Author: Kristan Higgins

“No, that’s okay. I’ll sink or swim on my own.”

To my surprise, he leans in and kisses my cheek. “You’ll swim. See you around.”

And then he’s gone. A nurse or tech of some kind leans out to check out his ass.

The rest of my day is uneventful. I take sixteen more blood pressures, eleven temperatures, apply ice to a swollen finger and watch as Gabrielle must cut off a wedding ring. I wheel four people in for X-rays and chat with a few not-too-sick people. When my shift is done, I find Gabrielle.

“I guess I’m done, Gabby,” I say.

“Fine! So? What’s keeping you?”

“Would you mind signing my form?”

“Fine, fine, fine. Like I don’t have a million other things to do.” She signs and hands it back to me.

“Does this mean I pass?” I ask.

“Yes! You passed. Okay? You didn’t screw up that badly, so congratulations. Now do you mind? I have work to do.”

“Thank you,” I say, my heart lifting. I passed!

I stop in the lobby and use an in-house phone to call the surgical floor, wanting to share my news with someone. “I’m sorry, Dr. Darling is in surgery,” says the person who answers.

“No problem,” I say.

“Are you a patient or a family member?” she asks.

“Nope,” I answer. “I’m his girlfriend.”

“Really?” she says. “I wasn’t aware that he had one. Well, good luck to you, hon.” And she hangs up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“WHERE’S LUCIA?” ANGELA ASKS. “I didn’t think cyborgs missed work.”

“I do not know, Miss Davies, but I did get you a present.” I’ve become so fond of Angela…she’s quietly funny, consistently good at her job, and always seems open to doing something after work. Just last weekend, when Ryan had to cancel due to an emergency surgery (branch versus bowel), she came over and we watched Return of the King, both of us commenting on the sexist slant of the movie as we ogled the men. Now, I reach in my desk and hand her a bumper sticker.

“‘What Would Aragorn Do?’ I love it!” she cries. “Where do you find these?”

“She spends way too much time on geek sites on the Internet, right Chas?” Pete from advertising says, taking a bite of a bagel.

“That’s right, Pete. Hey, do you know where Lucia is? Are we having the staff meeting without her?”

“That would be a first,” Pete comments, turning on his computer.

“Chastity? I need to see you, please,” Penelope calls, sticking her head out of her office.

Oh, crap. This can’t be good. Alan is already seated, and both their faces are grave. My heart bucks—has someone broken through my firewalls? More p**n on the Web site? Am I about to be fired?

“Hi,” I say tentatively.

“Have a seat, Chastity,” Penelope says. I glance at Alan, who stares at the floor.

“What’s going on?” I ask, my heart thudding with dread.

“Look at this,” Pen says, shoving a piece of paper at me.

It’s the police blotter, the report of crimes committed over the past week. The Eaton Falls Gazette runs it regularly; it’s public information, after all, and a guilty pleasure for people to check out the misadventures of their fellow citizens. I scan it, but nothing leaps out. I’m relieved. I thought maybe there was something about an O’Neill in there.

“Fourth one down,” Alan mutters.

I look. Theodore Everly, 42, solicitation of a prostitute. “Who’s Theodore—oh. Oh, crap.”

“Teddy Bear,” Alan confirms.

“Oh, crap,” I repeat.

“A male prostitute,” Penelope whispers.

My heart sinks. “Poor Lucia. No wonder she’s not in.”

“The question is, should we run it?” Penelope asks both Alan and me. “It is public record. We’ve never edited the police blotter before, but…”

“It’s really your call, Alan,” I say, gratefully passing the buck. “Crap. I don’t know.”

“Great,” Alan says. He makes a face at me, flashing the tooth, but I’ve grown used to it and it barely freaks me out anymore.

At that moment, the door opens, and Lucia sticks her head in, her face its usual funeral mask of makeup. Her eyes are red. “Staff meeting in ten,” she announces.

“Lucia! Hi! How are you?” Penelope stands up. “Come in! Sit down! Um, uh, would you like coffee?”

Lucia enters, and with four of us in Pen’s cramped office, I’m close enough to get a contact high off Lucia’s hairspray and perfume. I get out of my chair and offer it to her. “Have a seat, Lucia,” I say. She narrows her eyes at me and remains standing. Penelope and Alan exchange an uneasy glance. Alan begins.

“Um, Lucia, are you aware that…see, this morning’s police blot—”

“Am I aware that my fiancé was arrested for buying sex from a man? Yes, Alan, I’m aware.”

Okay, well, that settles the question of if she knew. “We were just discussing whether or not to—” Pen starts.

“Run it. I don’t care. It’s not my problem, is it?”

“Lucia,” Penelope says gently, “we’re all really sorry about this.”

“Save it, okay?” Lucia snaps. “Are we having a staff meeting or not?”

“Um, yes, sure, we will. Sure. Okay.” Penelope tips her head to one side. “Lu, are you sure you don’t want to take the day off or anything?”

“Why? So I can sell my wedding dress on eBay?”

Pen takes a deep breath. “Okay. Staff meeting in ten.”

Lucia turns a hateful glare on me. “Chastity, can I see you privately?”

“Um, sure,” I say.

“Use my office,” Pen says, leaping for the door. “Alan, let’s discuss the story on the garbage strike, okay?”

