FEW DAYS LATER, I TAKE A LONG look in the mirror, the only thing that actually functions in my upstairs bathroom, as the boys still haven’t gotten off their asses and done anything about it. I’m going out tonight, and I’m dressed like a girl. So far, so good.

I’ve always been one of those women who takes some pride in my complete dismissal of clothes. My clothes have always been for comfort and survival, not for attracting the opposite sex. For work, it’s always been pants and an oxford, maybe a good-quality wool sweater, solid colors. Around home, it’s sweats of varying age, usually with a Yankees logo plastered somewhere. I also have a penchant for Lord of the Rings T-shirts. Flannel shirts, jeans, those excellent, fleece-lined duck boots from L.L. Bean that come in handy ten months of the year.

However, my clothing philosophy bit me in the ass the other day when I was mistaken for Lucky while Elaina and I were out for dinner. Thus, I was hauled against my will to the mall by my friend, who has a propensity for brightly colored, low-cut blouses that show off her fabulous cleavage. As I dragged my feet, Elaina turned on me. “Will you stop whining?” she snapped. “Madre de Dios, shut up! Wearing a skirt once or twice a year isn’t going to kill you, querida, but I might, okay?”

So now my closet contains not just my This Old House flannels and Levis, but also some flowery print skirts, a couple of sweaters (one is pink, please don’t tell anyone), even some skinny little shoes with straps that aren’t nearly as comfortable as my favorite shoes, a worn pair of red high-top sneakers. I tell myself it’s all for the greater good.

And the greater good could be waiting for me tonight at Singles Grocery Night, however dubious this might sound. Stifling the urge to crawl back into my I My Preciousss T-shirt and go for a nice long run, I give myself the thumbs up, force a smile and tromp downstairs, where Matt and Trevor sit in front of the Yankees game. “I’m meeting someone, boys,” I proclaim optimistically.

“See ya,” Matt says just as one of our own scores. “Yes! Did you see that!”

“Have fun, Chas,” Trevor says. He glances at me with a smile. There is no jaw-drop, no abrupt realization. He just looks…happy. Happy and completely unconflicted—possibly even pleased—that I’m going out to meet (perhaps) my future husband. He just smiles, and when Trevor smiles, his eyes do something that I’ve spent a good part of my twenties analyzing. His face exceeds the sum of its parts or something. Trevor James Meade was simply born to smile, and his appealing, not-quite-handsome face is transformed into utter irresistibility.

I realize I’m staring. “Thank you!” I chirrup.

At least Buttercup seems distressed. She moans, hauls herself up and collapses on my strappy shoes, imploring me not to leave. Then Trevor makes a clicking sound, she lumbers over to him, her razor-wire tail lashing through the air, and I’m forgotten. Faithless cur.

I drive to the grocery store, imagining some gorgeous, financially secure, emotionally stable man being reduced to Singles Grocery Night. “Daddy and I met over the ham hocks,” I say aloud. Yup. Just as I thought. Sounds impossible.

I pull into the parking lot and slosh through the puddles to the entrance, where Mom stands in raincoat and clear plastic hat, impatiently waiting for me. “Come on! They’ve already started.”

“Started what, Mom? ‘Attention, all single shoppers. Ass check, aisle nine.’”

“Mouth, Chastity. You’ll never get a man with the way you talk.”

“Thanks for the encouragement, Mom.” Rolling my eyes, I follow her in. “I do actually need some groceries,” I tell her, taking out my list.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She sighs. “Well, just don’t buy anything that would put a man off.”

“Like what, Mom? A supersize box of condoms? Or would that make me even more popular?” I’m laughing at her back, because she’s squeaking off in her little bitty crepe-soled shoes.

I start with the produce aisle. To the naked eye, it seems like a normal night at the grocery store. Are there perhaps more single men here? Hard to tell. There are, as always, more females than males. But yes, my trained journalistic eye notes a furtive tone to the evening. People glance at each other then quickly look away. A woman buying cilantro seems to be taking great pains to inhale appreciatively. I am a sensuous woman, appreciative of life’s little gifts. Ah. Jeez. I grab a bag of apples, plop it in my cart, then move on to Poultry.

There’s a middle-aged man in front of the chicken breasts, holding up package after package, examining each one closely, a thinly veiled metaphor for his true purpose tonight. “I haven’t had a good meal since my wife left me,” he announces loudly. Four women zip over to advise. No one in Chicken Thighs seems to be my age, so I turn down Juices & Bargains. A curly-haired student type darts a look at me, then pushes his carriage quickly past. Don’t bother, I tell him silently. A grown man who drinks Kool-Aid? Please. I’m more of the Gatorade type myself.

To think I wore my new shoes for this. Down to Cookies & Crackers. I grab a few packages of Double Stuff Oreos. Can’t have enough of these around the house. Matt and I eat them like they’re Chicklets. The aisle is empty, as no other shopper is willing to publicly admit they eat cookies.

