Author: Kristan Higgins

“Don’t dawdle,” she advises. “Being married is wonderful.”

“Not by your account,” I mutter.

“I heard that.”

“So?”

“So say what you mean, young lady.” Her voice is thorny.

“So are you sure you want to marry someone you don’t love as much as you love Dad?” I ask, just as thornily.

“Are you sure you want to marry someone you don’t love as much as you love Trevor?”

It’s like a punch in the throat. “Mom!”

“Sorry, sorry,” she backpedals. “I’m trying to make a point. That the man who’s the most suitable husband might not be the one who makes your toes curl in bed, all right?”

My face blanches. “Let’s change the subject,” I mutter.

“But there are other qualities that make a life partnership work. Ryan has them. So does Harry. So why don’t you back off, okay, honey?”

“Wow. You’re…ouch. I think you’ve…yes, I’m actually bleeding here.”

“Love you!” she calls. “Please don’t wear blue to the wedding.”

“You said you didn’t care what I wore.”

“I was lying. Think pink. Bye, honey.”

THE NEXT WEEK PASSES more or less normally. Mrs. Darling—Libby—e-mails me daily with news of bridal fairs in New York City—would champagne be all right for her dress color?—asks me how many people I’m envisioning for my half of the guest list, informs me that her preliminary calculations have a number around two hundred and seventy-three for their side, of course Ryan’s sister (the famous Wendy Darling) would like to be a bridesmaid, would that be all right? I e-mail back, telling her that everything sounds fine with me, that wedding planning is not my thing, and I’d be happy to turn it over to her.

Ryan and I go out for dinner with two other couples one night. Both husbands are surgeons, both wives are very fit, very polished, very pleasant.

“Are there any women surgeons at the hospital?” I ask as the men discuss who’s who.

“Of course,” Ryan says. “Dr. Thrift, Dr. Escobar and Dr. Adams.”

The other men nod silently. The wives smile. Or they don’t stop smiling, having been Botoxed into perma-smile.

“I’d love to meet them, too,” I say.

“Of course,” Ryan answers. “All in good time.”

“Do you work, Susan?” I ask one of the wives.

“Oh, no,” she says around her teeth. “I’m a sahm.”

“A what?” I ask.

“A sahm. S-A-H-M. Stay-at-home mom.”

“Lovely,” I say. “Two of my sisters-in-law are also, uh, sahms. And you, Liza?”

“The same! Sahm!” she croons. They regale me with reports of their children’s activities: karate, violin, piano, basketball, baseball, lacrosse, soccer, voice lessons, French club, chess club, drama club. I vow to make sure my kids have time to just play, the way I did. I played and read and wandered the neighborhood with my brothers. And Trevor.

Speaking of Trevor, he e-mailed me four days ago. Dear Chastity, I hope you’re doing well. Just wanted to say congratulations again. Hope to see you around Emo’s one day soon.—Trevor

I haven’t written back because I just don’t know what to say. And I haven’t seen him around Emo’s because I haven’t gone to Emo’s. I’m avoiding him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, I’m forced to cover a budget meeting of the city council. If there’s a cure for insomnia, I’ve found it.

In order not to fall asleep and possibly drool on my shirt, I sit in the front row on a punishing metal chair and take notes, silently cursing Suki, who usually covers these things, while making a mental note to buy some chocolate for her, since she usually has to cover these things. The endless construction project has gone over budget. Again. The school board is asking for more money. Again. The senior citizen council wants…shocker…more money. Again. Town crew…more money. I pinch myself to keep from dozing off.

After several months have passed—okay, okay, it was just several hours—I am finally released from the hell of the budget meeting and find myself blinking in the bright light of a glorious summer afternoon. The leaves of the trees that line Main Street are lush and green and just about edible. The air is sparkling clean and dry, the sky shimmers with a blue so pure it makes your heart ache with joy. Birdsong fights with the noise of rush-hour traffic as commuters try to disentangle themselves from the closed-off streets and cross the bridge over to Jurgenskill. The Hudson runs clear and deep along River Road. I can’t wait to get home and go for a row.

Suddenly, there’s a screech of brakes and horrible bang. A car has crashed into one of the Jersey barriers along the edge of the construction site. As I watch in horror, another car smashes into the first. The blare of horns pierces the air.

Racing down the street, I’m not quite aware that I’ve called 911 until I hear the dispatcher’s voice. “Two-car MVA at the corner of River and Langdon streets,” I say, leaping over a bundle of newspapers someone left on the sidewalk. “Car versus barrier, then got rear-ended. Might be injuries.”

“I’m dispatching the fire department right now,” the operator says.

I shove my phone in my pocket as I reach the intersection. Traffic is stopped now, people are getting out of their cars to look. The driver of the second car, which rear-ended the first, gets out. Already, his cell phone is pressed to his ear.

No one has gotten out of the first car.

Shattered bits of glass are everywhere. The first car looks like a soda can that’s been crushed. The driver, a woman, is unconscious. I walk up to the car door.

