Just One of the Guys(76)

Finally, though, Ryan snapped out of it. He thought it would be fun to sneak me into his room à la college days, giving a forbidden thrill to our nooky. I sneaked, we were doing it more or less happily (I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about how hungry I was and how I might wrangle a snack), when we heard a little sound.

“Darling?” Mrs. D. crooned, tap-tap-tapping on the door with her manicured fingernails.

“Yi! Yi! Yiyiyiyi!” Bubbles. Great.

“Uh, um, hang on a second, Mother!” blurted the devoted son, hauling his now-naked, apparently illicit girlfriend out of his bed. “Chastity, quick! Get in there!” he whispered, and if I wasn’t being shoved into the closet, I’d have thought his panicked expression was kind of cute. But I was being shoved into the closet, along with my bra and panties—but no other clothes.

“Ryan!” I squawked.

“Be quiet! Please, Chastity!” he begged. “I’ll explain later.” He slammed the door shut.

Being as tall as I am, I couldn’t stand up straight, due to the presence of a shelf that was exactly three inches shorter than I was. Thus, I had to crouch on some ancient lacrosse gear (by the feel of it), which I found a bit uncomfortable. Clenching my jaw, I now found the game of Illicit Girlfriend less than fun. I understood (sort of) Ryan not wanting to get caught in the act, but come on! Hiding me in a closet?

The sound of pants being hastily zipped was heard over the ricocheting yaps of the dog.

“Darling?” Mother called. Illicit Girlfriend wondered why Mother couldn’t find a term of endearment for Devoted Son other than their mutual last name.

“Be right there, Mother!” There was a pause, then the sound of the door opening. “Hi, Mom!”

Illicit Girlfriend heard the scrabbling of tiny toenails as Bubbles the Chihuahua rushed into room and began a frenzied yapping at the closet door. “Yi! Yiyiyiyi!”

“Darling! I thought we’d have a chat and catch up. We think your…er…little friend…is quite…er…”

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Good man, Ryan, Illicit Girlfriend thought, trying to shift so the lacrosse gear wasn’t quite so intrusive.

“Yiyiyiyiyi! Yi! Yi!”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Darling said. “She’s quite…well…Bubbles! Stop your barking, darling! You’re giving Mummy a migraine!”

The miniuscule black nose of the batlike “dog” appeared in the inch-high gap between the closet door and the parquet floor. Illicit Girlfriend tried to remain frozen and silent. Bubbles was not fooled. Snuffles and frenzied whining ensued. Then tiny black toenails began digging furiously under the door. “Yiyiyiyi!” The miniscule, snuffling nose returned with Gestapo ruthlessness.

Girlfriend, fearful of discovery, gave said nose a shove with her big toe. A second later, tiny, razor sharp teeth had sunk into aforementioned toe. Suppressing her yelp of pain, Girlfriend jerked foot away, causing precarious balance on the aging lacrosse gear to surrender. Girlfriend fell, thudding against the wall of closet, hitting her head on old cleats, judging from the feeling of spikes in her scalp.

“Yi! Yi! Yiyiyiyi! Yi! Yiyi!”

“What was that?” Mrs. Darling asked.

“What?” Stupid Boyfriend replied, making Illicit Girlfriend wonder just what Harvard/Yale had imparted on this supposedly brilliant mind.

“What made that thumping noise?” Mrs. Darling queried.

“What thumping noise?”

“Is there something in that closet?”

“What closet?”

Due to fear of making more noise, Girlfriend remained splayed in said closet, still clutching underwear to na**d bosom. Girlfriend was very aware that, should closet door be opened, her female anatomy would be quite inappropriately and widely visible.

Luckily, Bubbles, having made the transition from enraged to hysterical, now began the telltale sounds of dog vomiting. “Roouh! Rooah! Roouh! Rooaaaaaack!”

“Oh! Oh, no! Bubbles! Ryan! Darling! Call the vet! Bubbles is sick! Darling!”

Illicit Girlfriend couldn’t see the rest, but there came the sounds of rushing. Bubbles’s tiny paws disappeared from the limited view provided by the crack under the door.

“Bubbles! Poor baby! You poor poor poor darling! Did you have a wittle accident?”

Over the baby talk of my hostess and the gacking of her dog, I believe I heard the words “Be right back” from my boyfriend.

A welcome silence ensued. After a few deep breaths, I decided it was safe to take a look. With a clatter of hangers, disentangling hair from the cleats, I stood up, lingerie still clenched in my fist. Then I tried the door. It didn’t open.

Running my fingertips over the doorknob, I ascertained that there was no lock, mercifully. The door was simply stuck. I gave a tentative knock. “Ryan?” I whispered loudly. There was no answer. Sighing, I assumed that my boyfriend had enlisted the aid of the other Dr. Darling in ministering to the nasty little canine. How I missed Buttercup! She could eat that yipping rat-dog in one gulp.

I tried the door again, which resisted firmly. Gritting my teeth, I pushed again. Nothing. It was one thing to hide in a closet for five minutes—it was even possible that we’d laugh about this someday—but come on! This was getting ridiculous.

Taking a step back for some leverage, I pushed harder, ensnaring my hair on some wooden hangers. “Crap!” I exclaimed. My back was cramped, my toe throbbed. Finally, I yanked my hair free, losing a few strands. Enough was enough, damn it! I dropped the underwear and, using the famed O’Neill shoulders, rammed the bleeping door like an enraged Brahma bull.