This isn’t working. I didn’t really imagine it would, of course. Sighing, I turn sharply at the end of the aisle and head up Cereals & Breakfast Treats. I’m out of Choco-Puffs, and Matt ate the last of the Pop-Tarts last night. There, in front of the specially advertised, cholesterol-lowering oatmeal, is dear old Mom, talking to two men. Cripes. Ten minutes in the store, and she’s got two potential dates.

“Chastity! Come over here. Right now.” There’s a familiar militant note in her voice. I obey and join her, towering over her suitors.

“This is Grant,” Mom says, indicating the five-foot-seven man. “And this one…Donald?”

“That’s right!” Donald (five-four) applauds. “Well done, Betty!”

“Hello,” I say. “I’m the daughter. Chastity.”

My mother turns to me and puts her hands on her hips. “Grant and Donald are interested in a threesome,” she announces loudly. “With me.”

“Good God!” I splutter. “Not with my mother, you freaks. Get away from her or I will kill both of you and dump your bodies in the river.” They remain frozen in terror, so I slam my size eleven foot into their cart and send it careening down the aisle. “Go!” I bark. Terrified, they scuttle down the aisle toward the vegetable oil.

“Thank you, darling,” Mom says briskly. “Disgusting! People today! I can’t believe that.”

“I can’t believe you made me come,” I say. “Aren’t you sorry you’re torturing Dad this way?”

She glances in my cart. “Oh, honey. For God’s sake. Oreos? You’ll never attract a man with Oreos. Put some chocolate chips in there.”

“Why? To pretend I’ll bake cookies?”

“Now you’re catching on. How about some yeast and flour? Men love a woman who can bake.”

“I’m not that woman,” I inform her. Undaunted, she grabs my bag of Oreos and plops them on the Quaker Oats display.

“Give those back,” I say, rescuing my poor cookies. “You might be able to live on two thousand calories a day, but I sure as hell can’t.”

“Hello, Betty,” comes a voice behind us.

“Hello, Al!” Mom turns to a balding man about her age and gives him a peck on the cheek. “Al, you remember Chastity, don’t you? Chastity, Mr. Peters was an usher with Daddy in church, remember?”

“How you’ve grown!” Al (five-seven) says, gazing at my chest.

“It’s singles night,” Mom announces.

“I know,” he says, staring first at my left breast, then at my right. “Are you single, Chastity?”

I glance nervously at Mom. “Um…yes?”

No doubt about it. He gives me a slow once-over. “Very nice.”

Thirty seconds later, Al is shoved through the door into the rain by my irate, five foot two, size four, fifty-eight-year-old mom.

“Is there a problem, ladies?” An attractive, portly man in his fifties pushes his cart over to us. “I’m Louis Tuttle, by the way, widower, age sixty-two, one year shy of retirement from IBM, strong stock portfolio.”

Mom’s expression becomes speculative. I smile. “No problem, Louis. I’m Chastity, by the way, and this is my mother, Betty O’Neill.”

They shake hands. “So,” I say. “I think I’ll visit Ben & Jerry before I head out, Mom.”

Mom gives me a little flutter of her fingers, already chatting up Louis Tuttle.

It’s kind of cute. Men still love my mother. Maybe it will light a fire under Dad, seeing her go on a date or two. As for me, this is a waste of time, aside from the fact that I’m getting my grocery shopping done. I glance at my watch. Nine-fifteen. I wonder how the Yankees are doing. Wish I was home watching them with the boys, eating Oreos.

Well. Can’t have everything, but can have some Oreos. I tear open a package and idly eat a few, scanning the aisles, occasionally adding something. Rice and beans. Kraft Dinner. Family size Spaghettios, some vodka sauce for when I feel like something fancier. Popcorn. Sun Chips.

“Nutrition Queen rides again, I see.”

I whirl around. “Trevor!” My knees wobble with the horror of being busted. I’m positive I didn’t tell anyone I was going Singles Grocery Shopping. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m out of coffee.” Sure enough, he’s holding a can of coffee in one hand, some half-and-half in the other. His face is doing that smiling thing again. “So, Chastity, are you in the market for something other than…let’s see here, deep fried pork rinds? What’s the trans fat count on these little death traps?”

I snatch back the bag. “Have you tried them? They’re delicious. And yes, I am aware that it’s singles night. Were you?” I raise an eyebrow back.

“Of course. I’m checking up on everyone’s favorite sister. Plus, I needed coffee, remember?”

It’s now that I notice that there are three slips of paper sticking out of Trevor’s shirt pocket. Great. He sees me looking. “I guess you can never meet enough people,” he acknowledges, grinning again.

