YAN WAKES AT FIVE THE NEXT morning. “What is on me?” he mutters, squinting at the bottom of the bed.

“That would be our little girl,” I say, pulling my own leg free. Buttercup sighs and moans.

“Chastity, this bed is not big enough for the three of us,” Ryan says. “She’s a very, um, pleasant dog, but she can’t sleep here when I’m staying over.”

“This is her bed, Ryan. You sleep here only by the grace of Buttercup,” I smile. He doesn’t smile back. “Not a morning person, I see.”

He finally grins and sits up, kisses me on the shoulder. “I should run back to my place. I need to shower and check my messages.”

Five minutes later, the Mercedes—our Mercedes, dare I call it?—has pulled away from my little house. Because I’m wide awake, I go into my new bathroom and take a shower. It’s glorious. The fan works, the shower head gushes water beautifully, my soap, chosen so long ago, smells like heaven. Thank you, Trevor.

But no. I can’t be thinking about him, and hey, why should I? I’m engaged. He told me to stay with Ryan, and I am. If he feels guilty about shagging me, he should. If it got my bathroom finished, well, bully for me.

I dry my hair, dress and decide to go to Dad’s. Since he was working last night, he should just be getting home. I stop at the bakery and get us some pastries, then head to his house. I don’t even turn my head when I walk by Trevor’s.

“Here’s my baby girl,” Dad says, hugging me hard. When he lets me go, he takes my hand and inspects the ring. “Very expensive,” he says, wiping his eyes.

“Oh, Daddy.”

“I can’t believe you’re getting married,” he says thickly. “At least you brought pastries. Come on, I’ll put on some coffee.”

Dad’s apartment looks a little better than the last time I was here. The boxes are gone and he’s got some curtains up. A few minutes later, we’re eating amiably, drinking from matching coffee mugs. “You happy, Porkchop?” Dad asks.

I’m getting a little tired of everyone asking me that. Isn’t it obvious? “Yes, Dad. Very happy.”

“He seems like a good guy.” I nod. “And it’s good to have a doctor in the family, I guess.”

“Jack would say it’s better to have a paramedic,” I smile.

Dad laughs automatically. “Yes. Well.” He swallows. “Did your mother tell you she’s set a date?” he asks, not meeting my eyes.

“Yes.” I put down my chocolate croissant. Mom’s wedding is looming large, though Ryan had provided a nice distraction. Three weeks, for God’s sake. “What are you going to do, Dad?”

My father takes a long sip of coffee. “Nothing, Chastity.”

“You’re not going to even try? What about retiring? Maybe if she saw that you were really out, she’d take you back.”

Dad sighs. “She’s going through with this, honey. It’s not…I’m too late.”

“She told me you were the love of her life.” My throat is tight. The parallels between my mother and me are certainly not lost. Both of us marrying someone who is not the love of our lives. Crap. I seem to be crying.

“Being a fireman is who I am,” Dad says quietly. “I won’t give that up, not until I can’t do the job anymore. I’ll always love your mother, honey. And we have you five wonderful kids, and God knows how many grandkids, right? We’ve agreed to be very civil about this. I’m happy for her.”

“Liar,” I say wetly.

He smiles sadly. “Yeah, well it’s my own fault.” He clears his throat. “But that’s yesterday’s news. Tell me about how your man popped the question.”

I tell, Dad approves, we manage a few laughs. Finally, I glance at my watch. “I have to go to work, Dad,” I say. “Will you be okay?”

“Sure,” he says. “Of course. Off you go. Out with you. Shoo.”

I head into work, where much fuss is made over my Tiffany engagement ring. “‘Embrace the power of the Ring, or embrace your own destruction,’” I say to Angela, who laughs merrily. “Hey, Ange,” I say to her when the others have drifted away. “Matt was talking about you last night.”

Her face lights up. “He’s fantastic, Chastity,” she says breathlessly. “I’m…well, I’m head over heels. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“It seems mutual,” I murmur.

“Well, you know what it’s like when you’ve met that perfect match,” she sighs.

“Yes. Yes, I do.” And I picture Ryan. Not Jeter, not Aragorn, and certainly not Trevor.

MY MOTHER CALLS that afternoon, and I agree to be maid of honor, no matter how awful it feels. “Just don’t make me wear one of those hideous dresses, Mom,” I say.

“Wear whatever you want, sweetheart,” she answers blithely. “Wear a Yankees uniform. Wear your brother’s turnout gear. I don’t care. I’m getting married, we’re going to Norway for our honeymoon—”

“Norway!”

“—and we’re going to have a lot of fun. And so are you and Ryan. Aren’t you? Where are you going on your honeymoon?”

“We haven’t even talked about it, Mom. We’re not at the planning stage just yet.”

“Don’t dawdle,” she advises. “Being married is wonderful.”

“Not by your account,” I mutter.

“I heard that.”

“So?”

“So say what you mean, young lady.” Her voice is thorny.

“So are you sure you want to marry someone you don’t love as much as you love Dad?” I ask, just as thornily.

“Are you sure you want to marry someone you don’t love as much as you love Trevor?”

It’s like a punch in the throat. “Mom!”

“Sorry, sorry,” she backpedals. “I’m trying to make a point. That the man who’s the most suitable husband might not be the one who makes your toes curl in bed, all right?”

My face blanches. “Let’s change the subject,” I mutter.

“But there are other qualities that make a life partnership work. Ryan has them. So does Harry. So why don’t you back off, okay, honey?”

“Wow. You’re…ouch. I think you’ve…yes, I’m actually bleeding here.”

“Love you!” she calls. “Please don’t wear blue to the wedding.”

“You said you didn’t care what I wore.”

“I was lying. Think pink. Bye, honey.”

THE NEXT WEEK PASSES more or less normally. Mrs. Darling—Libby—e-mails me daily with news of bridal fairs in New York City—would champagne be all right for her dress color?—asks me how many people I’m envisioning for my half of the guest list, informs me that her preliminary calculations have a number around two hundred and seventy-three for their side, of course Ryan’s sister (the famous Wendy Darling) would like to be a bridesmaid, would that be all right? I e-mail back, telling her that everything sounds fine with me, that wedding planning is not my thing, and I’d be happy to turn it over to her.

Ryan and I go out for dinner with two other couples one night. Both husbands are surgeons, both wives are very fit, very polished, very pleasant.

“Are there any women surgeons at the hospital?” I ask as the men discuss who’s who.

“Of course,” Ryan says. “Dr. Thrift, Dr. Escobar and Dr. Adams.”

The other men nod silently. The wives smile. Or they don’t stop smiling, having been Botoxed into perma-smile.

“I’d love to meet them, too,” I say.

“Of course,” Ryan answers. “All in good time.”

“Do you work, Susan?” I ask one of the wives.

“Oh, no,” she says around her teeth. “I’m a sahm.”

“A what?” I ask.

“A sahm. S-A-H-M. Stay-at-home mom.”

“Lovely,” I say. “Two of my sisters-in-law are also, uh, sahms. And you, Liza?”

“The same! Sahm!” she croons. They regale me with reports of their children’s activities: karate, violin, piano, basketball, baseball, lacrosse, soccer, voice lessons, French club, chess club, drama club. I vow to make sure my kids have time to just play, the way I did. I played and read and wandered the neighborhood with my brothers. And Trevor.

Speaking of Trevor, he e-mailed me four days ago. Dear Chastity, I hope you’re doing well. Just wanted to say congratulations again. Hope to see you around Emo’s one day soon.—Trevor

I haven’t written back because I just don’t know what to say. And I haven’t seen him around Emo’s because I haven’t gone to Emo’s. I’m avoiding him.