Just One of the Guys
Page 13
When Trevor came to my room that evening, any doubt I’d had was cleared up by the misery on his face. “Hey, buddy,” I said with forced cheer. I suggested we go out, because even though I was resolved, I didn’t want to break up in the same room where we’d been making love all weekend. We walked to a bench under a particularly beautiful chestnut tree and sat. The branches rose and then curved downward, nearly to the ground, and the golden leaves sheltered us from passersby, and the dark made what I had to say a little easier. Beside me, Trevor sat stock-still, staring straight ahead, tense and quiet as a cat.
“Trevor,” I said, taking his hand, “I think we might have made a mistake.”
His shoulders dropped. There was no mistaking the utter relief that lightened his expression. “I was just about to say the same thing,” he admitted.
Funny how pride makes you tough, sometimes. I turned to face him a little better and swallowed hard. “Look, Trevor, you mean the world to me. But when I saw you with Matt, well…” My voice broke, but I coughed to cover. “We’re young and foolish, and our whole lives are ahead of us, all that crap.” I swallowed again. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this.”
I thought I sounded pretty good, given that my heart was in an increasingly tightening vise. I tried to smile, succeeded, and watched as Trevor nodded, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Chas, I should’ve…I should never have…” He swallowed. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” he said miserably.
“I think it’s both our faults, okay?” I whispered. “You’re not to blame. It’s just that there’s too much to lose, don’t you think?”
He looked at me, his face so terribly serious and grim. “It’s not that…that I don’t care about you, Chas.” He looked down. “Because I really do.”
The leaves rustled in the breeze, a dozen or so drifting and swirling to the ground. One landed on his hair, and I reached up and took it. “Oh, me too, Trev. But the last thing I want is to have things be weird between us. So maybe we should just get while the getting’s good.”
His face looked so sad. My throat was killing me with unshed tears, my muscles were taut and ready, my pulse was racing. With my whole being, with every corpuscle, I wanted him to object. To say, No. I can’t. I love you, Chastity. I have to be with you. Instead, he nodded. “Yeah. You’re right, Chas.”
We sat in silence a few more minutes, me trying not to swallow too loudly. Then Trevor put his arm around me, hugged me fiercely, so hard my ribs creaked, and let me go.
Standing up, he looked to his left, the direction of my dorm. “Want me to walk you back?” he offered, his voice rough.
“No, no. I, um, I’m gonna run to the library for a book. See you around, big guy.”
I waited until he was out of sight to cry, silent, endless tears that dripped off my chin, cursing my own stupidity. In my hand, I still held the leaf from his hair.
Oh, I knew we’d done the right thing. In that first moment when I saw him with Matt, I knew everything. That he was terrified that being with me would cost him the O’Neill family. That things would change if he were Chastity’s boyfriend. And what about the future? How many eighteen-year-olds marry their first college boyfriend? Inevitably, we’d break up, and what then? Where would he go at Thanksgiving? Would my mother welcome him if I was sobbing in my room because Trevor Meade dumped me? Would Dad think of him as his fifth son if he knew that Trevor had slept with his little girl?
Trevor had already lost a family. I wouldn’t make him an orphan again.
CHAPTER NINE
AS PART OF THE Eaton Falls Gazette’s community relations, the paper is one of the corporate sponsors of a ten-mile road race to raise money for breast cancer research. For a week now, the paper’s banner had been run in pink, and those little ribbons and pink bracelets were everywhere. The idea was to get people to sponsor you, pay your entrance fee and run, walk or otherwise finish the race. It’s a lovely tradition. I’ve run in it a time or two before in college and after, but now, as an employee of the sponsor, my participation was mandatory.
I arrive at the meeting point, clad in my lycra running shorts and a Lord of the Rings T-shirt—Mordor is for Lovers. There’s a stage swamped in pink balloons, vendors selling hot dogs and pretzels, and hundreds of people there to watch the start and finish of the race. The course starts on the green, goes down River Street for a couple of miles, crosses the bridge into Jurgenskill, runs parallel the river again and then crosses the Eaton Falls bridge by the energy plant and comes back into town for the finish.
