Just One of the Guys(97)

“I better call my dad,” I say when Ryan hangs up from his parents. I glance at my watch. It’s after five, and Dad’s on nights this week, so he should be at the firehouse. With Trevor, as usual. I don’t think about that.

“Well, actually, your father knows,” Ryan smiles. “I asked for his permission.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, that was…old-fashioned of you. But nice, I guess.”

I dial my father’s cell. “Are you happy, Porkchop?” Dad asks. In the background, I can hear the crackling of the radio, a few voices.

“Oh, yes,” I say. “Definitely.”

“Trevor, guess what? Chastity’s marrying her doctor,” Dad calls. I wait for the stomach pain. None comes.

“Best wishes, Chas,” I hear Trevor say after the briefest pause.

“Trevor says ‘best wishes,’” Dad relays.

“Thank you,” I say steadily.

“She says thanks,” Dad calls again. “So. Put my future son-in-law on the phone, will you?”

Dad and Ryan talk a minute, Ryan ever respectful, calling Dad “sir” and thanking him for his blessing. Finally, our families alerted to our impending nuptials, Ryan and I—my fiancé and I—look at each other.

“So. That went well,” he says. “Any ideas on where you’d like to eat?”

I remember the little Italian restaurant on Thompson Street, where Trevor told me he was marrying Hayden. Maybe we could go there, replace that awful memory with this happy one. But I say no, no ideas. Anywhere he picks will be fine with me.

THE BOYS HUG ME, the Starahs exclaim over the ring, my little nieces ask if they can be flower girls. “Of course!” I say. “Absolutely! And boys, you can be in it, too, however you want. As long as you don’t hit or bite, okay?”

“That takes all the fun out of it,” Jack comments. “Congratulations, Sis.” He envelops me in a hug, and my throat grows tight.

Elaina is waiting for her chance. When I excuse myself to go to the loo, she pounces, following me right in.

“Lainey, I really do have to pee, so—”

“Honey, are you sure about this?” she asks, sitting on the edge of the tub, nibbling her fingernail.

My breath catches. “Are you kidding me? How can you ask me that?” My voice is bouncing off the avocado-colored tiles. “You’re the one who’s been telling me what a great thing this is,” I growl in a quieter voice. “‘Don’t mess this up, querida. Get over Trevor, querida.’”

“Okay! Yes, so I said that!” she snaps. “Big deal, you know? Chas, are you happy?”

“Yes!” I insist. “I—definitely!” My jaw clenches. “Elaina,” I say, and my voice is now a harsh whisper. “This is the best I’m going to do. He’s a good guy. We’ll be very content together. He loves me. I love him. Okay? Please don’t say anything else.”

“Okay,” she says. She starts to say something, then pauses.

“What, Lainey?” I ask. My head is killing me, and we haven’t had dinner, and I’m starving and just want to go home and curl up with Buttercup.

“Have you told Trevor?” she whispers.

“He knows,” I say, turning away. I pretend to fix my hair in the mirror, but I can see Elaina’s worried eyes reflected back at me.

“What did he say?” she asks.

“He’s all for it.” I turn back to look directly in her face. “I told him I loved him and he said to stay with Ryan.” My face contorts.

“Shit,” she says. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry, honey. It’s okay.”

“Will you be my maid of honor?” I weep.

“Of course,” she says, her big dark eyes filling, as well.

An eternity later, filled with the goodwill of my family and my mother’s freakishly good chicken piccata, Ryan and I drive back home. Buttercup comes loping sloppily toward me, and I gather her tight against me, burying my face against her cheek. “I missed you, Miss Ugly Head,” I say.

“Aaaaroooroorooo!” she bays happily. Right back at you, is what she’s really saying.

“My condo doesn’t allow dogs,” Ryan says, stepping back to avoid a string of drool. “She’ll have to stay with your brother.”

I glare at him. “She stays with me. And who says we’re moving into your condo? Huh? I love this house. Maybe we’re staying here.”

A little smile pulls at Ryan’s mouth. “Why would we stay here when we could live at my condo? This place is cute, Chastity, but it’s not where I plan on living,” he says in a deliberately contemptuous tone, and before too much time has passed, we’re having post-argument sex upstairs in my room.

When Ryan is sleeping, I grab my robe and pull it on, intending to go downstairs for some Oreos or a Pop-Tart or two, maybe three. But at the top of the stairs, something catches my eye. Turning in disbelief, I push the bathroom door all the way open.

It’s done. My bathroom is finished. Gleaming pedestal sink, the smooth gray tiles of the floor…the tub! The Jacuzzi tub is in, and not only that, there’s a fern sitting on one corner. And all my stuff is unpacked. The pale green towels hang from the racks that I chose so long ago, the little antique porcelain soap dish sits on the glass shelf above the sink. The pounded silver light switch cover is in place, the framed picture of the tree shrouded in mist is hung. The light fixtures are up.