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And just look at Nina, my mom would add, look at what she’s done.

Then she’d tell me all about how my aunt and uncle had made it very hard for my cousin when they discovered she was gay. In fact, she somehow found a way to bring that up whenever she was unhappy with me, her none-too-subtle way of reminding me that she was a great mom and that I owed her more than just my existence.

I wondered if Nina knew how close a thing it had been—two years before my mom moved us back to the States, before my dad split, Nina’s parents had been going to send her to live with us during the off season and to boarding school that next fall. But it didn’t happen—though I had been excited at the time that my cousin would live with us and was disappointed that she hadn’t. Years later my mother told me it was because she’d told my aunt she’d be happy to take Nina in—my mom didn’t care if her niece, who was also her goddaughter, was gay.

I took another sip and let it burn its way down. No, it didn’t really surprise me that Nina was so stubbornly successful—look at our common heritage. I just wasn’t sure how deeply we shared it, if I came anywhere near living up to it like she did.

Visually checking to see my mom and Kerry in cozy conversation, I could have sworn that one of them said the word “wedding.”

I quailed, but made sure I seemed happy on the outside and sat down anyway. It was rather noisy, I must have heard wrong—no way could I afford one of those for at least a few years. Maybe after I’d worked as a paramedic for a while, or better yet, when I’d finished med school; at least then I’d have a real job.

As I held up my glass to a passing waiter for another drink, Nina sat down next to me, put an arm around my shoulder, and kissed my cheek. “Missed you, Tor, where’ve you been lately?”

It was an old joke—because Nina was almost never home. She was always traveling—touring with the band or exploring caverns and castles on journal-worthy expeditions with Samantha.

“Well,” I grinned, “you know it’s junior year, right?”

Nina nodded, smiling. “Yeah, and I’d guess you’re getting ready to take your exams and figure out what med school you want and all that?”

I took a deep breath. “Actually,” I began on a controlled exhale, “I’ve decided to become an EMT, while I’m finishing school, I mean,” I hastily added.

Nina showed only interest so, emboldened, I continued and explained my plans: about working, becoming a paramedic, then taking the MCAT and working when I wasn’t in school. I didn’t mention that I’d maxed on loans or that I had to help out my mom and sister; I didn’t need to share those details.

Samantha had come to sit with us in the interim, and she questioned me about the class, the things I was learning, the instructors and who they were.

“Oh, I know Bob. He used to work with my da in the fire department,” she told me, her eyes sparkling, “him and…” She named a bunch of people, and some of them were instructors of mine too. It was nice, truly nice, to talk with people who seemed to care and be interested in what I was doing rather than trying to talk me out of it.

My mother cut in. “If she had the help, she wouldn’t need to become a civil servant.” Her lip curled on her last words, and her censure cut at and confused me. I knew that EMTs weren’t the same as doctors by any stretch of the imagination, but they did work that mattered, and wasn’t that what she’d always wanted for me, for Elena? Besides, judges were civil servants too.

I so wanted to disappear under the table, but Nina squeezed my hand. I stared at the tablecloth instead.

“But,
Tía
,” she said mildly back to my mom, “Tori has a good plan.”

Kerry’s voice cut across the resulting silence. “You could help her out, though, so she wouldn’t have to do such a menial job.”

“Tori’s sitting right here—why don’t you ask her what
she
wants?” Nina asked coolly.

Thankfully, dinner arrived and everyone was spared—my gut told me this conversation would turn ugly real fast.

Sometime during dinner, Nina whispered intensely, her eyes shading a deeper blue from the gray, “Tori, you know if I can help, I will, right? You’re my favorite little sister.”

*

Though more talking and dancing followed, other artists who’d either performed or attended made some little speeches, and I chatted politely and danced with everyone I was supposed to, the fun of the evening was dead for me, and I grabbed another drink whenever I could.

I admit, I hardly remember the ride home, although I do remember that Samantha reminded me that if I was ever in a jam, to call them, either one of them.

