Just One of the Guys
Page 18
The phone rings, but I had the presence of mind to bring it with me so as to avoid unnecessary movement. “Super-nanny, good evening,” I say, expecting Lucky.
“Hey, Chastity.” It’s Trevor.
I glance at the clock on the mantel—nine forty-five on a Saturday night. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a date. “Hi, Trev. How are you?”
“I’m good. How’s it going over there? You still in one piece?”
“Just about sixteen hours to go, and I can check into a clinic, knock back a couple of transfusions and I’ll be fine,” I say, gratified to hear him laugh. Buttercup sighs again, and I run my finger down her silky jowls. “So what’s up, Trev?”
He pauses. “Well, I was wondering if you had that number. For the food lady?”
I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Right. Let’s see. Angela Davies. 555-1066.”
“That’s pretty cool,” he says. “How you remember numbers like that.”
“Battle of Hastings, 1066. William the Conqueror invades Britain.”
He laughs. “Very impressive. Do you know mine?”
I have never called Trevor directly, so I can’t cop to the fact that yes, in fact I do. That in a weak moment—well, a weak month, really—I Googled him, read every Eaton Falls Gazette article in the past five years that mentioned his name (there were three), and that I memorized his phone number the very first time I first saw it on Switchboard.com. 555-1021. Ten twenty-one. October twenty-first, which is Sweetheart Day, if you can believe it. Of course I remember. And not only do I know his damn phone number, but also his address, which is permanently burned into my brain.
“Your number? Um, no,” I lie, realizing the pause has gone on too long. “I don’t actually.”
“555-1021. Just for the record.”
“Gotcha.” I don’t seem to be able to think of anything else to say.
He pauses, too. “Are you going out with that guy, Chas?”
“Ryan?” I ask, as if there’s more than one to choose from.
“Yeah.”
“Actually, yes. We’re having dinner next week,” I answer. “But it’s work related. An interview. You know.” Just in case you want to jump in here, Trev, and ask me out instead of Angela….
“Oh,” Trevor says. “Well, he seemed nice.”
“Yeah. You bet. He’s nice,” I babble.
“Okay, Chas. Well, thanks for Angela’s number.”
“Sure, buddy,” I say, letting my head fall against the back of the couch. “Knock yourself out.”
“Have a good night, Chas.”
I keep the phone against my ear for a minute, even though he’s hung up, then call Elaina.
“What’s up, querida?” she asks, chewing on something crunchy.
“I’m going out with the doctor I kicked in the nuts,” I say, trying to replace the image of Trevor’s face with that of Ryan’s.
“Great! Wow, Chas! I’ve seen him around the hospital.” Elaina is a pediatric nurse. “He’s never even looked at me, you know, and not to toot my own horn, I’m pretty hot, right?”
“So hot.” I laugh.
“And he doesn’t date anyone in the hospital, that I know, since it’s all anyone on that floor can talk about. And he’s freakin’ gorgeous, you know? This is fantastic.” She pauses in her babbling. “You still there?”
“Yup.”
She pauses. “So what’s the problem, then?”
I don’t answer for a moment. “There’s no problem,” I say firmly.
“Shit, Chastity,” she sighs. “It’s not still Trevor, is it?”
It’s like a punch, really, to hear it said out loud like that. “Well,” I begin. My voice drops to a whisper since it’s easier to say these things softly. “I do sort of still have feelings for him. He’s…he was my first love, remember?” Buttercup, at least, is sympathetic, stretching out a massive paw and resting it on my shoulder with a groan.
“Yeah, well, Mark was my first love and look how f**king happy we are, you know? Listen, Trevor’s great, okay? He’s Dylan’s godfather, for Pete’s sake. But he has issues, you know?” She pauses. “And he’s had chances, too, you know what I’m saying?”
I certainly do. “Yeah. No, you’re right, Lainey, you’re right. I guess I’ve just been seeing him around a lot more than I’m used to.” I swallow. “Whatever. Anyway, I’m dating Dr. Good-Looking. Well, it’s an interview. But I feel like it’s a date.”
