ruthless, relentless. Burning muscles and sweat-drenched T-shirts were our status symbols. We ate together, studied together, hung out in each other’s rooms.
At the Head of the Charles Regatta in October, the Binghamton women’s four creamed the competition, gliding four lengths in front of the second-place crew, soundly beating everyone who mattered: Harvard and Yale and Penn. Even freakin’ Oxford! We were euphoric. Each of us had been perfect, in sync, our every molecule focused on the row—a study in strength, concentration and unity. Such a victory! Binghamton had never placed so high at such a prestigious event, and we found ourselves local celebrities and campus heroes upon return.
To honor the occasion, the entire women’s crew team was invited for dinner at the dean’s home. It was a posh evening—I even wore a skirt and eye shadow, my teammates assuring me that I did not look like I was a drag queen. Dinner at the dean’s! It was a huge honor. We were all nervous, especially me. I was the only underclassman on the winning crew, the only first-year on varsity, and yes, a lot of fuss had been made about me. So when Becca, a senior, offered me a vodka and tonic before the big dinner, I accepted. Then I asked for another. Never having had vodka before, not having eaten anything all day due to said nerves, well, let’s just say I relaxed quite a bit.
And then it happened. It was one of those stupid and fairly common moves many college students make. Drinking, I was just now learning, seemed to lower my inhibitions and loosen the old tongue, but I was doing okay, being rather charming, in fact, or so I thought. When the dean herself asked me—me!—how it felt to have captured first place, beating some of the best crews in the world, what I imagined was a charming and droll answer fell out of my mouth.