Just One of the Guys(55)

“And it’s part of a series, correct?” he asks, taking a sip of his wine.

“That’s right. We’re doing firefighters next.”

“A predictable choice,” he murmurs.

My head jerks back a fraction. “Well, yes, I suppose you’re right, in the sense that everyone identifies firefighters as heroic.” I pause. Ryan doesn’t say anything, just smiles a little, encouraging me to continue. “After that, I’m doing a story on a pediatrician who goes to South America to treat kids down there. She goes every year. Maybe you know her, Dr. Whitman? Jeannie Whitman?”

“I don’t really deal with pediatricians unless I’m getting them up to speed on a trauma patient who happens to be a minor. Usually, though, we fly those patients to Children’s in Albany.”

“I see. Hey, you must run into my brother Jack from time to time. He’s a chopper paramedic. Jack O’Neill, tall, black hair, looks a lot like me…”

Ryan shakes his head. “Can’t say that it rings a bell.”

“Oh,” I say. Our dinners arrive, and we eat and smile at each other. I try to think of something witty to say. I come up empty. Probably, I’m just too used to being one of the guys. And of course, I’ve been avoiding the subject of his career, but I can’t dodge it forever. Finishing my wine, I decide to go for it.

“So, Ryan, tell me about your work. Did you always want to be a surgeon?”

“Trauma surgeon,” he corrects, leaning forward. “Yes, I did, Chastity. My father is also a surgeon, as I believe I told you, so I was lucky to have someone show me the ropes.”

“Is it hard—emotionally, I mean? Obviously, your patients are in pretty bad shape.”

“Emotionally, no, it’s not hard,” he replies, taking another bite of his salmon. “Obviously, there’s a high level of skill involved.” He smiles modestly. “The more common cases are splenectomies, damaged bowel from a GSW…gunshot wound, that is…oh, bleeding control, muscle repair. And of course—” he leans forward with relish, grinning “—the more severe the traumatic event, the more fascinating the case.”

I swallow.

“I suppose it’s the orthopedic trauma that everyone thinks is more glamorous,” Ryan continues, unaware of my rapidly dropping blood pressure. His voice takes on a slightly bitter note. “Obviously, I have to repair a hemorrhaging organ before the bone doctors can assess reattachment possibilities, right? Who cares if the femur is shattered if the patient’s spleen is gushing and we’re running out of blood?”

“God!” I blurt. “Okay, wow! That is impressive!” Wiping my clammy palms on my jeans, I push my plate back. “Listen, Ryan, I have to tell you, I’m a little squeamish about this kind of thing.”

He smiles kindly. “Most people are,” he says almost proudly. “Want to talk about something else?”

“Yes, please,” I breathe. He reaches across the table and takes my hand, which is clutching a roll.

“I like you, Chastity,” he says, grinning.

Nice to know my phobia is charming. Swallowing bile, I grin back. “Ditto.” He really is…well, he’s gorgeous, this guy. Nice, too. “So where did you grow up, Ryan?” I ask, extricating my hand and taking a bite of my roll.

“Long Island,” he says. “We started out in Huntington, but my parents now have a cottage in the Hamptons. East Hampton, to be precise. Quite pretty. You’ll love it.”

I probably will, but his statement gives me pause. You’ll love it when you come down to meet the family, and you will, won’t you, since I’m so fabulous. Stop it, Chastity. He’s perfectly nice. Get your panties out of the twist. He’s still talking, and I smile and nod and take a sip of water.

And then I hear something…something familiar, though too far away to identify. A quiver of foreboding buzzes through my legs. That sound in the distance affects me…or is about to.

“Do you hear that?” I ask Ryan, tipping my head toward the window.

“No,” he answers. “It’s pretty loud in here.”

I can’t quite make out the dark shape rounding the corner, but my sense of foreboding grows.

“What is it?” Ryan asks.

“I don’t…I’m not…oh, shit! Buttercup!”

“Aaaahhroooorooorooo!”

And yes, my dog is galloping—galloping!—her huge ears flapping, jowls rising and falling with each stride, enormous paws flopping gracelessly on the pavement as she runs—runs!—right down the middle of the street. This from a dog who has to be dragged to go outside!

And on her hindquarters, in order to prevent little drops of blood from spattering my house, is a pair of Matt’s bright white Calvin Klein boxer briefs. Her tail, which is guided through the front slot of the briefs, whips back and forth. I sit frozen in horror as she careens onto the sidewalk right in front of Emo’s.

“Why is that doggie wearing underwear?” asks a little girl.

“Oh, my God!” I stand abruptly, bumping the table. Ryan’s water sloshes. “How did she get out? She’s never gotten out before! I told the boys—”

My precious puppy, all one hundred and twenty pounds of randy, menstruating she-dog, leaps up against the window, front paws leaving great muddy smears against the glass, baying with joy at having sniffed out her mistress. “Aahroorooroororooo!” she sings, head thrown back in ecstasy.