“So what did he say, this Dr. Delicious? Tell me!”
I tell her. I even work up genuine enthusiasm, because Ryan really is a great prospect. And I don’t think of Trevor again. Hardly at all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“THIS IS MY THIRD DATE with HARRY. What do you think? Time for sex?”
“Mom! Come on! Leave me alone.”
“Chastity, you’re such a prude.”
“Mom, you named me Chastity Virginia, okay? If I’m a prude, it’s partly your fault.”
“That was your father’s choice. I was too busy thanking God you weren’t another boy to notice.”
I smile. “Well, at any rate, don’t go to the Blue Moon tonight, okay? Because I’m going there tonight. With the doctor. Please don’t come.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Mom crows triumphantly. “That handsome doctor! How’s his groin?”
“I—I don’t know. I think it’s better,” I answer, gritting my teeth. “Just make sure you and Harry don’t go there, okay? Do not come to the Blue Moon tonight. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Chastity. I’m not an idiot.” She sighs. “Your father is very unhappy, of course.”
I sigh, glancing at the story on my screen that must be edited and chopped by seventy-five percent. The freelancer who wrote it refuses to accept the five-hundred-word limit I’ve given her, and as fascinating at the church bake sale may be, it’s not getting fourteen column inches. “Dad loves you, Mom.”
“Well, that’s not the point.”
“You sure you want to be with someone other than Dad? Have you really thought this through, Mom?” I ask as gently as I can, deleting paragraphs seven through twenty-three of the bake sale story.
There’s no sound from the other end. Bad sign. “Mom?”
“He’s promised me four times that he’d retire, and each time, something came up that prevented him from doing it. Jimmy Troiano was out with a back injury. The new hires weren’t settled. The pension plan was being reworked.” She sighs with gusto. “I got married when I was twenty-one years old, Chastity. I was changing diapers for more than a decade without a single day’s break. Do you know how many times I had to take you kids to the E.R.? I counted the other day. Twenty-nine times, Chastity. I had grandchildren before my baby was even out of college.”
“I understand, Mom, but—”
But nothing. She’s on a roll. “No! You don’t understand, Chastity.” Her voice is General Patton–firm. “I loved being mother to all you kids, I adore my grandchildren, but I’m at the age where I want my life to revolve around something other than my offspring! I have interests! I have desires, Chastity!”
“I’m glad, Mom, but—”
“Is it so wrong to want to do things just because I want to? To travel and have fun and just do things because they sound interesting?”
“It’s—”
“Oh, honey, I don’t mean to yell at you. At least I can tell you things. The boys don’t want to hear it.”
Don’t want to hear that our mother is planning to sleep with her new boyfriend? Can’t imagine why not! “Look, Mom, I love you and you know what? All I want is to be like you.”
“Don’t be silly, Chastity.”
“I mean it, Mom,” I tell her. “You’re an incredible mother and except for the cooking, you made a wonderful home. We’re all crazy about you. Look at us! Five kids and not one lives more than fifteen miles away.”
“Which I think is pathetic, by the way,” she interrupts.
I laugh. “Okay. So we never were able to cut the cord. But just make sure you really want what you think you want. That’s all.”
“Well. Thank you, dear.” She pauses, mollified. “So you want us to come to the Blue Moon?”
“No! Listen carefully, Mom. Do not come to the Blue Moon. Don’t come. No Blue Moon.”
“Fine, honey! You don’t have to treat me like a child, you know.”
Grinding my teeth, I hang up, finish the bake-sale piece, then check the story on the effects of too little snow this past winter and post everything on the Web site. My day is done.
As mentioned to Mommy Dearest, tonight is my big date with Ryan Darling. Angela recommended the Blue Moon, which just opened across the Hudson in Jurgenskill. She reviewed it last month and found it spectacular, cozy, elegant and very pricey. Hopefully, I can put it on my expense account, since this is an interview, after all.
