Author: Kristan Higgins

“Chastity, my parents are very strict about house rules, and I wanted to respect that—”

“By sneaking me into your room for a quicky?”

“—so I put you in the closet to avoid upsetting Mother.”

“That scares me,” I snapped.

“And then the dog was sick,” he continued, unfazed. “I didn’t know you’d be stuck. I thought you’d be fine for five minutes. Okay? No harm done.” He had the audacity to smile. “Why don’t you just take a breath and calm down?”

“Calm—calm! I won’t calm down! Get out of my room!”

“Fine!” he snapped. “Be that way!” He strode over to where I stood, still hissing, took hold of my shoulders. “Good night!” Then he kissed me. Hard.

I looked at him for a heartbeat—the old blood was flowing, you know what I mean? Then I grabbed his hair and shoved my tongue in his mouth and then we were rolling around on the bed, then the floor, then shoving each other against the wall. It was the best sex we’d had yet.

“I’m really sorry,” he said when we were done and flushed and panting. “I should never have put you in the closet.”

“Oh, no problem. All’s forgiven.” I smiled. He smiled. Ten minutes later, we were at it again.

For the rest of the weekend, Ryan kept shooting me newly appreciative glances, slipping me a kiss when his parents weren’t looking.

Then, on the way back from Long Island, I asked to drive. “Well, this isn’t a Subaru, Chastity,” Ryan lectured, glancing at me. “This is a highly sophisticated example of superior German engineering.”

“I see. So my potato-picking Irish paws aren’t equipped to hold the steering wheel of the master race?”

“Did I say anything about potato-picking Irish paws, Chastity?” he snapped. “No. You’re exaggerating. Again. But this car does require a subtle touch, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Pull over!” I barked.

“Fine!” he barked back. And so, at the Malden rest stop in Saugerties, conveniently located just off Interstate 87, we had boisterous make-up sex in the highly sophisticated example of superior German engineering.

And I did get to drive the rest of the way home.

Which brings us back to where I am now, lying on my bed with Buttercup, wondering if this relationship is working out or failing miserably.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

TODAY IS MY SESSION AT THE Emergency Room of Eaton Falls Hospital. Without passing it, I won’t pass my EMT course. Exactly what I have to do is a mystery. According to Bev, I just check in with the head nurse and do what she says. Stay out of the way and be helpful. No swearing. No hurting the already injured.

I give Rosebud a final pat and head home to shower and eat breakfast. Penelope wants me to write an article about my experiences, God help me. Then, I dropped a bag on the broken leg of an elderly woman who was bleeding profusely… I cringe. Have I gotten better, I wonder? Am I desensitizing myself? I sure as hell hope so.

I have a little time to kill before reporting to the E.R., so I take out my EMT course book. Sitting on my bed, Buttercup glued to my side, I take a deep breath. Today I may see some of the very things listed inside, not in a glossy photograph, but writhing on a gurney. It occurs to me that Ryan may be called to the E.R. while I’m there today. That he’ll see me. I’d like to be at my best. I can’t marry a trauma surgeon and not be able to hear about his work, can I? No.

“So how was work, honey?” I imagine saying, offering him a martini.

“Oh, some jogger was attacked by a mountain lion,” my handsome husband will say, nuzzling my neck as he gratefully accepts his martini and slides his hand along my tiny waist. “Lots of tearing. Limbs hanging by threads. Major organ damage. It was fun.”

Instead of fainting or barfing, I will nod compassionately and ask an intelligent question…like…like…well, I’m feeling a little sweaty right now, but all the more reason to stick with EMT class.

I put my finger on the tab of the atlas of the course book. Very helpful, that tab, for anyone wishing to flip directly to the gruesome photos. “Here we go,” I say to Buttercup, who does not open her odd-colored eyes. Smart dog. I have new appreciation for her after the weekend with Bubbles.

Taking a deep breath, I open the book and glance down at the first page. Abrasion, Road. Also called road burn. See page—

I slam the book shut, causing Buttercup to fly off the bed. “Aaarrarrrooo!” she howls in dismay. I feel like howling myself. Crap! My stomach clenches, bile burns my throat. The photo showed a ribcage, shredded and flaked with bits of torn skin that looked like pink coconut, black bits of gravel, angry red welts, merciless scrapes…Okay! No need to dwell! We saw it. Let’s move on.

I seem to be swallowing an awful lot, but I haven’t fainted. Not even close. Just a little nausea. My hands are clammy, but that’s it. Progress. “Buttercup!” I call, my voice squeaky. “Mommy needs you!” She returns warily, blinking suspiciously at me before clambering back onto the bed. Taking a deep breath, squaring my shoulders, I open the atlas again.

Laceration, tendons still intact. Youch! Christ! Again, I snap the book shut. Buttercup startles and blinks, her jowls quivering in disapproval as she moans. “Can we do one more, Buttercup? Hm, Butterbaby? I think we can, don’t you?”

Who do you think you’re fooling? she seems to say. I tend to agree, but I open the book again.

Facial avulsion. Slam! I shove the book away from me. “Okay! We’re done, Buttercup! Lesson over.” I curl against her, sliding my arm around her tummy and scratching her chest. “Good puppy, good puppy,” I croon. It’s not enough. The image of the woman who gave new meaning to “facial peel” is imprinted on my brain. I close my eyes and breathe through my mouth. Baby, we were born to run.