In addition to the Gazette, the hospital has a team running, as do the fire department, Hudson Roasters, Adirondack Brewing and the electric company. I look around, full of smug love for the scenic little city I live in. Pink flags are flapping from all the streetlights. Several of the buildings on this block have pink bunting hanging from their windows. The high-school band plays somewhere nearby, and I can hear the brass section bleating, feel the drums reverberating in my stomach. It’s quite the event. I’m pleased to see how it’s grown.
Then I see him. Mr. New York Times! The cheekbones, the hair, the six-feet-two-inches of male perfection—shit, where did he go? Craning my neck, standing on tiptoe, I still can’t see him. Damn it! Aside from Trev, that man is the first guy who’s done it for me in ages. I need to meet him. I need to.
“Hey, Chastity!” It’s Angela. “Oh, wow! Love your shirt,” she continues. “That’s my favorite movie. In fact, I have a life-size cutout of Legolas in my office at home.”
“I think that’s sad,” I say. “Because Aragorn is much hotter.”
She laughs. “No, he’s not. And Legolas is so much cooler. Remember that flip thing he does onto the horse?”
“Onto Aragorn’s horse,” I remind her. “Aragorn saved Legolas’s ass.”
“You guys are such losers,” Pete from advertising says from behind us. “Really. Do you play Dungeons and Dragons, too?”
“Not anymore!” I say.
“Not for days,” Angela echoes and we laugh.
“Are you girls walking or running today?” Pete asks.
“I’ll probably walk,” Angela says.
“If I ran, I’d probably die,” Pete admits affably. “Walking is bad enough. Ten miles! Crap! What about you, Amazon Queen?” Pete takes a minute to scan my frame and smiles appreciatively. “I’ve always been drawn to domineering women.”
“Don’t make me hurt you, Pete,” I say.
“I want you to hurt me,” he says. “Oh, there’s my wife. Pretend we’re just coworkers.”
Pete’s wife, whom I’ve met a couple of times before, rolls her eyes. “As long as the life insurance is paid up, I don’t care what you do, hon. Have fun today, you guys.”
“Where’s the rest of the Gazette Gazelles?” I ask.
“Over there,” Angela says, gesturing. Sure enough, my coworkers—Penelope, Alan Graytooth (I can’t seem to get that nickname out of my head), Danielle and one of our freelancers, whose name escapes me. Lucia, clad in bubblegum pink, stands close to Pen. She’s holding hands with a tall, thin man wearing very tight, black running pants and a bright yellow shirt.
“I see Lance Armstrong has joined our group,” I murmur.
“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met,” Angela says as we walk over to the group. “Ted Everly, Lucia’s fiancé.”
“Ah,” I breathe. “At last. The man, the legend, the bear.”
“Hello! Hello, everyone!” Penelope calls. She’s wearing an oversize T-shirt that says “Eaton Falls Gazette—Committed to the Cure” and yoga pants. “The race starts in about ten minutes, so let’s get over there!”
It’s a beautiful, clear day, with a light breeze off the river—perfect for running. We walk over to the start line with hundreds of other participants. I do a few stretches to warm up, and Penelope frowns at me. “Everyone, do what Chastity’s doing,” she says. “Chastity, you’re a bit of a jock, aren’t you? Show us a few good stretches.”
“I prefer the word ‘athlete,’ Pen,” I say. I demonstrate basic runner’s stretches, isolating all the major muscle groups of the legs, h*ps and lower back.
“Teddy Bear and I do Pilates,” Lucia announces. “We don’t need these.”
“Hi, Teddy Bear,” I say as I loosen up my ankles. “I’m Chastity O’Neill.”
“So I’ve heard,” he mutters. “Nice to meet you.” Judging by the expression on his sharp-featured face, it’s as nice as, say, drinking poison, or severing one’s finger just for the fun of it. Well! He seems perfect for Lucia, whose hair is sprayed into a spun-sugar cloud of Doris Day blond. Her lips are deep red, her mascara visible at twenty paces.
