“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.

The door, no match for my strength, burst open. I staggered into the room, stepping right into the puddle of dog vomit, na**d as the day I was born.

“Oh, there you are, Chastity,” came a voice. “We were looking for you.”

Dr. Darling Senior stood in the doorway. The blood drained from my face. I remained frozen in the puddle of vomit, horrified, dismayed, unclothed, uncovered, unshielded. “Ryan and Mrs. Darling took Bubbles to the vet,” Dr. Darling Senior said, giving me the old once-over. “Care for a drink?”

RYAN CAME TO MY ROOM LATER on to check in on me. Which moves us along to the joys of post-argument sex.

See, Ryan and I hadn’t had a fight yet. No, things had been really smooth for the month or so that we’d been seeing each other. There had simply been nothing to fight about. However, being shoved into a closet, abandoned and trapped, having one’s potential father-in-law see one breaking down the door, buck na**d…well, it was a pretty good fight. And let’s face it…it was kind of fun to be fighting.

“Honey, you’re exaggerating,” Ryan said calmly after I chewed him out. “I’m sorry you’re upset, but it’s not like I knew the closet door would stick like that. I fail to see what I did wrong here.”

A series of enraged squeaks came out of my mouth. “Ryan! I—naked—closet—your father!”

“My mother’s dog was sick, Chastity. I had to help.” He looked so earnest that I wanted to clock him one.

I took a deep breath. “You know what, Ry? You’re a jerk,” I finally managed.

“I’m not a jerk,” he protested. “An animal was sick, Chastity. I had to help. It’s in the Hippocratic oath.”

“Okay, fine! So you were nice to the dog! But the dog wasn’t sick. It was hysterical because it knew I was in the bleeping closet, Ryan! Because you put me there!”

“Chastity, my parents are very strict about house rules, and I wanted to respect that—”

“By sneaking me into your room for a quicky?”

“—so I put you in the closet to avoid upsetting Mother.”

“That scares me,” I snapped.

“And then the dog was sick,” he continued, unfazed. “I didn’t know you’d be stuck. I thought you’d be fine for five minutes. Okay? No harm done.” He had the audacity to smile. “Why don’t you just take a breath and calm down?”

“Calm—calm! I won’t calm down! Get out of my room!”

“Fine!” he snapped. “Be that way!” He strode over to where I stood, still hissing, took hold of my shoulders. “Good night!” Then he kissed me. Hard.

I looked at him for a heartbeat—the old blood was flowing, you know what I mean? Then I grabbed his hair and shoved my tongue in his mouth and then we were rolling around on the bed, then the floor, then shoving each other against the wall. It was the best sex we’d had yet.

“I’m really sorry,” he said when we were done and flushed and panting. “I should never have put you in the closet.”

“Oh, no problem. All’s forgiven.” I smiled. He smiled. Ten minutes later, we were at it again.

For the rest of the weekend, Ryan kept shooting me newly appreciative glances, slipping me a kiss when his parents weren’t looking.

Then, on the way back from Long Island, I asked to drive. “Well, this isn’t a Subaru, Chastity,” Ryan lectured, glancing at me. “This is a highly sophisticated example of superior German engineering.”

“I see. So my potato-picking Irish paws aren’t equipped to hold the steering wheel of the master race?”

“Did I say anything about potato-picking Irish paws, Chastity?” he snapped. “No. You’re exaggerating. Again. But this car does require a subtle touch, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Pull over!” I barked.

“Fine!” he barked back. And so, at the Malden rest stop in Saugerties, conveniently located just off Interstate 87, we had boisterous make-up sex in the highly sophisticated example of superior German engineering.

And I did get to drive the rest of the way home.

Which brings us back to where I am now, lying on my bed with Buttercup, wondering if this relationship is working out or failing miserably.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

TODAY IS MY SESSION AT THE Emergency Room of Eaton Falls Hospital. Without passing it, I won’t pass my EMT course. Exactly what I have to do is a mystery. According to Bev, I just check in with the head nurse and do what she says. Stay out of the way and be helpful. No swearing. No hurting the already injured.

I give Rosebud a final pat and head home to shower and eat breakfast. Penelope wants me to write an article about my experiences, God help me. Then, I dropped a bag on the broken leg of an elderly woman who was bleeding profusely… I cringe. Have I gotten better, I wonder? Am I desensitizing myself? I sure as hell hope so.

