“I love that movie,” Jake says dreamily. “‘May the Force be with you…always.’ So cool.”

Dad asks the woman about name choices, Paul opens a copy of The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. I suck oxygen. Three minutes later, the husband arrives and gently escorts his wife to their car. “Thanks!” she calls, smiling. “Just turn the lock in the doorknob before you leave, okay?” I wave feebly.

Trevor kneels beside me and takes my pulse. “How’s our little midwife?” he asks, mouth twitching.

Maybe I’d laugh, too, if I didn’t feel like such an ass. Maybe I’d feel small and cherished if I weren’t two centimeters short of six feet and didn’t weigh in well past a hundred and fifty pounds. I inhale deeply once more. “Chastity?” Trevor asks. “You okay?”

I sigh, causing the mask to fog, then reluctantly take it off. “Fine.”

He looks up from his watch. “Heart rate’s down to normal. Do you still feel lightheaded?”

“I’m fine, Trevor! You know how it is. An irrational fear of a harmless object or situation resulting in physical response such as hyperventilation, fainting, accelerated pulse, blah blah bleeping blah.”

“Just asking. Any numbness or tingling in your arms or legs? Chest pain?”

“No.” I sound like a sullen four-year-old. Trevor smiles and keeps looking at me.

“How’s my girl?” Dad asks, squatting in front of me. “Need a ride home, Porkchop?”

“No, Dad. I’ll just…I’ll just go back to work.”

Dad stands up. “Okay, guys. Let’s pack it in.” Paul takes the oxygen tank away and I move to stand up, my legs still shaking. Trev offers his hand. I ignore it and haul myself to my feet solo.

“See you later, sweetie,” Dad says. He smiles a little, pats my shoulder.

“Bye, Chastity,” Trevor says with a grin that curls around my insides. I shove the warmth away.

“Thanks, guys,” I answer. “Sorry to waste your time.”

“Beats watching The Tyra Banks Show,” Paul says.

“You think?” Jake returns. The guys laugh and walk out, and a few minutes later, they’re driving off down the road, lights off, sirens quiet. Fighting feelings of embarrassment, humiliation, mortification and general stupidity, I sigh, turn the lock in the doorknob and close the door behind me.

CHAPTER FOUR

WHEN I WAS IN SIXTH GRADE, Elaina and her family moved to Eaton Falls, and if there was ever a bigger chip on a shoulder, I’d never seen it. Fascinated by the attitude, the slight accent and the inch of makeup on her adolescent face, I decided instantly that I must have her as a friend. “Hi,” I’d breathed at recess that first day as she sat on a bench at the edge of the blacktop.

“Whachoo want, townie?” she asked, flipping her hair back in delicious contempt.

“I can do a hundred chin-ups,” I offered.

“So do it,” she instructed, snapping her fingers. I complied, won her admiration and never looked back. All through high school, college, grad school and beyond, Elaina has been there for me and I for her, and she remains the only living creature I ever told about Trevor.

In high school, Elaina asked Mark to our senior prom and the rest was history. They got married four years ago and had Dylan two years later. Elaina was tired and stressed, Mark was strung even more tightly than usual, and things were tense. And how did my brother deal with the pressures of family life? He had a one-night stand. Granted, it’s a move he deeply regrets, which Mark shows in his typical emotionally constipated way—lashing out at those he loves. Suffice it to say, Elaina hasn’t forgiven him, because he hasn’t apologized. And they remain at a ridiculous standoff—separated, divorce pending, loving each other, hating each other, fighting constantly, bitterly mourning what they’ve lost.

“That f**king brother of yours,” she begins one night as we sit in front of my computer screen. I’m filling out an online questionnaire, and Elaina is coaching me on the answers. Buttercup snores gently at our feet.

“What now?” I ask with resignation.

“He says he won’t pay for Dylan’s soccer camp.”

“Dylan’s two, Lainey,” I say, glancing from the computer screen to her. Mark has his son this weekend, so Elaina and I are here, drinking chardonnay and registering me one. Commitment, a humiliating, degrading and shamefully fun process.