The mayor of Eaton Falls gives a little speech, thanking the sponsors, getting us revved up. I look around for Mr. New York Times, but I don’t see him. There are hundreds of runners. I do peruse the crowd wearing EF Hospital T-shirts, but I can’t make him out. That’s okay. I’m still pretty excited. Dad and Matt definitely are running today—it gives me a thrill of pride that my father can still do ten miles—and I think Mark was planning on it, too, and possibly Tara, who ran track in college. But the rest of the O’Neills will be positioned at some point along the course, ready to cheer on the runners and possibly spray us with a hose.
The starting pistol is fired, and off we go with the rest of the crowd. With the walkers. The runners lope up ahead, and my feet itch to join them. The EFG staff walks briskly, but it’s not the same. I jog almost in place next to my coworkers. “Anyone feel like running a little?” I ask. Pete shoots me a glare. “Except for Pete?”
“I may have a slight lung condition,” Penelope says, patting her chest fondly. “Chronic bronchitis, possibly walking pneumonia. I was worried about TB, but my skin test was clear.”
“Ange? Want to run?” I ask.
“Um…not really, Chas,” she admits.
“Okay,” I sigh, circling our group. Lucia and Teddy Bear do not deign to look at me, simply pump their arms in rhythm and heel-toe, heel-toe with vigor.
“Chastity,” Penelope says, “if you can run this course, go for it! It’ll make the paper look good. Go ahead, go ahead.”
Just the words I’ve been dying to hear. There’s something about a race that brings out the competitor in me. “You sure?” I ask.
“Go!”
That’s all it takes. I’m off, my long legs eating up the street. There are times when being built like an Amazon teamster is a plus, and this is one of them. I already rowed this morning, but running uses a different set of muscles, and I love to run. Granted, I won’t win, since I started off with the slowpokes, but I’ll catch quite a few, no doubt. Sure enough, I see a few T-shirts that began with us in less than half a mile.
My breathing is even and smooth, my stride long and fast. Ten miles is not the longest course I’ve ever run; I finished the New York City Marathon twice, Boston once. Still, it will take some gumption. “Looking good, O’Neill!” I turn my head and catch a glimpse of Bev Ludevoorsk, my EMT instructor, and I wave and smile. “Nice job in class last week!”
Last week was patient lifting, and as Bev predicted, I’m a natural.
I cross the bridge at the three-mile mark. Lots of people have stopped here to catch their breath and admire the view, but I cruise past, into the shopping district of Jurgenskill. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn is rich in the air, and people cheer and wave and offer us sprays with hoses. The area becomes residential and hillier. People are sitting in lawn chairs, playing inspiring songs on the radio. I catch a few bars of “Chariots of Fire” and grin. There’s even a band at one driveway. Of course, they’re playing “Born to Run.”
At the bottom of a rather long, gradual hill, I hear a wonderful sound.
“Go, Auntie, go! Go, Auntie, go!”
The clan! They’re camped out about halfway up the hill on the lawn of Sarah’s parents’ house—and all my nieces and nephews are jumping up and down, screaming for me. “Go, Auntie, go! You can do it! Go, Auntie, go!”
Just for them, the sweet little bunnies, I step on the gas, flying up the hill, past the laboring runners, past those who’ve been reduced to trudging. The kids go nuts. Jack rings a cowbell, Mom calls out encouragement, Lucky flips burgers on a gas grill.
“Teeeaam…O’Neill!” I yell, sticking my hand out for high fives as I race past. The kids’ faces are shining and proud, and I feel such a rush of love for them, cheering me on like this, that a lump comes to my throat.
“Looking good, hottie!” Elaina calls, holding Dylan.
“Chastity, you’re ninety-four seconds behind the fire department!” Sarah calls, glancing at her watch. “Go get ’em, girl!” She raises a drink—looks like a Bloody Mary—and toasts me.
“You got it!” I call back. The fire department. I can definitely catch a bunch of muscle-bound men.
It’s pure joy to run today. The people lining the streets become a blur. I’m almost sprinting—I’ll have to curb my pace later—but I’m already at the five-mile mark and barely feeling it. The breeze is strong and dry and feels like heaven against my damp forehead. My feet pound out a hard rhythm on the street, my breath keeping time. And then I see them, the dark blue shirts of the Eaton Falls Fire Department, running in a pack, five across, like it’s a parade. My dad, Matt, Mark, Santo and Trevor. Another brief sprint and I’m next to them.