My heart stutters. Trevor at Singles Grocery Night. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Sure enough…“Hi, Trevor!” comes a silky feminine voice. It is attached to a silky feminine body topped off by silky, supermodel face.

“Hey, Sally,” Trev replies easily. “How’s it going?”

“Great!” Sally says, gliding in front of me and stopping firmly. “Just had to grab a few things.” Note the denial of singles shopping. Liar. Sally is the cilantro sniffer. Her cart is filled with fresh produce, as well as yeast and whole wheat flour. Mother would approve. “So, Trevor,” she coos. “What’s new?” She sticks out her Pamela Andersons and flips her hair.

I roll my eyes and eat another Oreo.

“I’m just talking to my friend here. Chastity, this is Sally.”

“Hi,” I say with the enthusiasm of a concrete block.

“Hello,” she replies with equal fervor. She turns back to Trevor. “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for, Trevor,” she breathes, then whispers in his ear, very loudly. “And if you ever change your mind, you know where I live.” Then she sashays down the aisle, scrawny ass swinging. I could crush her in one fist.

“So. Sally.” I force a smile.

“We dated a few times,” Trev explains. Ah. Trevor is a bit notorious when it comes to dating. Women, as I may have mentioned, love Trevor. All women. Five minutes after seeing him for the first time, they fall deeply in love, move heaven and earth to be with him, are incredibly happy for a very short period before he gently breaks up with them, crushing their hearts. Then they fondly recall him as the one guy they never resented, disliked or mistrusted and would strangle their grandmothers for another chance to be with him. Obviously, I know the feeling.

“So, Porkchop,” Trevor says. I narrow my eyes at him. “Met anyone decent yet?”

I blink in surprise. This is indeed new. Trevor and I may be on great terms, occasionally get each other in the Christmas grab bag and, as of late, see each other at Emo’s here and there, but you can bet the farm we have never discussed my quest for a husband.

“Well, you know, uh,” I stammer, “I’m actually here with Mom.” He nods. What the hell. I decide to tell him the truth. “But yes, I guess I’m sort of…looking.”

He reaches out for an Oreo and nods again. I wait, actually breathless, for him to say something. What about me, Chas? Would you ever go out with me again? He remains silent. Tick…tick…tick…I can’t stand it anymore. “You know, I’m back here, plan on staying. So sure, it would be great to meet someone. Settle down. Have some kids. What about you?” There’s his opening. Take it, Trev. Go for it. Ask me to be the mother of your children. You can do it, buddy. My forehead is a bit damp, and these bleeping shoes are killing me. Should have worn my red high-tops. They’re rather dashing, after all.

Trevor glances into my cart, and I definitely get the impression he’s avoiding my gaze. “Well, I don’t know. I guess…I don’t know.” He looks up suddenly and forces a smile. “I’ve already been engaged once, so maybe I’m a little gun shy.”

“Right.” Of course. Perfect Hayden Simms, five foot five, one hundred and twelve pounds, blonde, cute, smart, openly adored by men, secretly hated by me.

Trevor is still looking at me. “But yeah, I’d love to be a father someday. Have a couple of kids. The whole nine yards.”

If ever there was a time for him to ask me out, it’s now. If ever there was a time for me to speak up, it’s now. Say something, Chastity. “Well, I…um…you know, I—” a bead of sweat trickles down my spine “—you know I’ve always thought you were…just…you know. Great.” My heart is thudding so hard I may barf up those Oreos. “And you’ll make a great dad, Trev.”

His eyes soften. Hot fudge. They’re the color of the best hot fudge on earth. “Thanks, Chastity. Coming from you, that means a lot.”

I wait for more. I did my part, damn it. I just gave you an opening, buddy. Speak now or forever hold your peace. He doesn’t say anything else.

For a second, I feel like I might cry. Okay, fine. I’m used to not being with Trevor. Fine. “So do you want me to be on the lookout for you?” I blurt. Just so he won’t guess that I’m still hung up on him. Just so it will seem like we’re just pals, like I’m just one of the guys who happens to have boobs and prettier underwear.

He pauses. “Uh…that’s not…No. That’s okay.”

“Hello, Trevor, honey!” Mom bustles up and kisses her favorite child on the cheek. “Don’t tell me you’re looking for a girlfriend? Chastity, you must know someone—”

“Trevor needed coffee, Mom,” I explain hastily, desperate to change the subject. “He’s only here for coffee. And half and half. Trev! Did the Yankees win?”

Trevor is grinning, whether at me or my mom or us both is hard to tell. “The game wasn’t over when I left. But it was eight-zip, so I felt pretty comfortable going. They’re looking great this year.”

“Please, God, another Pennant.” I relax a little, back on familiar turf.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” he says. “Gotta go, girls. See you soon. Bye, Mom.” He kisses my mother, smiles at me and takes off.

At the end of the aisle, another woman stops him, and I turn away so I won’t have to see them standing there together.