“Hey, Chas.” Matt stands in my doorway, just returning from work. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, just a little, um…reading,” I say, opening my eyes and smiling gratefully. “How are you, Matt? I’ve hardly seen you the past week or so.”

Matt sighs and comes in. He sits on the floor next to my bed. Buttercup heaves herself off and goes to him, butting her massive head against his chest.

“I was covering for Paul,” my brother says. “Taking whatever overtime I can get.” He scratches Buttercup’s neck vigorously, causing her to moan in ecstasy.

“Are you saving up for something?” I ask.

He doesn’t look up, just continues petting our dog. “I was thinking I might go back to college,” he mutters.

I shift so I can see him better. “Wow. College. That’s great, Matt. What for? Emergency management or something?”

“No,” he says, still not looking at me. “I was thinking…English lit.”

I pause a little too long, apparently, because Matt suddenly pushes Buttercup down and looks at me, almost angry. “So? What’s the big deal? Can’t I do something other than firefighting? Just because everyone else in this family is out there saving lives, does it mean that everyone has to?”

“Well, uh, no, Matt. I mean, I don’t,” I point out.

“Yeah. Well, you’re a girl.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

He glares at me, ignoring my sarcasm, looking more like Mark than the gentle Matthew. “Matt,” I continue, “you can do whatever you want with your life. You don’t have to be a firefighter.”

“Yeah, right,” he says, daring me to disagree. “I’m Mike O’Neill’s kid and Jack and Lucky and Mark’s little brother. It pretty much feels like I do have to be a firefighter. Can you imagine what they’d say if I became an English teacher?”

“Who cares? They’d be surprised, that’s all.” I pause. “So. An English teacher. Is that what you really want?”

“I don’t know, Chas. Maybe. Shit. I wish I hadn’t brought it up.” He concentrates on scratching Buttercup’s left ear as she licks her chops and wags, turning so he can reach her belly, the trashy hound.

Obviously, I’ve felt on the outside many times in my family, but it’s a bit of a revelation that Matt could feel that way, too. “Matt,” I say carefully, “I thought you liked being a firefighter.”

“I do,” he admits more calmly. “Just…I don’t know, Chas. I don’t want to do this forever. That’s all. Guys like Trevor and Dad—and Mark, God knows—it’s like their destiny. Like they were put on Earth to do this. I don’t think of it that way.”

I nod, tracing the satin edge of my duvet cover. “So teaching might be your destiny?”

He shrugs, embarrassed. “We were at the middle school in March, you know? Fire prevention and all that. And it was great. The kids were asking all these questions, and…well, I’ve been thinking about maybe becoming a teacher. I was talking to Angela about books and stuff the other day when you guys were at the firehouse, and…” his voice trails off “…I kind of loved it,” he admits. “Shit, Chas, don’t tell anyone, okay?”

“I won’t. I think it’s great, Matt,” I say earnestly. “You shouldn’t feel stuck in a career when you’re thirty-three years old, buddy. Going back to school would be great, however you do it. Part-time, full-time, whatever. Good for you, Matt!”

“Really?” he asks, and I love him so much just then, not because he’s the most considerate of my brothers, or the closest in age, or someone who shares his food, but because he trusts me to give him a good answer.

“Really,” I say. “But now I’ve got to run, buddy. Help yourself to my books.” I gesture to the long, low bookshelf that carries seven years’ worth of higher education.

“I already have.” He grins.

I ARRIVE AT THE E.R. AND CHECK in with the triage nurse, a tight-faced woman named Gabrielle Downs. She sighs dramatically when I present myself. “Just what I need today,” she mutters. “Fine. Stay out of the way. If I’m not totally swamped the way I am now, I’ll see if I can find something for you to do.”

“Are you any relation to Lucia Downs?” I ask.

Another dramatic sigh. “Yes. My sister.”

Of course. Melodrama like this can only come through genetics. “I work with Lucia at the Eaton Falls Gazette.”

Gabrielle raises an eyebrow disdainfully. “Where she’s the receptionist?”

There is such contempt dripping from that word that I can’t help feeling defensive of Lucia, however much she doesn’t deserve it. “Lucia is much more than the receptionist,” I return coolly. “The paper wouldn’t run without her.”

“So she tells me every single time I talk to her.”

Gabrielle walks away, leaving me to wonder just what I’m supposed to do. Well, no harm in looking around, I suppose. In the first curtained-off area, optimistically named Evaluation Room 1, an elderly man is sleeping. In the second, a little boy, about seven, is sniffling on the bed, his mom sitting next to him, holding his hand. There’s a nearly palpable bond between them, and an unexpected wave of maternal envy and admiration surges through me.

“Hi,” I say, smiling.

“Hi,” the mom answers. “Are you the doctor?”

“No. I’m an EMT,” I say. “Well, I’m becoming an EMT. Can I ask your son a few questions?”

“Sure,” the mom says. “He has a really bad sore throat.”

And clearly, no health insurance, or they’d be at the pediatrician’s right now, instead of forced to spend half the day or more here. “Sorry to hear that, buddy,” I say. “You feel yucky?”