“Trevor,” I said, taking his hand, “I think we might have made a mistake.”
His shoulders dropped. There was no mistaking the utter relief that lightened his expression. “I was just about to say the same thing,” he admitted.
Funny how pride makes you tough, sometimes. I turned to face him a little better and swallowed hard. “Look, Trevor, you mean the world to me. But when I saw you with Matt, well…” My voice broke, but I coughed to cover. “We’re young and foolish, and our whole lives are ahead of us, all that crap.” I swallowed again. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this.”
I thought I sounded pretty good, given that my heart was in an increasingly tightening vise. I tried to smile, succeeded, and watched as Trevor nodded, jamming his hands in his jacket pockets.
“Chas, I should’ve…I should never have…” He swallowed. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” he said miserably.
“I think it’s both our faults, okay?” I whispered. “You’re not to blame. It’s just that there’s too much to lose, don’t you think?”
He looked at me, his face so terribly serious and grim. “It’s not that…that I don’t care about you, Chas.” He looked down. “Because I really do.”
The leaves rustled in the breeze, a dozen or so drifting and swirling to the ground. One landed on his hair, and I reached up and took it. “Oh, me too, Trev. But the last thing I want is to have things be weird between us. So maybe we should just get while the getting’s good.”
His face looked so sad. My throat was killing me with unshed tears, my muscles were taut and ready, my pulse was racing. With my whole being, with every corpuscle, I wanted him to object. To say, No. I can’t. I love you, Chastity. I have to be with you. Instead, he nodded. “Yeah. You’re right, Chas.”
We sat in silence a few more minutes, me trying not to swallow too loudly. Then Trevor put his arm around me, hugged me fiercely, so hard my ribs creaked, and let me go.
Standing up, he looked to his left, the direction of my dorm. “Want me to walk you back?” he offered, his voice rough.
“No, no. I, um, I’m gonna run to the library for a book. See you around, big guy.”
I waited until he was out of sight to cry, silent, endless tears that dripped off my chin, cursing my own stupidity. In my hand, I still held the leaf from his hair.
Oh, I knew we’d done the right thing. In that first moment when I saw him with Matt, I knew everything. That he was terrified that being with me would cost him the O’Neill family. That things would change if he were Chastity’s boyfriend. And what about the future? How many eighteen-year-olds marry their first college boyfriend? Inevitably, we’d break up, and what then? Where would he go at Thanksgiving? Would my mother welcome him if I was sobbing in my room because Trevor Meade dumped me? Would Dad think of him as his fifth son if he knew that Trevor had slept with his little girl?
Trevor had already lost a family. I wouldn’t make him an orphan again.
CHAPTER NINE
AS PART OF THE Eaton Falls Gazette’s community relations, the paper is one of the corporate sponsors of a ten-mile road race to raise money for breast cancer research. For a week now, the paper’s banner had been run in pink, and those little ribbons and pink bracelets were everywhere. The idea was to get people to sponsor you, pay your entrance fee and run, walk or otherwise finish the race. It’s a lovely tradition. I’ve run in it a time or two before in college and after, but now, as an employee of the sponsor, my participation was mandatory.
I arrive at the meeting point, clad in my lycra running shorts and a Lord of the Rings T-shirt—Mordor is for Lovers. There’s a stage swamped in pink balloons, vendors selling hot dogs and pretzels, and hundreds of people there to watch the start and finish of the race. The course starts on the green, goes down River Street for a couple of miles, crosses the bridge into Jurgenskill, runs parallel the river again and then crosses the Eaton Falls bridge by the energy plant and comes back into town for the finish.
In addition to the Gazette, the hospital has a team running, as do the fire department, Hudson Roasters, Adirondack Brewing and the electric company. I look around, full of smug love for the scenic little city I live in. Pink flags are flapping from all the streetlights. Several of the buildings on this block have pink bunting hanging from their windows. The high-school band plays somewhere nearby, and I can hear the brass section bleating, feel the drums reverberating in my stomach. It’s quite the event. I’m pleased to see how it’s grown.