I fly home and take Buttercup out. She seems to have more pep these days. Maybe she just needed to live in the mountains, I muse, watching her trot down the street in front of me. She sniffs the post of a mailbox, crouches to pee and continues on her merry way. “Come on, sweetie!” I call. “Mommy has a date. Mascara must be applied.” Her tail slices through the air, and she lumbers toward me, ears flopping. “Who knows, Buttercup?” I say. “Maybe you’ll be getting a daddy.”
“SO HAVE YOU ALWAYS DONE martial arts?” I ask.
“Yes,” Ryan answers with a smile. “I started when I was six, got my black belt at fourteen and was on the team in college.”
It seems like I’m on the set of a movie. The Blue Moon is everything Angela said it would be…cozy, quiet, classy, filled with shiny-haired patrons and soft-spoken staff. Candles flicker on the table, the wine is excellent, the man across from me is gorgeous and when he smiles at me, a warm curl of pleasure wraps around my stomach.
The night is going so well. My hair came out great. I look feminine and appropriate in a low-cut but not slutty white silk blouse and blue-and-white print skirt, one of the items Elaina forced me to buy. Flats, of course, though not my beloved red high-tops. Cute little ballet flats. Ryan is taller than I am, so heels would shatter my illusion of being a delicate flower. When I walked into the restaurant, Ryan was already waiting, looking like the New York Times fashion model that I first imagined him to be. He kissed my cheek and held the chair for me. Definitely surreal. I’m pretty sure we have a future.
Focus, Chastity. You do need to interview him before naming the children.
“And where did you go to school?” I ask.
“Harvard undergrad, Yale medical.”
“So you couldn’t get into the good schools,” I say deadpan.
“Those are good schools,” he says, frowning. “Very good schools.”
“I was just…well. Yes. The best.” Okay, so he’s earnest. A nice quality.
“I’m sorry,” Ryan says. “You were joking. My fault. I must have left my sense of humor at the hospital. Sorry.”
“Oh, no, not all.” I smile. “You’re a surgeon, correct?”
“Trauma surgeon,” he acknowledges with a modest smile. I feel that I’m supposed to be even more impressed, but hey, he had me at Harvard.
“Why did you decide to teach a self-defense class, Ryan?” I ask, taking a sip of the very lovely wine he ordered.
“Well, you see, Chastity,” he says, his expression becoming very intense, “I’ve always been committed to women’s safety.”
“Hm,” I say.
“Most women just don’t know how to protect themselves,” he continues.
“How’s your groin, by the way?” I ask, glancing up from my notebook.
He pauses, then smiles. “Fine.”
“Good.” I grin and glance back down at my notebook. Just wanted to remind him who he’s dealing with.
He goes on, telling me about his desire to give back to the community, share his knowledge, etcetera. Standard enough stuff. I’m more interested in how his eyelashes catch the light. He’s very sincere, frowning slightly as he talks, speaking in long, well-formed sentences laced with impressive vocabulary and an excellent grasp of grammatical concepts.
“Do you have sisters?” I ask, wondering if there’s something more that drives his desire to empower women. Not that it’s a bad desire or anything, but he’s coming across as a little bit…well, condescending. Of course, he’s a surgeon, so this may well just go with the territory. Add Harvard/Yale into the mix, and I suppose it’s inevitable.
“Yes, I do. My sister Wendy.”
“Wendy?” I ask with a grin. “Your sister’s name is Wendy Darling?”
“Yes,” he says, cocking his head. “Why? Do you know her?”
“Everyone knows Wendy Darling.” He frowns, puzzled. “From Peter Pan,” I explain. “Wendy Moira Angela Darling.” I sing a snatch of the famous song. “‘Wendy, Michael, John…Tinkerbell, come on! I’m flyyyy…ing!’” Ryan blinks. “Well. From Peter Pan.”
