Just One of the Guys(35)
In the six years since our brief fling, Trevor and I had gone back to the friendship we’d always had, back to a casual, fond relationship, not quite family, more than just friends. I made it a point not to moon after him, to be cheerful and friendly when he was around. It helped that he transferred out of Binghamton after my freshman year, finishing up at University of Vermont before going on to paramedic school. I spent my junior year in France, and when I came back, the ache wasn’t as noticeable. I was young, I told myself. Everyone had that wistful first love. I’d get over him.
But then one day, while I was in my final year of grad school, working at the New York Times as a fact-checker to make ends meet, Trevor called me. “Chastity,” he said, “I was wondering if we could get together. Maybe have dinner? I’ll come down to the city, what do you say?”
“Sure!” I said. “That would be great!” The flush on my cheeks, the slight tremor in my hands told me exactly what I was thinking.
He’d been dating some girl named Hayden, someone from Binghamton, actually, one of the cashmere sweater-set gang. She lived about twenty minutes outside of Eaton Falls, and sometime after college, she and Trevor started hanging out. I’d met her, even, hung out with the boys and Hayden at Emo’s last summer and been friendly and fun and relaxed as ever, barely even noticing that she was gorgeous, in law school, cool, confident, and seven inches shorter and probably fifty pounds lighter than I was. I thought I’d done a great job not being bothered.
But suddenly…suddenly, Trevor was coming all the way into Manhattan, a good three-hour drive, just to have dinner with me. For the very first time since that wonderful, horrible Columbus Day weekend, Trevor wanted to see me alone. Surely this meant something. He and Perfect Hayden had broken up, right? It had to be. And Trevor was coming down here to tell me that he’d never gotten over me. That now that we were adults (I was twenty-four, he was twenty-seven), shouldn’t we do something about the fact that we were meant to be together? Don’t get ahead of yourself, Chastity, a little voice in my brain warned. Be cool. Aren’t we training to become a journalist? Let’s get the facts first. I didn’t listen. Screw the little voice. I didn’t call home and ask what was new, either. I didn’t even call Elaina. I was afraid that I’d curse my luck if I mentioned that Trevor was coming all the way to the city to see me. That a brother would tag along, or worse, a parent.
In a frenzy, I blew two weeks’ pay at Long Tall Sally’s, the best place in town for us oversize girls, and bought an outfit that said casual, interesting, funky, confident, but not trying too hard. I bought a new pair of bright red high-tops. I got a haircut and a manicure. I interrogated friends and coworkers for the best place to take Trevor, a place that would show him that I was a cool New Yorker, that was comfortable but not sloppy, casual but still charming, an insider’s place.
“McSorley’s?” suggested a coworker.
“Too grimy,” I said.
“Aquavit?” suggested my boss.
“Too stressful.”
“Gotham Bar & Grille?”
“Too trendy.”
In the end, after four days spent researching restaurants, I found it. A tiny Italian restaurant in the Village where the waiters spoke broken English and the food was to die for. I knew Trev would love it. It was quiet, the staff would let us take our time, and it was so, so romantic with its tiny tables overlooking the street, and its brick walls and wood floor. Tony Bennett would play on the stereo. Our knees would bump, we’d stare into each other’s eyes, laugh, kiss. God, I’d missed him! Since the moment I’d hung up, wherever I was—in class, at work, in bed, on the subway—I pictured it over and over. When the little voice inside my head warned me to assume nothing, I told her to shut the f**k up and let me enjoy the moment.
When I finally buzzed Trevor up to my minuscule apartment that I had scoured from floor to ceiling, I was shaking. At last. At last, I would be with him again, because I’d never loved anyone else, that was perfectly clear to me. Not the way I loved Trevor. Never.
“Hey, Chastity!” he said, hugging me hard. “You look great! Wow. This is really cute!” He came into our flea-size living room, shook hands with my roommate, Vita, who gave me an approving nod.
“Well, we can come back here after dinner and hang out,” I suggested oh-so-casually. “Hey Vi, want to join us for dinner?” As instructed earlier, she declined gracefully, claiming a difficult paper and late date with her boyfriend.
And so Trevor and I walked through the streets of Chelsea, down into the Village. He was impressed with my knowledge of the city, seemed genuinely happy to see me, and when I reached out to tug him across an intersection when he walked too slowly, he didn’t remove my hand from his arm.
“It’s great to see you, Chas,” he said, smiling, his eyes doing that transforming thing. My heart bucked in my chest. Notice everything, I told myself. Drink it all in. You’ll remember this night for as long as you live.
And I did, but not for the reasons I wanted.
We got to the restaurant, where I was greeted warmly by the maître d’ I’d spent an hour interrogating three days before. He seated us at the chosen table overlooking the street, and our knees did indeed bump. We ordered a bottle of wine, chatted casually about work, firefighting, my family.
“So, Chastity, are you seeing anyone?” Trevor asked a little hesitantly, his chocolate eyes intent.