To be honest, I don’t even know how I got into the apartment, because I was pretty wasted and way tired, but that changed in moments after I stripped and got into bed and Kerry crawled between my legs to blow me again.

It was nice, very nice, but I really needed to just fuck, and besides, I wanted Kerry to get off too. I stopped her before I came and decided it was time to play. Since as far as I could remember, my regular setup was in her bag, I reached over into the night table for something else—something we could share. I wanted to feel it and I was ready enough for this; it slid into me easily before I flipped us over and plowed into my girl. It was a hot, easy glide, but after the rhythm set, all I could think was that I had nowhere near accomplished what Nina had and no way was I going to ask for help.

I’d forgotten Kerry was there until her nails bit into my ass and I not only remembered she was under me, I remembered what she had said about Nina: “We used to fuck.” God. That
look
on her face as she said it. The words played over and over in my head. Dammit.

I took Kerry’s hands and stretched her arms back over her head. “So tell me,” I curved the arc of my hips so my cock would rub along her clit as I pounded into her, “did she fuck you good?”

Kerry’s head tossed as her body arched under me, her pussy smashing into mine. I worked her cunt over as her heels dug into my lower back.

“Uh…yeah…” she growled, her fingertips clutching at my hands. “What, Tori?” Her breath was a hot gasp in my ear. She was such a hot fuck I almost forgot—but I didn’t.

“Nina,” I breathed as my cunt tightened around the dick we both rode, “she fuck you good?”

Kerry’s legs squeezed around my waist as she tried to pull me deeper. She gripped my hands desperately and bit my neck before she spoke again.

“Not like you, Tori,” she gasped, “so shut up…” Her body surged under me and I felt the answering pressure build in my cunt. “Shut up and fuck me.”

I let go of her hands to grasp her shoulders and dig deep into the fuck, into her, and her nails raked along my spine.

“I’m gonna come,” I groaned, gasping also as I drilled into her, a pure power fuck driven by the spasms that gripped my cunt. “Coming inside you.”

“Shit, baby,” Kerry huffed out, her body rocking furiously against me, “me too.”

I don’t know. I mean, we came together, and she was as warm and sweet as she always was after, and I enjoyed, truly enjoyed, the feel of the woman I lived with, the woman I’d just fucked and made come and who’d made me come repeatedly, held closely, skin to skin, her head on my shoulder. But even though I murmured the right words and we exchanged the ritual tender caresses, I lay awake for a long time, eyes open in the dark, as I held her and she slept peacefully.

*

We had a practical exam as well as a written coming up soon, but I’d decided not to stress too much. I studied a lot, and besides, maybe the class was doing something to my brain; it was certainly doing something to Kerry. She’d started to go off on me about our lack of time together, especially since the party.

Things were…strange, and maybe we did need more time, so I cut a few classes here and there, or simply left early. Maybe Kerry was right; between day classes, work, and the EMT training one or two nights a week, perhaps we did need some more “together.” I wanted us to work. I wanted Kerry to feel secure with me, in me.

When Bob, the head instructor, asked Roy, Bennie, me, and a few others out of our class of one hundred some-odd to attend and participate in the disaster-preparedness drill, I knew I would go, for two reasons: One of our instructors, a paramedic called Roe, hinted that Bob chose the people for the drills specifically so they could get some “real time” and meet the people they’d eventually work with—and these were the people that Bob would eventually recommend for instructor training. Also, Bob himself, the former Navy Seal who had returned from Vietnam to be one of the first to form this tribe I was trying to join, had taken me to the side.

When he’d caught up with me in the quad during a break, he’d asked in his warm, yet brusque manner, “Tori, what gives?”

“What do you mean—did I fail my last practical?” I asked, alarmed. I mean, I knew I’d skipped classes, but I really was on top of my stuff—at least I thought I was.

“Nah, your grades are fine, but where you been, kid? Problem at home or something?”

His voice held a hard sympathy I respected.

