Just One of the Guys(43)
Speaking of Angela, she’ll be pleased to hear that Trevor’s interested. As Buttercup crumples on the Manleys’ lawn, I decide to be really pleased about Trevor and Angela. Better Ange than Perfect freakin’ Hayden Simms. Hauling Buttercup to her feet and luring her down the block with a Slim Jim, I make a resolution: Ryan Darling is going to be the new man in my life whether he knows it or not. And he’s going to adore me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ON SATURDAY NIGHT, when Christopher, Annie and Jenny are finally in bed (I only had to threaten the use of duct tape once), I clean up the devastation and invite Buttercup to join me on the couch. Surely Luke and Tara won’t mind my giant dog on their furniture, not after their children have been so lovingly cared for. Stroking my pup’s enormous head and thin, floppy ears, I let myself relax, wincing as the new bruise on my thigh twinges.
It was a fun day…we played not only Bucking Broncos and Wild Wild Wolves, but also a marathon game of Monopoly, which we had to stop because Jenny kept trying to eat the hotels. We went for a hike, had milk shakes and burgers at the diner, made a Lincoln Log zoo and watched Finding Nemo. Then I pretended to be a giant baby and staggered around the house bellowing “Dada! Mama! Feed me!” while the older two clutched themselves and wept with laughter. Supper time (chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs, quite delicious), bath time, story time, jump on Auntie time, call Mommy and Daddy time, bedtime for the girls, another game of Monopoly (the speed version), and finally, bedtime for Christopher.
I don’t think I was this tired after I ran the New York City marathon, quite honestly. I hurt in places I didn’t know I had. So much for rowing being the ultimate sport. Motherhood has it beat. And I get to do it again tomorrow. But I find that I’m smiling. Jenny looked so cute in her crib, her little rump sticking up in the air. Annie, who is quite a demon child, was downright angelic with exhaustion, clinging to me as I put her to bed. And Chris, well, he’s just a great kid in general. No one got so much as a boo-boo, luckily.
Actually, the only time I don’t freak out around blood is when a kid is hurt. Last year, Graham fell and cut his lip, and I was quite competent administering ice and Hershey kisses, the O’Neill cure for any injury. Once, Claire scraped her knee pretty badly when we were riding bikes, and if my hands shook a little as I blotted, I certainly didn’t pass out. Granted, Olivia reduced me to jelly with that loose tooth of hers, but if she’d actually been hurt and needed me, I think I would’ve been okay. It’s nice to think that my maternal instincts outweigh my blood phobia.
Buttercup sighs, her jowls fluttering. “Who’s a good baby?” I croon, and her tail whips the couch four times. She’s only a puppy still, about ten months old, but she acts like she’s a hundred and four, if you ask me, lying around all day, her only activity rolling onto her back for a tummy scratch. “I don’t mind,” I tell her, pulling her ears up just for fun. She looks like a cross between a dog and a jackrabbit, very ugly, very science-gone-wrong. “I think you’re fabulous. Unique. One of a kind.” I pull her jowls out from her face. She snuffles happily. “Who’s a pretty girl? Hm, Butter-boo-boo?” Drawing her ears together under her chin, I decide she looks like Aunt Jemima.
The phone rings, but I had the presence of mind to bring it with me so as to avoid unnecessary movement. “Super-nanny, good evening,” I say, expecting Lucky.
“Hey, Chastity.” It’s Trevor.
I glance at the clock on the mantel—nine forty-five on a Saturday night. I’m surprised he doesn’t have a date. “Hi, Trev. How are you?”
“I’m good. How’s it going over there? You still in one piece?”
“Just about sixteen hours to go, and I can check into a clinic, knock back a couple of transfusions and I’ll be fine,” I say, gratified to hear him laugh. Buttercup sighs again, and I run my finger down her silky jowls. “So what’s up, Trev?”
He pauses. “Well, I was wondering if you had that number. For the food lady?”
I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Right. Let’s see. Angela Davies. 555-1066.”
“That’s pretty cool,” he says. “How you remember numbers like that.”
“Battle of Hastings, 1066. William the Conqueror invades Britain.”
He laughs. “Very impressive. Do you know mine?”
I have never called Trevor directly, so I can’t cop to the fact that yes, in fact I do. That in a weak moment—well, a weak month, really—I Googled him, read every Eaton Falls Gazette article in the past five years that mentioned his name (there were three), and that I memorized his phone number the very first time I first saw it on Switchboard.com. 555-1021. Ten twenty-one. October twenty-first, which is Sweetheart Day, if you can believe it. Of course I remember. And not only do I know his damn phone number, but also his address, which is permanently burned into my brain.
“Your number? Um, no,” I lie, realizing the pause has gone on too long. “I don’t actually.”
“555-1021. Just for the record.”
“Gotcha.” I don’t seem to be able to think of anything else to say.
He pauses, too. “Are you going out with that guy, Chas?”
“Ryan?” I ask, as if there’s more than one to choose from.
“Yeah.”