I have a little time to kill before reporting to the E.R., so I take out my EMT course book. Sitting on my bed, Buttercup glued to my side, I take a deep breath. Today I may see some of the very things listed inside, not in a glossy photograph, but writhing on a gurney. It occurs to me that Ryan may be called to the E.R. while I’m there today. That he’ll see me. I’d like to be at my best. I can’t marry a trauma surgeon and not be able to hear about his work, can I? No.

“So how was work, honey?” I imagine saying, offering him a martini.

“Oh, some jogger was attacked by a mountain lion,” my handsome husband will say, nuzzling my neck as he gratefully accepts his martini and slides his hand along my tiny waist. “Lots of tearing. Limbs hanging by threads. Major organ damage. It was fun.”

Instead of fainting or barfing, I will nod compassionately and ask an intelligent question…like…like…well, I’m feeling a little sweaty right now, but all the more reason to stick with EMT class.

I put my finger on the tab of the atlas of the course book. Very helpful, that tab, for anyone wishing to flip directly to the gruesome photos. “Here we go,” I say to Buttercup, who does not open her odd-colored eyes. Smart dog. I have new appreciation for her after the weekend with Bubbles.

Taking a deep breath, I open the book and glance down at the first page. Abrasion, Road. Also called road burn. See page—

I slam the book shut, causing Buttercup to fly off the bed. “Aaarrarrrooo!” she howls in dismay. I feel like howling myself. Crap! My stomach clenches, bile burns my throat. The photo showed a ribcage, shredded and flaked with bits of torn skin that looked like pink coconut, black bits of gravel, angry red welts, merciless scrapes…Okay! No need to dwell! We saw it. Let’s move on.

I seem to be swallowing an awful lot, but I haven’t fainted. Not even close. Just a little nausea. My hands are clammy, but that’s it. Progress. “Buttercup!” I call, my voice squeaky. “Mommy needs you!” She returns warily, blinking suspiciously at me before clambering back onto the bed. Taking a deep breath, squaring my shoulders, I open the atlas again.

Laceration, tendons still intact. Youch! Christ! Again, I snap the book shut. Buttercup startles and blinks, her jowls quivering in disapproval as she moans. “Can we do one more, Buttercup? Hm, Butterbaby? I think we can, don’t you?”

Who do you think you’re fooling? she seems to say. I tend to agree, but I open the book again.

Facial avulsion. Slam! I shove the book away from me. “Okay! We’re done, Buttercup! Lesson over.” I curl against her, sliding my arm around her tummy and scratching her chest. “Good puppy, good puppy,” I croon. It’s not enough. The image of the woman who gave new meaning to “facial peel” is imprinted on my brain. I close my eyes and breathe through my mouth. Baby, we were born to run.

“Hey, Chas.” Matt stands in my doorway, just returning from work. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, just a little, um…reading,” I say, opening my eyes and smiling gratefully. “How are you, Matt? I’ve hardly seen you the past week or so.”

Matt sighs and comes in. He sits on the floor next to my bed. Buttercup heaves herself off and goes to him, butting her massive head against his chest.

“I was covering for Paul,” my brother says. “Taking whatever overtime I can get.” He scratches Buttercup’s neck vigorously, causing her to moan in ecstasy.

“Are you saving up for something?” I ask.

He doesn’t look up, just continues petting our dog. “I was thinking I might go back to college,” he mutters.

I shift so I can see him better. “Wow. College. That’s great, Matt. What for? Emergency management or something?”

“No,” he says, still not looking at me. “I was thinking…English lit.”

I pause a little too long, apparently, because Matt suddenly pushes Buttercup down and looks at me, almost angry. “So? What’s the big deal? Can’t I do something other than firefighting? Just because everyone else in this family is out there saving lives, does it mean that everyone has to?”

“Well, uh, no, Matt. I mean, I don’t,” I point out.

“Yeah. Well, you’re a girl.”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot.”

He glares at me, ignoring my sarcasm, looking more like Mark than the gentle Matthew. “Matt,” I continue, “you can do whatever you want with your life. You don’t have to be a firefighter.”

“Yeah, right,” he says, daring me to disagree. “I’m Mike O’Neill’s kid and Jack and Lucky and Mark’s little brother. It pretty much feels like I do have to be a firefighter. Can you imagine what they’d say if I became an English teacher?”