“It’s under control.” I nodded shortly in reply, relieved my grades were fine.

“Okay, kid,” he patted my shoulder and stared out across the quad for a few seconds, “because I want you here.” He caught my eyes. “If you’ve got a, a situation, tell me about it, okay?” He gave me a quick smile that for whatever reason made me feel good, like he was a friend.

“I’ll be here,” I smiled back, “and I’ll be at the drill site on Saturday.”

“Good,” he said, “now throw an old firefighter a smoke.”

We lit up and chatted about different medical and trauma scenarios, some technical details of rope rescue, and interesting calls he’d had until it was time for the second half of the lecture. With a pat on the shoulder as we walked in, he advised, “Just remember: Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. No matter what, you’ll get through every situation.”

After two hours learning to do exactly that—makeshift splints, creative adaptations of found materials for litters, immobilization, and recovery-rescue—came the announcement.

“I want you to bring a windshield punch and a utility knife,” Bob said to our small group after class as he handed us a paper with the address of the supply store. “Pick them up before the exercise on Saturday.”

I looked forward to it, was even happy about it until I pulled into my parking spot. Kerry. Dammit. I was relatively certain Kerry wasn’t going to be thrilled, but she surprised me when I told her.

“I completely understand,” she said.

“Really? I mean, as soon as I get back, we can go do something, you know? It’s just that Bob said—”

Kerry shushed me with a kiss. “Don’t worry. When is it and when will you be home?”

I kissed her, then told her all the details, and while I thought that smile might have been just the slightest bit forced, I was glad she wasn’t angry.

*

The morning dawned sunny and bright, a perfect Indian summer day, ideal for being outside and working up a sweat, and I was careful not to wake Kerry as I grabbed my belt and equipment. Bob had said we might get a chance to play rescuer too, and I didn’t want to be unprepared.

The mock disaster site was in the middle of a field located behind South Beach Psych, the local mental hospital, which was itself right behind University Hospital-North, one of the largest hospitals on Staten Island. I found a parking space and tramped down the dirt track in the field. As I got closer, I saw Bob, who waved me over.

“Yo, Scotty!” he called. “Come on and get moulage!”

I waved back and hustled, wondering what in the world “moulage” was. I soon found out. Two long tables held an assortment of bandages and rubbery plastic things that on closer inspection turned out to be burns, wounds, and protruding body parts like bowels and eyeballs. Lisa, Bob’s wife, sat in a chair with a paintbrush and a cup of red liquid. My classmate Bennie sat in front of her, getting made up as an accident victim.

“Oh, hey!” She smiled up at me from her chair as Lisa painted carefully along her forearm.

I closely examined the plastic parts that were glued to her skin and guessed, “Radius-ulna fracture?” judging from the two sharp sticks that jutted out at odd angles.

“Needs more drip,” Lisa commented almost to herself. “Hey there, Tori.” She gave me a friendly glance, then focused on her art again.

“Okay,” she said, finally satisfied, “you’re in car six.”

Bennie obediently got up and picked a path through the high grass to the next field. “See ya later, Scotty!” She waved, her ponytail flying over her shoulder as she marched through the underbrush to her site. I watched as her pocket mask smacked against her thigh where it hung from her hip-slung belt.

“Welcome to moulage.” Lisa gestured to the now-empty seat before her with a hand full of red paint. “Next victim. Tori?”

I shrugged. “So…what am I going to be?”

“Ah,” Lisa drawled, and pulled a slip of paper out of an inner jacket pocket, “you…will be an unconscious, facedown, backseat immobilization case—you’re gonna lie between the benches and…” she continued reading, “your special surprise will be”—and she looked up at me—“a sucking chest wound.”

When she was done with the magic of moulage, I was the walking wounded, complete with facial bruises and red stains on my shirt, a screwdriver stuck to it to re-create the puncture, and a little slip of paper pinned to it that described my presenting vital signs. I walked to my site, car five.