“I didn’t know that,” Ryan says, but he chuckles, entertained. “You have a nice voice, Chastity.”
“Hey, Chastity.” It’s Trevor.
I glance at the clock on the mantel—nine forty-five on a Saturday night. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a date. “Hi, Trev. How are you?”
“I’m good. How’s it going over there? You still in one piece?”
“Just about sixteen hours to go, and I can check into a clinic, knock back a couple of transfusions and I’ll be fine,” I say, gratified to hear him laugh. Buttercup sighs again, and I run my finger down her silky jowls. “So what’s up, Trev?”
He pauses. “Well, I was wondering if you had that number. For the food lady?”
I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Right. Let’s see. Angela Davies. 555-1066.”
“That’s pretty cool,” he says. “How you remember numbers like that.”
“Battle of Hastings, 1066. William the Conqueror invades Britain.”
He laughs. “Very impressive. Do you know mine?”
I have never called Trevor directly, so I can’t cop to the fact that yes, in fact I do. That in a weak moment—well, a weak month, really—I Googled him, read every Eaton Falls Gazette article in the past five years that mentioned his name (there were three), and that I memorized his phone number the very first time I first saw it on Switchboard.com. 555-1021. Ten twenty-one. October twenty-first, which is Sweetheart Day, if you can believe it. Of course I remember. And not only do I know his damn phone number, but also his address, which is permanently burned into my brain.
“Your number? Um, no,” I lie, realizing the pause has gone on too long. “I don’t actually.”
“555-1021. Just for the record.”
“Gotcha.” I don’t seem to be able to think of anything else to say.
He pauses, too. “Are you going out with that guy, Chas?”
“Ryan?” I ask, as if there’s more than one to choose from.
“Yeah.”
“Actually, yes. We’re having dinner next week,” I answer. “But it’s work related. An interview. You know.” Just in case you want to jump in here, Trev, and ask me out instead of Angela….
“Oh,” Trevor says. “Well, he seemed nice.”
“Yeah. You bet. He’s nice,” I babble.
“Okay, Chas. Well, thanks for Angela’s number.”
“Sure, buddy,” I say, letting my head fall against the back of the couch. “Knock yourself out.”
“Have a good night, Chas.”
I keep the phone against my ear for a minute, even though he’s hung up, then call Elaina.
“What’s up, querida?” she asks, chewing on something crunchy.
“I’m going out with the doctor I kicked in the nuts,” I say, trying to replace the image of Trevor’s face with that of Ryan’s.
“Great! Wow, Chas! I’ve seen him around the hospital.” Elaina is a pediatric nurse. “He’s never even looked at me, you know, and not to toot my own horn, I’m pretty hot, right?”
“So hot.” I laugh.
“And he doesn’t date anyone in the hospital, that I know, since it’s all anyone on that floor can talk about. And he’s freakin’ gorgeous, you know? This is fantastic.” She pauses in her babbling. “You still there?”
“Yup.”
She pauses. “So what’s the problem, then?”
I don’t answer for a moment. “There’s no problem,” I say firmly.
“Shit, Chastity,” she sighs. “It’s not still Trevor, is it?”
It’s like a punch, really, to hear it said out loud like that. “Well,” I begin. My voice drops to a whisper since it’s easier to say these things softly. “I do sort of still have feelings for him. He’s…he was my first love, remember?” Buttercup, at least, is sympathetic, stretching out a massive paw and resting it on my shoulder with a groan.
“Yeah, well, Mark was my first love and look how f**king happy we are, you know? Listen, Trevor’s great, okay? He’s Dylan’s godfather, for Pete’s sake. But he has issues, you know?” She pauses. “And he’s had chances, too, you know what I’m saying?”
I certainly do. “Yeah. No, you’re right, Lainey, you’re right. I guess I’ve just been seeing him around a lot more than I’m used to.” I swallow. “Whatever. Anyway, I’m dating Dr. Good-Looking. Well, it’s an interview. But I feel like it’s a date.”
