Just One of the Guys(45)

“I’m glad, Mom, but—”

“Is it so wrong to want to do things just because I want to? To travel and have fun and just do things because they sound interesting?”

“It’s—”

“Oh, honey, I don’t mean to yell at you. At least I can tell you things. The boys don’t want to hear it.”

Don’t want to hear that our mother is planning to sleep with her new boyfriend? Can’t imagine why not! “Look, Mom, I love you and you know what? All I want is to be like you.”

“Don’t be silly, Chastity.”

“I mean it, Mom,” I tell her. “You’re an incredible mother and except for the cooking, you made a wonderful home. We’re all crazy about you. Look at us! Five kids and not one lives more than fifteen miles away.”

“Which I think is pathetic, by the way,” she interrupts.

I laugh. “Okay. So we never were able to cut the cord. But just make sure you really want what you think you want. That’s all.”

“Well. Thank you, dear.” She pauses, mollified. “So you want us to come to the Blue Moon?”

“No! Listen carefully, Mom. Do not come to the Blue Moon. Don’t come. No Blue Moon.”

“Fine, honey! You don’t have to treat me like a child, you know.”

Grinding my teeth, I hang up, finish the bake-sale piece, then check the story on the effects of too little snow this past winter and post everything on the Web site. My day is done.

As mentioned to Mommy Dearest, tonight is my big date with Ryan Darling. Angela recommended the Blue Moon, which just opened across the Hudson in Jurgenskill. She reviewed it last month and found it spectacular, cozy, elegant and very pricey. Hopefully, I can put it on my expense account, since this is an interview, after all.

I fly home and take Buttercup out. She seems to have more pep these days. Maybe she just needed to live in the mountains, I muse, watching her trot down the street in front of me. She sniffs the post of a mailbox, crouches to pee and continues on her merry way. “Come on, sweetie!” I call. “Mommy has a date. Mascara must be applied.” Her tail slices through the air, and she lumbers toward me, ears flopping. “Who knows, Buttercup?” I say. “Maybe you’ll be getting a daddy.”

“SO HAVE YOU ALWAYS DONE martial arts?” I ask.

“Yes,” Ryan answers with a smile. “I started when I was six, got my black belt at fourteen and was on the team in college.”

It seems like I’m on the set of a movie. The Blue Moon is everything Angela said it would be…cozy, quiet, classy, filled with shiny-haired patrons and soft-spoken staff. Candles flicker on the table, the wine is excellent, the man across from me is gorgeous and when he smiles at me, a warm curl of pleasure wraps around my stomach.

The night is going so well. My hair came out great. I look feminine and appropriate in a low-cut but not slutty white silk blouse and blue-and-white print skirt, one of the items Elaina forced me to buy. Flats, of course, though not my beloved red high-tops. Cute little ballet flats. Ryan is taller than I am, so heels would shatter my illusion of being a delicate flower. When I walked into the restaurant, Ryan was already waiting, looking like the New York Times fashion model that I first imagined him to be. He kissed my cheek and held the chair for me. Definitely surreal. I’m pretty sure we have a future.

Focus, Chastity. You do need to interview him before naming the children.

“And where did you go to school?” I ask.

“Harvard undergrad, Yale medical.”

“So you couldn’t get into the good schools,” I say deadpan.

“Those are good schools,” he says, frowning. “Very good schools.”

“I was just…well. Yes. The best.” Okay, so he’s earnest. A nice quality.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan says. “You were joking. My fault. I must have left my sense of humor at the hospital. Sorry.”

“Oh, no, not all.” I smile. “You’re a surgeon, correct?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he acknowledges with a modest smile. I feel that I’m supposed to be even more impressed, but hey, he had me at Harvard.

“Why did you decide to teach a self-defense class, Ryan?” I ask, taking a sip of the very lovely wine he ordered.

“Well, you see, Chastity,” he says, his expression becoming very intense, “I’ve always been committed to women’s safety.”

“Hm,” I say.

“Most women just don’t know how to protect themselves,” he continues.

“How’s your groin, by the way?” I ask, glancing up from my notebook.

He pauses, then smiles. “Fine.”

“Good.” I grin and glance back down at my notebook. Just wanted to remind him who he’s dealing with.

He goes on, telling me about his desire to give back to the community, share his knowledge, etcetera. Standard enough stuff. I’m more interested in how his eyelashes catch the light. He’s very sincere, frowning slightly as he talks, speaking in long, well-formed sentences laced with impressive vocabulary and an excellent grasp of grammatical concepts.

“Do you have sisters?” I ask, wondering if there’s something more that drives his desire to empower women. Not that it’s a bad desire or anything, but he’s coming across as a little bit…well, condescending. Of course, he’s a surgeon, so this may well just go with the territory. Add Harvard/Yale into the mix, and I suppose it’s inevitable.