Author: Kristan Higgins

“You think you know everything, Chastity?” By now, several other firefighters are gathered at the back door, reluctant to become involved in a family squabble, but not about to ignore it, either. “Don’t you ever babysit for my son again!”

“Oh, for pete’s sake!” I say.

“Not when my wife is screwing around on me!”

“Mark, settle down,” Trevor says again.

“Fuck off, Trevor!” Mark bellows. Trevor steps in front of me, but I shove past him.

“You’re making an idiot of yourself, Mark O’Neill,” I hiss. “Again. Okay? Just shut up and get some counseling.”

Mark’s fists clench. “You little bitch,” he snarls.

“Mark!” Trevor barks. “Enough!”

Mark turns on him. “Whose side are you on, anyway?” he demands.

“Chastity’s,” Trevor answers instantly.

“Why? Are you f**king her?”

Trevor’s mouth clamps into a hard line. His arm goes back to hit my brother, but I’m faster. My fist connects with Mark’s jaw with a satisfying thunk. Pain shoots up my arm like a knife, and Mark staggers back, stunned. Then my father is there, grabbing Mark.

“What the hell is going on here?” he snaps.

“Get him home, Mike,” Trevor says. “Chastity, you okay?”

My knuckles are killing me, my arm throbs, but I won’t give Mark the satisfaction of seeing me wince. I haven’t punched a brother since I was twelve, but you know what? Mark had it coming.

“Chas?” Trevor says, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I say tightly, shrugging him off.

“What happened?” Dad asks. Mark is rubbing his jaw and glaring at me. “Did you threaten your sister, Mark?”

“Jesus, Dad, stay out of it. She overreacted, as usual,” Mark grumbles.

“I overreacted,” I repeat. “That’s rich, Mark.”

“Mark, get off firehouse property,” Dad says in captain mode. “Go home and cool off, whatever the hell it is you’re mad about this time. I’ll be over when I’m done here.”

Mark obeys, muttering, shoving his way past the guys who just watched his sister slug him.

“Chastity.” Dad sighs. “Maybe you should go.”

“Okay,” I whisper, my throat suddenly tight. Dad walks toward the firehouse, says something to the guys and disappears inside.

“I was planning on hitting him, you know,” Trevor says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “You didn’t have to. But thanks for defending my honor.”

“It’s not funny,” I say. In fact, my eyes are stinging with tears. “Don’t let them make fun of Mark, okay? This should’ve been a great day for him.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Trevor says. He takes my hand and looks at it, then looks back into my eyes. “Let’s get you an ice pack.” His voice is gentle.

“Remind me never to pick a fight with the O’Neill girl,” Santo says admiringly as Trevor and I go inside.

Angela and Matt are in the kitchen, laughing at the stove. They both start when we come in. Trevor grabs an ice pack, wraps it in a paper towel and puts it on my hand. “I got it,” I say, holding it in place. My heart feels sore and too big for my chest, and any more sweetness from Trevor and I’ll start bawling.

“You okay, Chas?” Matt asks.

“I’ll fill you in later,” Trev says quietly. “Hi, Angela. I didn’t know you were here.” He smiles, but it’s forced.

“Hi, Trevor,” she answers. “Um, sorry, I was interviewing Matt. For an article. Firehouse pizza.”

“We need to go, Ange,” I say. My throat is still constricted with anger and sorrow.

“Okay,” she says, frowning at the look on my face. “Matt, thank you so much. This was great. I’ll e-mail you if I have any questions.”

“Sure. Nice meeting you.”

Angela blushes and grabs her things. Trevor and Matt say goodbye and we walk out to the parking lot.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, opening the driver’s door.

“Yup. Just a little spat with my brother,” I answer.

“Oh,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry, Chastity.” We get into the car, and Angela starts the engine. “Matt is really nice, at any rate.”

“He’s great,” I agree, then turn my face away and rest my forehead against the window.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE REST OF THE DAY IS SO BUSY—the Yahoo pictures cause all sorts of coverage, including me interviewing Carl himself—that I don’t have a chance to tell Penelope about the nasty e-mail. I call her when I get home that night and fill her in, tell her about Aragorn’s beheading. It sounds so bleeping dumb when I say it aloud.

“Call the police,” she says. “See if there’s anything they can do. This sucks, Chastity.”

“It’s not a huge deal,” I say, stroking Buttercup’s sensitive ears. “But yeah, I’d feel better.” And so I call the computer crimes specialist at the police department, who seems to take a lot of notes and says they’ll send someone in to run some diagnostics on my computer.

“Nothing’s happening anywhere but work?” the cop asks.

“Correct,” I answer. “I feel dumb bothering you with something so small.”

“Better to report it than not,” she says. “You never know what whackos are out there, prowling on innocent people.”

Gee, thanks, lady. “Right,” I say.

Matt is working that night, so Buttercup and I are alone. I stick The Fellowship of the Ring in the DVD player. Just as I’m settling in, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in one hand, the phone rings.

“Hello, there,” Ryan says. “How are you?”