“So what did he say, this Dr. Delicious? Tell me!”
I tell her. I even work up genuine enthusiasm, because Ryan really is a great prospect. And I don’t think of Trevor again. Hardly at all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“THIS IS MY THIRD DATE with HARRY. What do you think? Time for sex?”
“Mom! Come on! Leave me alone.”
“Chastity, you’re such a prude.”
“Mom, you named me Chastity Virginia, okay? If I’m a prude, it’s partly your fault.”
“That was your father’s choice. I was too busy thanking God you weren’t another boy to notice.”
I smile. “Well, at any rate, don’t go to the Blue Moon tonight, okay? Because I’m going there tonight. With the doctor. Please don’t come.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Mom crows triumphantly. “That handsome doctor! How’s his groin?”
“I—I don’t know. I think it’s better,” I answer, gritting my teeth. “Just make sure you and Harry don’t go there, okay? Do not come to the Blue Moon tonight. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Chastity. I’m not an idiot.” She sighs. “Your father is very unhappy, of course.”
I sigh, glancing at the story on my screen that must be edited and chopped by seventy-five percent. The freelancer who wrote it refuses to accept the five-hundred-word limit I’ve given her, and as fascinating at the church bake sale may be, it’s not getting fourteen column inches. “Dad loves you, Mom.”
“Well, that’s not the point.”
“You sure you want to be with someone other than Dad? Have you really thought this through, Mom?” I ask as gently as I can, deleting paragraphs seven through twenty-three of the bake sale story.
There’s no sound from the other end. Bad sign. “Mom?”
“He’s promised me four times that he’d retire, and each time, something came up that prevented him from doing it. Jimmy Troiano was out with a back injury. The new hires weren’t settled. The pension plan was being reworked.” She sighs with gusto. “I got married when I was twenty-one years old, Chastity. I was changing diapers for more than a decade without a single day’s break. Do you know how many times I had to take you kids to the E.R.? I counted the other day. Twenty-nine times, Chastity. I had grandchildren before my baby was even out of college.”
“I understand, Mom, but—”
But nothing. She’s on a roll. “No! You don’t understand, Chastity.” Her voice is General Patton–firm. “I loved being mother to all you kids, I adore my grandchildren, but I’m at the age where I want my life to revolve around something other than my offspring! I have interests! I have desires, Chastity!”
“I’m glad, Mom, but—”
“Is it so wrong to want to do things just because I want to? To travel and have fun and just do things because they sound interesting?”
“It’s—”
“Oh, honey, I don’t mean to yell at you. At least I can tell you things. The boys don’t want to hear it.”
Don’t want to hear that our mother is planning to sleep with her new boyfriend? Can’t imagine why not! “Look, Mom, I love you and you know what? All I want is to be like you.”
“Don’t be silly, Chastity.”
“I mean it, Mom,” I tell her. “You’re an incredible mother and except for the cooking, you made a wonderful home. We’re all crazy about you. Look at us! Five kids and not one lives more than fifteen miles away.”
“Which I think is pathetic, by the way,” she interrupts.
I laugh. “Okay. So we never were able to cut the cord. But just make sure you really want what you think you want. That’s all.”
“Well. Thank you, dear.” She pauses, mollified. “So you want us to come to the Blue Moon?”
“No! Listen carefully, Mom. Do not come to the Blue Moon. Don’t come. No Blue Moon.”
“Fine, honey! You don’t have to treat me like a child, you know.”
Grinding my teeth, I hang up, finish the bake-sale piece, then check the story on the effects of too little snow this past winter and post everything on the Web site. My day is done.
As mentioned to Mommy Dearest, tonight is my big date with Ryan Darling. Angela recommended the Blue Moon, which just opened across the Hudson in Jurgenskill. She reviewed it last month and found it spectacular, cozy, elegant and very pricey. Hopefully, I can put it on my expense account, since this is an interview, after all.
