“Really? Why?”
“I’m not great with unfamiliar places. Plane crash movies traumatized me,” I explain. “Airports freak me out too. The last time I was in one, I got arrested by airport police,” I admit, raising a bitter brow.
Inspired by Love Actually and Crazy Rich Asians, I tried my hand at an airport grand gesture. Turns out, one can only evade airport security in the movies, lest you pay $850 for a ticket just to confess your love in front of hundreds of sleep-deprived travelers.
This juicy tidbit of my past thrills Trevor. He descends into a fit of deep laughter as I explain how my ill-fated adventure resulted in hours of interrogation in a tiny, dimly lit room until the border officers finally believed I was an innocent, hopelessly-in-love girl and not some crazed terrorist. To this day, Brandon remains blissfully unaware of my airport arrest on his behalf.
“Okay, this is worse than I thought.”
“Look, if you attempted an airport grand gesture, everyone would say it was so romantic. But it’s crazy when I do it.”
He regards me like I’m a walking Caution sign. “Maybe you should approach dating more casually.”
“I can’t just hook up with someone casually.”
“Why not? It’s just sex.”
When he says sex, my face flushes like I’m a prepubescent teen in health class, all giddy over some anatomy word like labia. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he’s sitting an arm’s length away from me, on my bed, but looking him in the eyes feels dangerous, vulnerable, like I’m staring into a solar eclipse, a second away from burning my retinas.
“You’ve never had casual sex?” His question comes out gruff.
My silence reveals me.
“Seriously? Never?” When I don’t respond, he points at me. “I have a theory about you.”
“Please enlighten me.”
“You’re obsessed with the idea of pursuing your exes because you’re scared to meet someone new.”
I scoff. “I’m not scared to meet someone new.”
“Why do you only read books you’ve already read?” he challenges, gesturing to my bookshelf, filled with the worn and cracked spines of well-loved books.
“Slander. I read new books sometimes. But if you must know why I reread, it’s because I already know I like them. I know how they end.”
His eyes glitter with satisfaction. “See? You don’t like new things. Same with food and traveling. You also hold on to things, like literal garbage from your exes, for example.”
I ignore his weirdly accurate assessment. “It’s not garbage. They’re priceless, sentimental relics. And I can’t just have sex with randoms, okay? Not everyone can turn their feelings off at the drop of a hat.”
“It’s really not that intimate. Just don’t allow your mind to go there.” He says it so casually, like it’s second nature.
I lean forward, mattress creaking. “Can I ask you a serious question?”
He grumbles, and I mentally scold myself for the reflex. I keep forgetting how much he hates that question.
“Is a happily ever after really so terrifying to you?”
He holds eye contact for a couple of moments before standing, putting space between us. “Yes.”
When I boldly ask, “Have you ever considered therapy?” his jaw tics.
Before I can discern whether he’s pissed, amused, or soul searching, my phone vibrates on my bedside table.
BRANDON WANG: Hey, Tara. Thanks for the message. How are you doing?
My heart thuds against my chest wall. When I gasp for dramatic effect, Trevor leans in, shoulder brushing against mine as he reads my text. He watches as my fingers fly over my keyboard.
“Why are you typing your response in your Notes app?” he whispers in my ear, as though Brandon is in earshot.
“Because if I type in the text window, he’ll see I’m typing. Ellipses are a sign of weakness,” I whisper back conspiratorially. “And what if my thumb slips and I accidently send an unfinished message? Or an unedited message filled with typos?” When I’m done drafting my response, I pass my phone to him for peer review.
Hi Brandon!! Wow it’s so nice to hear from you. I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately, wondering how you’ve been and if you’re traveling anywhere. I miss you and was wondering if you want to go for a drink, or lunch, or dinner, or brunch? I’d be down for any of the aforementioned. If you can’t, or if you’re out of the country, that’s totally cool too. But it would be great to catch up!!
Trevor’s eyes incinerate the block of text. “No. No. No.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Before I can take my phone back, he tightens his grip and stands, holding it out of reach.
“You’ve lost custody of your phone. And the fact that you don’t know what’s wrong with that text scares me a little,” he says, his tone clipped. “He will run far, far away if you send this.”
“He won’t. He’s the definition of a nice guy.”
“Nice guy?”
“Like . . . he’s the kind of guy who answers telemarketing calls and ends up trapped on the phone for an hour because he feels too guilty hanging up.”
“Sounds like a man with no backbone.”
“Anyway, I don’t subscribe to these manipulative play it cool bullshit games. Besides, Brandon knows me. He knows I have feelings, and lots of them.”
Trevor runs his hand over his steel-cut jaw. “Look, all I’m saying is sometimes you can be . . . a little forward.”
“Being forward isn’t a bad thing. Am I supposed to pretend to be mysterious? Like the cool chick who acts like a bro, goes with the flow, and has no emotional needs?”
“I didn’t say that. But you need to ease into it a little before you send him full-screen-length texts.” He hands my phone back.
“I don’t ease into things, Trevor. I go balls to the wall. With everything I do,” I say, standing to match his height.
“Look, do you want to score a second chance or not?” he asks, making his way to my doorway.
“Obviously.”
“Then trust me. Just wait a bit and think out your response properly,” he instructs.
“Wait for how long? You know I have no patience.”
“Just an hour.”
“That might as well be an eternity.”
“Come on. We’ll clean the kitchen while we wait.” When I give him scary eyes, he adds, “We can make cupcakes. I’ll show you how to make them from scratch so you don’t have to waste money buying that boxed crap.”
I raise a brow. “You know how to bake from scratch?”
“Let’s find out,” he says, and I swear there’s a twinkle in his eye.
* * *
? ? ?
AND FOR THAT hour, I forget all about messaging Brandon back.
Turns out, Trevor decided we’re making lemon cupcakes with raspberry icing. He’s not a Parisian pastry chef by any means, and he notes we put too much flour in the batter, but he knows his way around a kitchen. It’s unexpected, and frankly a little unfair.
“These are life-changing,” I say through a mouthful, placing the remainder neatly in a Tupperware container.
“You should send your grandma a picture and tell her they’re from scratch. She’ll be proud.”
I shrug. “I dunno. She thinks the reason I’m still single is because I can’t cook or bake. Do you think that’s true?”
As he loads the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, he chuckles softly. “Tara, this isn’t 1950. And for the record, you can bake. You followed all the directions. I think you just have it in your head that you can’t do it.”
He’s not wrong. When I first started dating Seth, I’d started getting more adventurous in the kitchen, trying different recipes I found on Pinterest just to impress him, even though they included ingredients I didn’t like. But no matter how hard I tried to stretch myself out of my comfort zone, he was unsatisfied with everything I made, claiming the food was too simple. It has no flavor was his favorite thing to say to me when I’d try a new recipe. Eventually, I just stopped trying altogether. I want to explain that to Trevor, but frankly, I’m embarrassed I put up with Seth’s crap for so long.
“Who taught you how to bake?” I ask.
His jaw tightens as he bends down to close the dishwasher. “My grandma.”
“That’s really adorable. Were you close with her?” A grin spreads over my face as I picture a seven-year-old Trevor in a frilly apron, icing cupcakes next to a sweet little white-haired lady.
“I guess so.” I stare at him hopefully, waiting for him to elaborate on his childhood, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “We do a lot of cooking and baking at the firehouse too. Learned a lot there.”
“Oh yeah? Like group meals?”
“Yup. We make most meals together every day. One of the guys on my shift used to be a chef in the military, so he takes food pretty seriously. The other day he made homemade ricotta gnocchi with pancetta, and crème br?lée for dessert.”