Mel sits upright and gives her a subdued aww. After a string of short flings in the past year, she’s in a phase where the sheer mention of commitment makes her full-body shudder. Her commitment phobia aside, I understand her decision. I’d be off men too if my last boyfriend rocked an exclusive wardrobe of turtlenecks.
Aware of Mel’s less-than-enthusiastic outlook on love, Crystal tries to backtrack with an unromantic ramble about the merits of saving for a down payment on a home instead of “frivolously” spending it all on one day.
“Do you think you’ll ever be interested in something long-term?” I ask Mel. The last few guys she brought home, she tasked with labor around her apartment (like fixing her leaky faucet) before sex. What a queen.
Mel avoids my eyes, struggling to pick at a hangnail on account of her sparkly acrylics. “Absolutely not. I like my life the way it is. I get to focus all my energy and attention on my business without having to feel guilty. I don’t have to compromise what I want to watch on Netflix or what I want to eat for dinner.”
“Do you ever feel . . . lonely?” I ask softly.
She studies her coral running shoes, obviously not eager to dwell much longer. “Nope. I have Doug to keep me warm at night.”
“Her vibrator,” Crystal whispers.
“We support you and your battery-operated relationship either way.” I lean in to smother her with a sweaty hug.
She cracks a smile while not-so-discreetly worming out of my embrace. “Take it from me. Men are burdens to be abandoned at the first sign of trouble. Anyway, someone tell me something fun and scandalous. I just killed the mood.”
I volunteer myself as tribute. She lives for gossip, and I’m willing to sacrifice my dignity for her temporary amusement. “Okay, fun story, I tried to kiss Trevor last night.”
Crystal propels upward in a hard-hitting crunch, bewildered. “What fresh hell? You tried to kiss Trevor?”
Mel slaps the mat enthusiastically. “I saw that coming a mile away.”
“How did this even happen? And what happened to your exes plan?”
The pinks in their cheeks darken to crimson with secondhand embarrassment as I rattle off the grisly details of last night.
“Wait, Trevor went on the date with you and Wanderlust Brandon?” Mel asks.
“I’m not sure why you’re getting dating advice from Trevor. He’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong. But he wouldn’t know a relationship from his ass,” Crystal remarks, holier than thou.
I don’t know why, but I feel an overwhelming urge to come to his defense. “Didn’t he give you solid advice for grand-gesturing Scotty?” Last summer, Crystal broke up with Scott temporarily when a photo of the two of them went viral and a bunch of trolls fat-shamed her. Trevor helped her orchestrate a grand apology right here in the gym where they first met.
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Give him some credit. He’s not a total nimrod.” My tone is terse, raising their suspicions.
“But why would Trevor give up his night to supervise your date? Do you think he likes you?” Mel asks.
“No. It’s not as weird as you make it sound.” I pause for a moment as they both watch me, appalled on my behalf. “I mean . . . okay. I made things weird with the kiss. But I’m gonna apologize tonight. It’ll be fine. I’ll blame it on the alcohol. Things will go back to normal,” I say assuredly, more to myself than them.
Mel’s concern transitions into a knowing grin. “I think you should sleep with him. Just once. Get it out of your system.”
I shudder at the thought of a one-night stand. With my roommate. Of all people. “God, no. Do you even read the romance books I loan you? Every time romance characters have sex to get it out of their systems, they end up hopelessly attached. And besides, Trevor doesn’t like me that way.” I look away, suddenly very interested in the woman near the window squatting what appears to be my body weight.
Since move-in day, I’ve lived with the truth that I am not Trevor’s type. I held on to that fact with pride, like a lifeline. Without the unspoken sanctity of our strictly platonic relationship, my perfectly stable living situation goes straight down the tube.
“And he’s definitely not your type,” Crystal echoes, with a pinch more force than necessary.
“Well, my type is trash, apparently,” I grumble, thinking of Jeff. “So it kind of leaves it open to interpretation.”
“A die-hard, emotional romantic and a guy who only believes in one kind of happy ending? That’s a recipe for disaster if I ever saw one.” She resumes her butterfly crunches.