I fly home and take Buttercup out. She seems to have more pep these days. Maybe she just needed to live in the mountains, I muse, watching her trot down the street in front of me. She sniffs the post of a mailbox, crouches to pee and continues on her merry way. “Come on, sweetie!” I call. “Mommy has a date. Mascara must be applied.” Her tail slices through the air, and she lumbers toward me, ears flopping. “Who knows, Buttercup?” I say. “Maybe you’ll be getting a daddy.”
“SO HAVE YOU ALWAYS DONE martial arts?” I ask.
“Yes,” Ryan answers with a smile. “I started when I was six, got my black belt at fourteen and was on the team in college.”
It seems like I’m on the set of a movie. The Blue Moon is everything Angela said it would be…cozy, quiet, classy, filled with shiny-haired patrons and soft-spoken staff. Candles flicker on the table, the wine is excellent, the man across from me is gorgeous and when he smiles at me, a warm curl of pleasure wraps around my stomach.
The night is going so well. My hair came out great. I look feminine and appropriate in a low-cut but not slutty white silk blouse and blue-and-white print skirt, one of the items Elaina forced me to buy. Flats, of course, though not my beloved red high-tops. Cute little ballet flats. Ryan is taller than I am, so heels would shatter my illusion of being a delicate flower. When I walked into the restaurant, Ryan was already waiting, looking like the New York Times fashion model that I first imagined him to be. He kissed my cheek and held the chair for me. Definitely surreal. I’m pretty sure we have a future.
Focus, Chastity. You do need to interview him before naming the children.
“And where did you go to school?” I ask.
“Harvard undergrad, Yale medical.”
“So you couldn’t get into the good schools,” I say deadpan.
“Those are good schools,” he says, frowning. “Very good schools.”
“I was just…well. Yes. The best.” Okay, so he’s earnest. A nice quality.
“I’m sorry,” Ryan says. “You were joking. My fault. I must have left my sense of humor at the hospital. Sorry.”
“Oh, no, not all.” I smile. “You’re a surgeon, correct?”
“Trauma surgeon,” he acknowledges with a modest smile. I feel that I’m supposed to be even more impressed, but hey, he had me at Harvard.
“Why did you decide to teach a self-defense class, Ryan?” I ask, taking a sip of the very lovely wine he ordered.
“Well, you see, Chastity,” he says, his expression becoming very intense, “I’ve always been committed to women’s safety.”
“Hm,” I say.
“Most women just don’t know how to protect themselves,” he continues.
“How’s your groin, by the way?” I ask, glancing up from my notebook.
He pauses, then smiles. “Fine.”
“Good.” I grin and glance back down at my notebook. Just wanted to remind him who he’s dealing with.
He goes on, telling me about his desire to give back to the community, share his knowledge, etcetera. Standard enough stuff. I’m more interested in how his eyelashes catch the light. He’s very sincere, frowning slightly as he talks, speaking in long, well-formed sentences laced with impressive vocabulary and an excellent grasp of grammatical concepts.
“Do you have sisters?” I ask, wondering if there’s something more that drives his desire to empower women. Not that it’s a bad desire or anything, but he’s coming across as a little bit…well, condescending. Of course, he’s a surgeon, so this may well just go with the territory. Add Harvard/Yale into the mix, and I suppose it’s inevitable.
“Yes, I do. My sister Wendy.”
“Wendy?” I ask with a grin. “Your sister’s name is Wendy Darling?”
“Yes,” he says, cocking his head. “Why? Do you know her?”
“Everyone knows Wendy Darling.” He frowns, puzzled. “From Peter Pan,” I explain. “Wendy Moira Angela Darling.” I sing a snatch of the famous song. “‘Wendy, Michael, John…Tinkerbell, come on! I’m flyyyy…ing!’” Ryan blinks. “Well. From Peter Pan.”
“I didn’t know that,” Ryan says, but he chuckles, entertained. “You have a nice voice, Chastity.”