“Ma’am?” I say, my voice shaking. There’s blood on her face, coming from her head. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?” She lifts her head and blinks.

“Try not to move,” I say. “You’ve been in an accident. Um, um, I’m an EMT. My name’s Chastity.” The back door of the car is dented, but I give it a good tug and it opens. “I’m just going to hold your head still, okay?”

“What happened?” she asks groggily.

“You hit the barrier,” I say. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Mary,” she answers. “Mary Dillon.”

Blood, warm and sticky, is dripping onto my hands as I hold her head so that she’s facing forward. My mouth is as dry as sand and my legs are trembling. “Do you have any pain, Mary?”

“A little,” she says. “My head stings.”

“How about your stomach? Any pain or tenderness?”

“No. My shoulder kind of hurts. The left one.”

“Okay,” I say. “That’s probably from the seat belt. How about your neck?”

“Um, a little.” She tries to look around, but I keep her head still.

“Don’t move your neck, okay, Mary? Just stay looking straight ahead.” My voice sounds more normal. The blood trickle seems to have slowed, but I can’t risk taking a good look. “The ambulance is on its way, okay? Help is coming.” I think for a second. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Uh, Thursday. July eleventh?”

“Great. How old are you?”

“Thirty-five,” she tells me. “Am I in bad shape?” she asks, fear thick in her voice. “Is something wrong with my neck?”

“You’ve been in an accident, so we always check the neck and back. But you seem pretty good to me,” I tell her. “The fire department is on its way. They’ll take good care of you.”

A crowd has formed around us. A man, the driver of the second car, peers in the window. “Can I help?” he asks.

“Are there any doctors or paramedics around?” I ask him.

“I’ll check,” he says, backing away. I hear him asking the crowd. No one steps forward.

I try to remember what else I should do. God! There seems to be so much! “Mary, do you remember what happened? Did you black out?”

“Oh, shit,” she says. “I was reaching for my cell phone. Stupid.”

“Gotcha. Um, how about any medications?”

“Just vitamins.”

“Any medical history? High blood pressure, fainting, anything like that? Diabetes?”

“No,” she says. “Nothing.”

“Any chance you could be pregnant?”

“Not unless it’s immaculate conception,” she says. I can see a smile in the rearview mirror.

“Well, your name is Mary,” I say, smiling back.

I can see the fire truck up ahead, and the EFFD ambulance, lights flashing. Unfortunately, the traffic snarl and the construction are making it hard for them to get here. My arms are starting to shake from not moving them…and from fear, too, heck.

“You’re an EMT?” Mary asks.

“Yup,” I answer.

“Lucky for me.”

The sirens are louder now. “How’s the pain?” I ask.

“Not that bad. Mostly my head and shoulder. Am I okay?”

“Nothing else?”

“No.” She sighs. “I just bought this car.”

I smile. “At least you seem to be okay.”

At last, a fire truck and the department’s ambulance arrive on the scene. The guys swarm off the truck like efficient, gear-clad bees. One leans down to me. It’s Trevor. For some reason, I knew it would be. We haven’t seen each other since the big night, since we fought.

“Hey, Chastity,” he says, sounding mildly surprised. “What’ve we got?”

“Hey, Trev. Um, well, this is Mary, age thirty-five. She was reaching for her cell phone, right, Mary? And then she hit the barrier, then bam! She got hit from behind.” Trevor nods, and my voice picks up speed and confidence. “I witnessed the accident. She’s got a laceration on her head, some shoulder and neck pain, so I’ve been holding the C-spine. She remembers what happened, is alert and oriented. Positive LOC for less than a minute.”

Trevor nods. “Hi, there,” he says to Mary. “I’m Trevor. I’m a firefighter and a paramedic. We’re going to get you out of there and take you to the hospital to get checked out. Sound good?”

“Okay,” Mary says. “Can she stay with me?”

Trevor glances at me, smiling. “You bet.” Helen comes over, talks to Trev for a second, goes back to the truck. I stay in the back of the car, holding Mary’s head, my heart still thumping.

Santo approaches with a cervical collar and gets in the back with me. “Hold her steady, Chas…good girl.” He snaps the collar into place. “We’re all set, Chas,” he says. “You can get out now.”

“Good luck, Mary,” I say, patting her shoulder gingerly.

“Thank you so much,” she says, reaching up to grip my hand.

My legs still wobble when I get out. I take a few steps away from the car and watch Eaton Falls’s bravest do their work. Trev seems to be running the scene—I guess my father is back at the firehouse, not on this detail. Trevor talks into the radio, then goes to the ambulance and opens the back doors. He and Paul take out the stretcher. Santo checks Mary’s abdomen and shoulder, and they slip a vest over her to further stabilize her spine. Jake has the Hurst tool and starts cutting through her door, which is apparently stuck shut.

When Jake is through, Trevor moves in and guides Mary onto the backboard. He says something to her and takes her hand, his face so warm and reassuring that I know she’ll feel better just because he’s there. Then he and Paul lift her carefully and load her onto the stretcher, strapping her in. He’s talking to her the whole time, smiling at her, doing what he does so well.