“So? The great ones all start young. Don’t say yes to that one, sweetie. That’s a trick question.” She leans forward to read it aloud. “‘Do you find a variety of men attractive?’ See, they’re trying to see if you’re a party girl, you know? Group-sex kind of thing.”

“Are you sure?” She nods wisely. “Okay. I’ll just put ‘not applicable.’ How’s that? And maybe Dylan should be out of diapers before he starts camp,” I add reasonably.

Elaina sighs. “I know, I’m crazy. I just mentioned it to him, you know, as something Dyllie might do when he’s older, okay? And Mark, he’s all, ‘Don’t you put my son in camp without discussing it with me!’ And I’m right back at him, ‘Don’t you tell me what to do with my son, you miserable cheating bastard!’ And we end up screaming at each other and hanging up. You want another glass of wine? And dog, get your big bony head off this foot, or I’m planting it up your ass.”

“Don’t be mean to my baby,” I chastise. “And yes to the wine.” I stretch, rubbing my lower back, which is cramped from hunching over the keyboard, then bend over to pat my poor maligned dog. “You know, Elaina, a psychiatrist might say something about all that fighting and screaming, you know.”

She does her little head wiggle, something I tried for years to emulate before realizing my Irish genes lacked the Latin disdain required to pull it off. “And what’s that, know-it-all?”

“That you still love him and this kind of fighting is a way of having a passionate relationship, even if it’s not the kind of passion you really want.”

“No shit, Dr. Joy Browne. I’ll get the wine.”

I grin, finish stroking Buttercup’s rough red fur and finish my profile. Profile. Sounds like something the FBI has on me. You fit the profile for the serial killer, Ms. O’Neill. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, of course; lots of people do online dating, let no stone go unturned, blah blah bleeping blah. But still. It’s humbling nonetheless, having to check out a Web site for my mate. I never pictured turning thirty, let alone thirty-one, without having an adoring husband and a couple of kids.

The profile includes a personality section of no fewer than one hundred and six questions, a physical description (forty-two questions), my ideal date (choose from twenty-three options) and a new e-mail address and user name. I chose GirlNextDoor.

e.Commitment boasts lots of touching—and possibly even true—stories of people meeting their soul mates here. I pause for a second. Maybe—probably not, but maybe—this is how I will find The One. That Trevor’s image instantly leaps to mind is quite irritating. I force him out and stick in another picture. Derek Jeter. Yummy. Well, maybe hoping for the bazillionaire baseball god is a little bit of a stretch. Aragorn, on horseback. Yeah, baby! Okay, okay. That also may be a little unrealistic…hm. The guy at the restaurant the other night. There! Mr. New York Times, sure. Just as appealing as Trevor. Just as attractive. Let’s also assume he’s kindhearted. And decent. Also, funny. Strong, yet vulnerable. Quiet, yet expressive. Sensitive, yet stoic.

Elaina returns to the tiny study that’s just off the living room. Matt’s working tonight, so we have the house to ourselves. “This house is fantastic, sweetie,” she says, handing me my glass.

“I know. I love it,” I answer. “I’m thinking of painting this room yellow, what do you think?” Elaina has a great flare for colors.

“Perfect. You done filling that thing out?” she asks, tapping a long fingernail against her wineglass.

“Yes. Not that this is going to pan out, Elaina.” Buttercup groans as if agreeing.

“How do you know? It’s better than you mooning—”

“I’m not mooning anyone. Phone’s ringing!” Saved. I snatch up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Chastity, this is your mother speaking.” Her traditional greeting. “Did you fill out your form?” Mom’s the one who told me e.Commitment was ranked higher than the other dating sites, after her exhaustive, fifteen-minute search on the Web. “Also, I’m taking French. Your father is very jealous, barely speaking to me. Do you want to get our hair colored next week?”

“Hi, Mom.” I grimace and pantomime hanging myself for Elaina’s benefit. “Um, yes, great, no comment, not really. Anything else?”

“Honey! So? Do you have any hits? Your father went through the roof when I told him about this. He said some whack job would strangle me in under a week if this is how I go about dating.”