They abandon me with breathtaking speed. “I’m sorry for your…situation, Lucia,” I say tentatively.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she hisses. “You knew Teddy Bear was gay.”

My face grows hot. “Well, you know, I—I don’t really know Teddy Bear, so—”

“He said you saw him! When he was with a man one night. You rode your bike right past them!”

I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah. I did.”

“Could you tell? That he was, you know…gay?”

I wince. “Well…I…it looked kind of…romantic.”

“And you didn’t say anything? I can’t believe that, Chastity!”

“Look, Lucia,” I say in what I hope is a calming voice. “I suspected. That was all. I don’t really know you that well.”

“So you just let me go on being engaged to a fag.” She jams her fists into her hips, shaking with rage.

“It’s always been my feeling that it wasn’t my place to—” I attempt.

“No, Chastity! You’ve always hated me! Because I was engaged! And you never were, okay? And I know everything about this paper! And you’re, like, some hulking Amazon from Columbia who thought you knew everything, and you made me look like a f**king idiot!”

“Okay, shut up, Lucia!” I snap back. “I’m sorry this happened to you, but if you didn’t know Teddy Bear was gay, that’s because you didn’t want to. Every single person at this paper knew. You wanted to be blind and you were. This has nothing to do with me.”

Her face goes white. “What do you mean, everyone knew?” she whispers, horrified. Then, without waiting for an answer, she yanks open Penelope’s door. “Did everyone here know that Teddy Bear was gay?” she shrieks.

There’s a dreadful silence. Angela, Penelope, Carl, Alan, Pete, Danielle in layout, Suki the reporter…They all stand there, guilt and knowledge and sympathy written clearly on their faces.

Blotches of red appear on Lucia’s pasty face. “I quit.”

And with that, Lucia storms out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

We slink back to our desks. “Staff meeting is rescheduled,” Penelope calls before closing herself in her office. As I click numbly through my e-mails, Angela slips over to me. “How are you doing, Chastity?”

“Yick,” I reply.

“I know.” She smiles sympathetically. “So why was she mad at you, in particular?”

“I saw Teddy Bear with a man, and I didn’t tell her,” I confess.

“I wouldn’t have, either.” She smiles kindly.

“Hey, Angela,” I say abruptly. “Trevor told me you guys broke up.”

She flushes. “Yeah. Well, we never exactly got together. He’s so sweet and all that, but I don’t think he was ever interested in me, to be honest. Nothing really there, if you know what I mean.”

The rest of the day passes slowly. Everyone is thinking about Lucia, yet no one wants to talk about it. Just before it’s time to go, Penelope calls me into her office again.

“What do you know about peripheral vascular disease?” she asks, stretching out her hands in front of her.

“Very little,” I say.

“Do my hands look weird to you?”

“Maybe a little moisturizer, Pen. Otherwise, they look fine.”

“Okay, okay, I’m a hypochondriac. Listen, a little good news. Remember that piece you did on James Fennimore Cooper?”

Of course I remember. It was the one I slapped together the night I kneed Ryan at self-defense class. I pull a face. “Yes, I do. Sorry again.”

Pen laughs. “Listen to this.” She pulls out a piece of paper. “Dear Ms. Constanopolous, we are pleased to inform you that Chastity O’Neill’s article ‘The Cooper Effect—The Influence of America’s First Novelist on Today’s Fiction’ has won first prize, blah blah blah, yadda yadda.” Penelope grins. “Ceremony. Dinner. Five thousand dollars. For you, Chastity.”

My mouth drops open. “Five grand?”

“Yes. Congratulations!”

“Five grand? Holy crap! This means a new furnace!” I take the proffered letter and read it myself, feeling a warm flush of pleasure travel up my neck. “Did you enter this, Penelope?” I ask.

“Nope. Apparently, this foundation scans for articles written on great Americans, and they loved what you wrote. I had no idea.” She beams like a proud parent. “Now don’t get any ideas about going to work for the Times, young lady,” she warns.

“I won’t,” I say, smiling.

“Seriously, Chastity. Are you happy here?”

I look up from the letter. “Yes! Absolutely.”

“If you need room to stretch, we’ll give you a column, shift responsibilities around, whatever you want. Just say the word, okay?”

“Thank you, Penelope,” I say. “Wow. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Can I buy you a celebratory drink?”

My smile drops. “Maybe another time. With Lucia and all, I just don’t feel right about it.”

She nods. “Sure. Good form. Okay, I’m leaving. See you tomorrow. Congratulations again.”

I’m tempted to call my brothers and parents and tell them my news, but that doesn’t feel right, either. I call Ryan’s cell, but it clicks immediately over to voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message. Feeling a little deflated, I leave the paper and head for home.

“Guess what, Buttercup?” I tell my dog as she pins me against the wall. “Mommy won an award.” She slobbers in admiration, and I kiss her head. “Thank you.”

I heat up a Stouffer’s pizza, reading the nutrition panel on the side. Yikes. Angela recently offered to teach me to cook—she’s doing an adult-ed class on easy French classics. Ryan mentioned last week that he wanted to have some people over for dinner, and did I think I could cook for eight or ten? When I was done laughing, he grudgingly said he’d call a caterer. I’m sure he’d approve of me learning to whip up a little coq au vin and crème brûlée.