Just One of the Guys(85)

“What are you doing this weekend?” Ryan asks, taking out his keys and unlocking the door.

“Hm? Oh, sorry. It’s my practical exam. If I pass it, I’m free and clear and an EMT.”

“I see. And it’s an all-day test?” he asks.

“Yes. Saturday.” I force a smile. It’s not his fault I’m feeling glum. It’s not just my mom and Harry…it’s the stupid EMT thing.

I aced my written test…multiple choice, come on. But the practical is the hard part, consisting of eight or so stations, each one presenting a different aspect of emergency care—cardiac arrest, poisoning, immobilization, bleeding control, shock. Volunteers will be faking a variety of injuries, from broken legs to childbirth. Chances are, I’ll pass. Fake blood has not yet freaked me out, and I’m a good student. But what then? I wonder. Will I actually be able to take this knowledge and translate it to somehow being helpful?

Last week, the Eaton Falls Gazette did a story about a kid who was stung by a bee at school. The kid had never had an allergic reaction before, and when he felt odd, he went to the bathroom, where he collapsed, all alone. By some miracle, another kid came upon him. This second boy had a peanut allergy. He saw the first boy’s bluish face, and without waiting for direction, he yanked out his Epi-Pen and stuck it in the other kid’s thigh, calling for help while he did it. Five minutes later, the bee-stung boy was sitting up, dazed and alive. The heroic little boy was modest. “It’s lucky I have a peanut allergy,” he told the cops. “Good thing, huh?”

Then CNN carried the story of the lady who lifted the tree branch off her husband. That branch weighed almost eight hundred pounds. “I couldn’t just let him lie there,” she’d said. “Though it was tempting.”

Ryan takes my raincoat—the manners of a prince, this guy—and goes into the kitchen. I hear the squeak of the cork and the glugging of wine as he pours.

“So, honestly, Chastity,” he says, coming in and sitting next to me on the couch. He hands me a glass of wine. “Why are you taking this class? You don’t want to be an EMT, do you?”

I take a sip of my wine. “I don’t know. I guess I’m hoping to…I don’t know. Join the ranks of my heroic brothers. Live up to the O’Neill legacy.”

“And what is the O’Neill legacy?”

I turn disbelieving eyes on him. He gazes back innocently, waiting. “Well, Ryan, you’ve been to my house. You’ve been to my mother’s house. Didn’t you see all those newspaper articles in the hall? All those pictures of my various brothers with various mayors and victims and all that? Jack has a Congressional Medal of Honor! Mark saved a kitty-cat! Trevor pulled a little girl from the river! My father alone has—”

“Okay, okay, sorry. Calm down. There’s no need to yell.”

I chug Ryan’s expensive pinot whatever. “I’m calm, Ryan. I’m just surprised you hadn’t noticed.”

“Obviously I knew they work in emergency services,” he says, his voice taking on that Ivy League drawl. “I wasn’t aware that they had a legacy.” He pauses. “Jack has the Medal of Honor?”

“Yes! Which I told you on our second date. How can you forget the Medal of Honor? There’s only, like, thirty-five hundred of them ever given!” Ryan continues to look blank. “The stranded unit? Jack’s helicopter? The guy with the shattered leg? Enemy fire? Afghanistan? Carrying a Marine for a mile and a half? Sound familiar?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.” He takes a wine-snobby sip of his drink, then eyeballs me again. “So you feel that becoming an EMT will somehow elevate you to hero status?”

My mouth drops open. “Harsh, Ryan!”

“I hate to be the one to point it out to you, but an EMT is barely a blip on the screen in the medical world.” His voice drips contempt.

Just before I’m about to slug him, it clicks. “Are you trying to start a fight?” I ask.

He blinks. “Um…well, yes,” he murmurs.

“That was really mean, Ryan.”

“Sorry. It’s just…you know. Fighting’s kind of…stimulating.” He grins.

I sigh. “Ryan, maybe we…well, maybe it would be nice if things could be just as…passionate?…without us fighting.”

He doesn’t answer for a minute. “Right.”

He sounds so dejected that I close my eyes. “But, sure, it is fun.”

“Oh, it’s great,” he agrees instantly. “And it does clear the air.” He reaches out and strokes my earlobe. “I’m sorry, Chastity. Didn’t mean to offend you.”

Though I wonder how that comment could be interpreted as anything but offensive, I pat his leg and forgive him. A half an hour later, we’re in bed, cuddled together after twenty minutes of pretty good sex. Back to meat loaf. Too bad.

“I love you,” Ryan mutters, his voice slow with sleep.

I pause. “Sleep tight,” I whisper.

When I’m sure that Ryan is fully asleep, I slip out of bed, grab his robe and go into the living room. In my purse, I have an emergency six pack…of Oreos, that is, the kind that moms put in their kids’ lunchboxes. Sitting on the leather couch, the rain streaming down the sliding glass doors, I rip open the package and inhale appreciatively—is there anything that smells better than fresh Oreos? I pop one in my mouth and chew and stare and think.