“What a sweet thought. I just finished filling out the form, Mom. Elaina’s here. We’re having—”

“So? Check your e-mail! Maybe you have someone already!”

I cover the mouthpiece with my thumb. “She’s on amphetamines, it seems. You talk to her.”

“Hi, Mamí,” Elaina says, winning ten thousand brownie points for calling her mother-in-law that particular moniker. Elaina is revered by my mother—Elaina’s quirks being found simply charming while those of her own offspring are cause for torment and dismay. They chat merrily, laughing away. Dutifully, I check my e-mail, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a message! Holy crap!

“I got one,” I announce with pride. Buttercup’s thin tail lashes my shin.

“She got one,” Elaina translates. “Oh, sure, Mamí. Here she is.” She passes me the phone and takes a handful of Doritos from the bowl I so thoughtfully put out.

“Yes?” I say.

“So?”

“So what, Mom?”

“So read the damn thing! You only got one, right?”

“Um, well, I just finished my profile about five minutes ago.” I take some Doritos, too. “When did you do yours?”

“Good! I finished mine a half hour ago.”

“Great. And do you have any hits?” I ask.

“Well…um, yes, I do.”

I can tell by her tone, which has become suspiciously gentle and kind, that she’s hiding something. “How many?” I growl.

“Well…more than one. Don’t take it personally, Chastity. I’m sure you’ll have twenty-three pretty soon, too.”

“You have twenty-three hits, Mom?” Buttercup growls in her sleep.

“Holy shit!” Elaina exclaims. “Let me have the phone! Mamí, are you kidding me? Oh, my God, you know? That is so great! Any keepers?”

While they’re talking, I look at my message, blandly entitled “hi.” What the hell. I click on it.

Dear GirlNextDoor,

I really liked your profile. It seems like we have a lot of interests that are the same. Check out my profile, and if you’re interested, drop me a line.

—husbandmaterial.

Well, the name is promising, anyway.

“You’re joking!” Elaina squeals. “Chastity, your mother has four dates lined up already! Can you believe it?”

“I can’t believe it,” I mumble. I click on husbandmaterial’s profile as instructed, glancing impatiently through the list of attributes. Attractiveness—he’s given himself a six-point-five out of ten…I wonder what that will translate to. Gollum? Freddy Kruger? Jason of the Freckled Legs? Well, moving on…Loves outdoor activities. Great. Enjoys good food. (Honestly, is there anyone alive who doesn’t?—I enjoy bad meals and the intestinal distress that follows…). I forgive him and move on. Athletic, great. Family-oriented, cool. He sounds pretty good, actually.

Elaina hands the phone back to me. “Oh, look, here’s another one!” my mother crows in my ear. “‘Dear Olderand-Wiser, I’d love to meet for coffee. I live in Thurman and would be happy to come into Eaton Falls and see if you can possibly be as great as you sound!’ Oh, Chastity, isn’t this fun?”

“Oh, yes,” I lie.

“I got another one! I can’t believe I waited this long to dump your father. How many have you got now?” she demands.

I check my listing. “Um, still just the one.”

“Well, honey, don’t worry. All it takes is one, right?”

My phone bleats in my ear. “Mom, I have another call. I’ll call you back, okay?” I push the button for the next call. “Hell—”

“It’s your father. Did you know your mother registered on some crazy Web site? She’s going to get herself killed! I mean it, Chastity. You are not to encourage her. Oh, gotta go. We just got a call. Bye.”

Sighing, I hang up. “I’m hungry,” I tell Elaina. “Shall we make something for dinner?”

“By we, do you mean me?” she asks, preening.

“Yes, Elaina. Would you care to whip up something fabulous from the meager offerings of my kitchen? Please? Pretty please?”

“Sure, baby. I’d love to.” She ruffles my hair, does a neat leap over Buttercup and sashays into the kitchen. She does love to cook…incomprehensible, but convenient for me.

I glance back at husbandmaterial and decide to e-mail him back. Right now. What the heck, right?