Then I see him. Mr. New York Times! The cheekbones, the hair, the six-feet-two-inches of male perfection—shit, where did he go? Craning my neck, standing on tiptoe, I still can’t see him. Damn it! Aside from Trev, that man is the first guy who’s done it for me in ages. I need to meet him. I need to.
“Hey, Chastity!” It’s Angela. “Oh, wow! Love your shirt,” she continues. “That’s my favorite movie. In fact, I have a life-size cutout of Legolas in my office at home.”
“I think that’s sad,” I say. “Because Aragorn is much hotter.”
She laughs. “No, he’s not. And Legolas is so much cooler. Remember that flip thing he does onto the horse?”
“Onto Aragorn’s horse,” I remind her. “Aragorn saved Legolas’s ass.”
“You guys are such losers,” Pete from advertising says from behind us. “Really. Do you play Dungeons and Dragons, too?”
“Not anymore!” I say.
“Not for days,” Angela echoes and we laugh.
“Are you girls walking or running today?” Pete asks.
“I’ll probably walk,” Angela says.
“If I ran, I’d probably die,” Pete admits affably. “Walking is bad enough. Ten miles! Crap! What about you, Amazon Queen?” Pete takes a minute to scan my frame and smiles appreciatively. “I’ve always been drawn to domineering women.”
“Don’t make me hurt you, Pete,” I say.
“I want you to hurt me,” he says. “Oh, there’s my wife. Pretend we’re just coworkers.”
Pete’s wife, whom I’ve met a couple of times before, rolls her eyes. “As long as the life insurance is paid up, I don’t care what you do, hon. Have fun today, you guys.”
“Where’s the rest of the Gazette Gazelles?” I ask.
“Over there,” Angela says, gesturing. Sure enough, my coworkers—Penelope, Alan Graytooth (I can’t seem to get that nickname out of my head), Danielle and one of our freelancers, whose name escapes me. Lucia, clad in bubblegum pink, stands close to Pen. She’s holding hands with a tall, thin man wearing very tight, black running pants and a bright yellow shirt.
“I see Lance Armstrong has joined our group,” I murmur.
“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t met,” Angela says as we walk over to the group. “Ted Everly, Lucia’s fiancé.”
“Ah,” I breathe. “At last. The man, the legend, the bear.”
“Hello! Hello, everyone!” Penelope calls. She’s wearing an oversize T-shirt that says “Eaton Falls Gazette—Committed to the Cure” and yoga pants. “The race starts in about ten minutes, so let’s get over there!”
It’s a beautiful, clear day, with a light breeze off the river—perfect for running. We walk over to the start line with hundreds of other participants. I do a few stretches to warm up, and Penelope frowns at me. “Everyone, do what Chastity’s doing,” she says. “Chastity, you’re a bit of a jock, aren’t you? Show us a few good stretches.”
“I prefer the word ‘athlete,’ Pen,” I say. I demonstrate basic runner’s stretches, isolating all the major muscle groups of the legs, h*ps and lower back.
“Teddy Bear and I do Pilates,” Lucia announces. “We don’t need these.”
“Hi, Teddy Bear,” I say as I loosen up my ankles. “I’m Chastity O’Neill.”
“So I’ve heard,” he mutters. “Nice to meet you.” Judging by the expression on his sharp-featured face, it’s as nice as, say, drinking poison, or severing one’s finger just for the fun of it. Well! He seems perfect for Lucia, whose hair is sprayed into a spun-sugar cloud of Doris Day blond. Her lips are deep red, her mascara visible at twenty paces.
The mayor of Eaton Falls gives a little speech, thanking the sponsors, getting us revved up. I look around for Mr. New York Times, but I don’t see him. There are hundreds of runners. I do peruse the crowd wearing EF Hospital T-shirts, but I can’t make him out. That’s okay. I’m still pretty excited. Dad and Matt definitely are running today—it gives me a thrill of pride that my father can still do ten miles—and I think Mark was planning on it, too, and possibly Tara, who ran track in college. But the rest of the O’Neills will be positioned at some point along the course, ready to cheer on the runners and possibly spray us with a hose.