“Oh, hey, Ryan,” I say. “I’m okay. I had kind of a crappy day, actually.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he says. “What—damn. Chastity, I’m being paged. Can I call you later? I’m really sorry. You’re all right, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m fine. You go. I understand.”

“Love you,” he says and hangs up.

I squinch my right eye shut and grit my teeth. He loves me? Since when? That didn’t sound very convincing. We’ve been on five dates. Slept together three times. He loves me?

“Shut it, Chastity,” I say aloud. It’s not impossible that a man could fall in love with me in the space of a few weeks. “I guess I’m a very loveable person, Buttercup,” I say. “Don’t you agree?”

She does. She licks my face and lays her head back in my lap with a sigh.

I’m just at the Prancing Pony scene where we first meet the dark and delicious Aragorn when a knock interrupts me. It’s Mark, a box of Twinkies under his arm, a bouquet of irises in his hand. “Hi. I’m sorry,” he says, thrusting the gifts at me. Any residual anger I might have had melts away at the sight of his tormented face.

“Come in, pal,” I tell him, putting his offerings on the hall table.

He takes off his coat, stopping to let Buttercup sniff his shoes before sitting on the couch. “What are you watching?” he asks, gesturing at the TV.

“Lord of the Rings,” I answer. Turning off the DVD player and TV, I turn to face my difficult brother. “Are you okay?”

He takes a deep breath. “No.”

“Can I do anything?”

“You should be mad at me, Chas. Shit, I really f**ked up, didn’t I?”

“Well, I’m not mad, Mark. Glad I punched you, yes, but not mad. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”

He gives a bitter laugh. “Why? Isn’t my life going great? Come on, dog. Sit with me.” Buttercup lunges on the couch next to him, settling her head on his lap with a groan.

“Mark,” I begin tentatively, “what do you want to happen next? With Elaina and Dylan and everything?”

“I want everything to go back to where it was,” he answers thickly, petting Buttercup and not looking at me.

“That can’t happen.”

“I know. So I’m stuck. She won’t forgive me.” A tear plops onto Buttercup’s head, but Mark keeps petting.

“She wants to, you know.”

“She says she can’t trust me.” His voice is heavy. Mark doesn’t cry. Me, I blubber an ocean. Mark…he’s a desert.

“Honey,” I say gently, “it takes time. You have to keep trying, show her that you can be trusted.” He shrugs. “And Mark, you’re a mess. You’re so angry and bitter, and the thing is, you should be kissing Elaina’s feet. You should do whatever it takes to get her back. She’s the best thing that ever happened to you, and you’re going to lose her.”

My brother puts his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know what to do, Chas. I want to do the right thing, and I just keep getting further and further away from where I need to be. I’m lost.” He shakes his head, this big, handsome, cat-saving brother of mine, tears dripping out from underneath his hand, and my heart aches.

“Okay. Here’s what to do. Buttercup, down, girl.” I drag my dog off the couch and sit next to Mark, putting my arm around him. “First, you need to get some anger management or something. A psychiatrist, a therapist, something. Would you do that?” He nods. “Then ask Elaina if she’ll go to marriage counseling.”

“That’s a lot of shrinks, Chas.”

“So? You just said you’re lost. This is a way to get found.”

“What else?” he asks.

“You tell Elaina that nothing is more important than her and Dylan, and you want them back. Simple as that, Mark. Don’t tell her that she’s bitter or how she should be feeling, don’t put conditions on it, just tell her. She still loves you, honey.”

“Did she tell you that?” he asks.

“Yes.” His shoulders jerk. “She misses the man you used to be, Mark.”

With that, my brother puts both arms around me and bawls into my shoulder like a one hundred and eighty-five pound baby. After a minute, Buttercup joins in, baying sympathetically, and Mark gives a shaky laugh. I pat his back and tell him he’s going to be just fine.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

OVER THE WEEKEND, WE ARE summoned for a family dinner at Mom’s. Dad won’t be coming. Harry will. Mom wants us to meet him. It’s giving me a stomachache.

“So you’re going?” my father demands over the phone. I’ve just returned from a row, need to shower, check the Web site from my home computer, make sure I haven’t received any more creepy e-mails and generally don’t want to talk to my dad about his problems with Mom.

“Yes, Dad. I’m going.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he mutters.

“Well, look. If you don’t want Mom dating other men, then get off your scrawny Irish butt and do something, okay? You know what she wants. You know her conditions. Make your choice, Dad. I’m hanging up now.”

I shower and dress with care, because not only will we be meeting Harry, Ryan is coming to his first official O’Neill family gathering. He picks me up at the stroke of two, gives Buttercup a tentative pat, and walks me to the car. There’s a bouquet of yellow roses in the backseat.

“For your mom,” Ryan says, smiling, and I feel a rush of affection for him.

“She’ll just love you, Ryan,” I say sincerely.

“I’m sure the feeling will be mutual,” he says, leaning over to kiss me. Then he starts the car and backs out of my driveway.

My mother is buzzing with energy as she yanks open the door when Ryan and I arrive.