I frown. “Why are you looking at me like I need an intervention?”
Mid-crunch, Crystal levels me with a hard stare. “Because I know how you get. You get obsessed. Dickmatized, as the great Ali Wong would say. You would fall in love with a tree branch if you spent enough time with it.”
“Okay, rude. I have standards,” I shoot back.
“I’m sorry. It’s just, you have a tendency to fall hard and fast . . . I mean, you had a crush on the mailman at Mom and Dad’s. The stock boy at Trader Joe’s. The DJ at Grandma Flo’s wedding.” Crystal is anything but a sugarcoater.
My first instinct is to go on the defensive and remind her of her own crappy exes. But to be fair, she isn’t saying anything that isn’t true.
I’ve been this way my entire life, misinterpreting kindness for affection, ready to launch into fantasy mode at any given moment (He looked in my general direction, so it must mean he wants me to be his wife. Right?). I’m like an overenthusiastic dad on a trampoline who jumps a little too far to the left and lands crotch-first on the springs.
Perhaps the most pathetic part is that I’ve been in a staring contest with my phone all day, waiting for Trevor to text me. To say something. Anything. To acknowledge what happened. When my phone screen illuminates in my hand with a notification from Instagram, I check my texts for the seventy-fifth time, confirming I have exactly zero.
I desperately need to get my priorities in order, which do not include Trevor, who is so fundamentally wrong for me, it’s almost laughable. I must keep my eye on the prize, securing my second-chance love story, definitely not getting my heart broken yet again.
“Trust me, if I was thirsting over Trevor, you’d know. I wouldn’t stop talking about him. And besides, he’s made it quite clear he’s not interested in me. He’s probably with another woman right now,” I say, wincing at the thought. “And I’m pretty sure he’s having a torrid affair with a married woman who’s the love of his life.”
Crystal readjusts her messy topknot. “Impossible. He’s a straight-up man-whore. Not for you. You’ve come so far since Seth and the wedding. You’re finally happy again, living on your own. I just don’t want Trevor bludgeoning all your progress to death.”
“Don’t forget, men are a burden. Seriously,” Mel adds.
They’re right. They’re both completely right, and I know it. The last thing I need is to pack up my life for the third time this year. I need stability, desperately.
“I know. You don’t have to worry. I’m focusing entirely on my exes.”
Crystal looks unconvinced. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I say with conviction, despite the strange bubble in my throat as the words come out.
? chapter thirteen
TREVOR STILL ISN’T home. It’s six, and according to his work schedule on the fridge, he was off at five. He’s certainly avoiding me. He’s probably spent the entire day plotting the least dramatic way to banish me from his apartment.
I’ve spent the afternoon cleaning like Cinderella. I even made a fresh batch of cupcakes from scratch, proudly displayed on the kitchen island for the taking. It’s a flimsy apology for trying to assault him with my lips, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.
Doing some book TikToks is the only thing that keeps my mind from twisting into a frenzy. I’m doing a fifteen-second book review video when Trevor’s muffled voice filters in from the hallway outside the door.
I set down my phone immediately, willing myself to loosen up. Play it cool. I can do this. I can face him like a grown-ass woman. I can bravely look him dead in the eyes after he blatantly rejected me. It’s fine. THIS IS FINE.
His deep voice carries over the jingle of his keys. Has he brought home a new conquest? I strain to listen for a second voice like the massive creep I am.
“You’re okay, though, right?” he asks.
Silence.
“Okay, good. I gotta go now, but—”
Silence.
“Yup. Love you, Angie.”
Angie. The same Angie he sent a basket of candy to. The Angie he loves?
I think about how Crystal laughed hysterically at the idea of him in a romantic relationship, and my stomach pinches harder than it should. I’m a statue, holding my breath so I can eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation when the door finally opens. There’s a dusting of snow on his beanie, which he shakes off while keeping his phone in between his ear and shoulder. He’s not ready for eye contact, laser focusing on unlacing his boots.