The starting pistol is fired, and off we go with the rest of the crowd. With the walkers. The runners lope up ahead, and my feet itch to join them. The EFG staff walks briskly, but it’s not the same. I jog almost in place next to my coworkers. “Anyone feel like running a little?” I ask. Pete shoots me a glare. “Except for Pete?”
“I may have a slight lung condition,” Penelope says, patting her chest fondly. “Chronic bronchitis, possibly walking pneumonia. I was worried about TB, but my skin test was clear.”
“Ange? Want to run?” I ask.
“Um…not really, Chas,” she admits.
“Okay,” I sigh, circling our group. Lucia and Teddy Bear do not deign to look at me, simply pump their arms in rhythm and heel-toe, heel-toe with vigor.
“Chastity,” Penelope says, “if you can run this course, go for it! It’ll make the paper look good. Go ahead, go ahead.”
Just the words I’ve been dying to hear. There’s something about a race that brings out the competitor in me. “You sure?” I ask.
“Go!”
That’s all it takes. I’m off, my long legs eating up the street. There are times when being built like an Amazon teamster is a plus, and this is one of them. I already rowed this morning, but running uses a different set of muscles, and I love to run. Granted, I won’t win, since I started off with the slowpokes, but I’ll catch quite a few, no doubt. Sure enough, I see a few T-shirts that began with us in less than half a mile.
My breathing is even and smooth, my stride long and fast. Ten miles is not the longest course I’ve ever run; I finished the New York City Marathon twice, Boston once. Still, it will take some gumption. “Looking good, O’Neill!” I turn my head and catch a glimpse of Bev Ludevoorsk, my EMT instructor, and I wave and smile. “Nice job in class last week!”
Last week was patient lifting, and as Bev predicted, I’m a natural.
I cross the bridge at the three-mile mark. Lots of people have stopped here to catch their breath and admire the view, but I cruise past, into the shopping district of Jurgenskill. The smell of hot dogs and popcorn is rich in the air, and people cheer and wave and offer us sprays with hoses. The area becomes residential and hillier. People are sitting in lawn chairs, playing inspiring songs on the radio. I catch a few bars of “Chariots of Fire” and grin. There’s even a band at one driveway. Of course, they’re playing “Born to Run.”
At the bottom of a rather long, gradual hill, I hear a wonderful sound.
“Go, Auntie, go! Go, Auntie, go!”
The clan! They’re camped out about halfway up the hill on the lawn of Sarah’s parents’ house—and all my nieces and nephews are jumping up and down, screaming for me. “Go, Auntie, go! You can do it! Go, Auntie, go!”
Just for them, the sweet little bunnies, I step on the gas, flying up the hill, past the laboring runners, past those who’ve been reduced to trudging. The kids go nuts. Jack rings a cowbell, Mom calls out encouragement, Lucky flips burgers on a gas grill.
“Teeeaam…O’Neill!” I yell, sticking my hand out for high fives as I race past. The kids’ faces are shining and proud, and I feel such a rush of love for them, cheering me on like this, that a lump comes to my throat.
“Looking good, hottie!” Elaina calls, holding Dylan.
“Chastity, you’re ninety-four seconds behind the fire department!” Sarah calls, glancing at her watch. “Go get ’em, girl!” She raises a drink—looks like a Bloody Mary—and toasts me.
“You got it!” I call back. The fire department. I can definitely catch a bunch of muscle-bound men.
It’s pure joy to run today. The people lining the streets become a blur. I’m almost sprinting—I’ll have to curb my pace later—but I’m already at the five-mile mark and barely feeling it. The breeze is strong and dry and feels like heaven against my damp forehead. My feet pound out a hard rhythm on the street, my breath keeping time. And then I see them, the dark blue shirts of the Eaton Falls Fire Department, running in a pack, five across, like it’s a parade. My dad, Matt, Mark, Santo and Trevor. Another brief sprint and I’m next to them.
