“No.” Trevor shakes his head, his eyes locking to mine. “The opposite. I think most people who go through something like that would give up on love entirely. And you haven’t.”
“Believe me, I’ve wanted to. It’s way easier to settle for a paperback prince than it is to put yourself out there. But I’m a glutton for punishment, I think.” I huff a weary breath.
“You definitely are. But that’s what makes you you,” he says, catching me off guard with a disarmingly sincere smile.
I blink it away before I melt into a puddle. “Anyway, my turn to ask you something.”
He sits up a little straighter, preparing himself. “All right, shoot.”
“Who’s Angie?”
? chapter fourteen
TREVOR HAS YET to admit Angie exists, aside from joking about her being his spy handler. I’ve long given up pestering him for the truth. Technically, it’s his business. If he doesn’t want me in it, who am I to push?
Either way, during our limited time together over the holidays, I’ve learned it’s all about the small victories with Trevor Metcalfe. For example, he’s now weirdly into The Bachelor. The other night when I was watching Little House on the Prairie, he asked why I wasn’t watching The Bachelor and when did the next episode air? He’s also started reading on the couch with me during the evenings, borrowing the thrillers I haven’t had the heart to read because I don’t take plot twists well.
Ever since I accused him of being secretive, he texts me photos of everything he eats when we’re not together. Today, it’s asparagus-stuffed chicken (because of his New Year’s resolution to eat healthy). In response, I sent him a photo of my prized box of Rainbow Chips Ahoy! cookies, which I impulse-purchased after crossing ex-boyfriend number nine, Mark, off the list.
Mark and I had been members of a book club we both didn’t like but didn’t know how to politely leave. We only dated for a month, but it got serious fast. He even introduced me to his parents and his ailing grandfather, which is why I was shocked when he broke up with me after I casually made a comment about a friend’s engagement ring.
When I messaged Mark randomly on the day after Christmas, he told me straight up he wasn’t interested in meeting but that he wanted his old Beatles T-shirt back. I dutifully excavated it from the Ex-Files box and dropped it off in the mail this morning.
TREVOR: You better save me some of those cookies.
I snicker to myself as I duck into the hospital stairwell. Usually, I spend my breaks in the nurses’ lounge, but after my colleagues caught wind of my ex-boyfriend search, I can’t go a minute without one of them pestering me for details about my dates and the remaining exes. That’s something Crystal warned me about: when you’re open with your personal life online, people feel entitled to know everything about you. And if you dare prefer to keep some things private, you need a good excuse.
I snap a shot of two empty cookie container rows and send it to Trevor.
TARA: No can do. Someone stole my Greek yogurt again from the communal fridge. I need all the nutrients I can get.
TREVOR: I told you to write your name on the yogurt container.
TARA: I did! In double-thick Sharpie.
The ellipses signaling he’s typing pop up and stop numerous times before he finally responds.
TREVOR: Tara, will you accept this link?
The text is followed by a link to the casting call for the new Bachelor season.
TARA: I’m not even going to ask how you came across that.
TREVOR: Yeah, best not to ask. So are you gonna apply??
TARA: No way! I didn’t like Kurt in The Bachelorette. He’s too much of a playboy for me. I don’t think he’s reformed his rakish ways. How would I know he’s there for the right reasons?
TREVOR: Is anyone? Aside from thousands of new social media followers? It could be good for your bookstagram. And you’d make for some good TV.
TARA: I’d be the girl who loses her mind two weeks in because she’s already fallen in love and can’t handle the fact that he has 30 other girlfriends.
TREVOR: Nvm. You may not actually qualify anyways.
TARA: I’m perfectly eligible! Not that I’m applying . . .
He sends a screenshot of the eligibility small print, which specifically states Applicants must never have been convicted of a felony or ever had a restraining order entered against them.
TREVOR: If the car vandalism doesn’t count you out . . .
I send him a selfie of my demonic eyes.
Trevor responds with a shot of his faux-scared face, and it gives me life. He’s in his Boston Fire Department T-shirt, and his hair is perfectly tousled as usual. He’s at work, based on the partially obstructed body of another firefighter in the background.
TARA: FYI I was never charged. And I’ve never had a restraining order against me, thank you very much.
TREVOR: . . . Yet. Btw, I’m off at 6 today. Want me to pick you up from work? It’s New Year’s Eve and I wouldn’t want you to get mugged on the subway again.
TARA: Yes please! Text me when you’re here.
As soon as I hit Send, the stairwell door lurches open behind me.
“Cyber-stalking your exes?” Seth asks ever so casually as he passes by me. He’s one of those people who take the stairs instead of the elevator on purpose and brags about it. Even when we were together, he never bothered to hide his disappointment that I’d take the elevator instead. It got to the point where I was thankful not to be on shift with him so I could take the damn elevator in peace without him shaming me.
I pull my phone to my chest protectively. “None of your business.”
Based on the glint in Seth’s eyes and the upward turn of his thin lips, he’s definitely seen my social media. “You’re making it everyone’s business by blasting it online.” He’s not wrong. But before I can respond, he adds, “You’re actually doing it, huh? The witch-hunt?”
The fact that he’s keeping tabs on my search is an interesting development. In fact, he’s consistently one of my first story viewers. Mel thinks it means he’s still hung up on me, but I know Seth. It’s purely a control thing. “Please don’t call it a witch-hunt. And are you really that shocked I’ve moved on?”
Seth leans against the railing. “I mean, let’s be honest. You don’t let go of things easily.”
I shoot him daggers. “Excuse me for being a little upset that you canceled our wedding.”
Without eye contact, he arrogantly smooths his hand over his gelled hair. “Can I offer you a bit of advice?”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” I nearly shove an entire cookie in my mouth and avert my focus to my phone.
“Whoa, attitude. You don’t have to be so rude. I’m trying to be nice.”
Knowing Seth, he’ll argue with me all day, so I treat him to a painfully fake smile. “Sorry, but I’m good. Really. Though I appreciate the concern. Bye,” I say primly, simply to make him disappear.
My tactic works. Without another word, he continues on down the stairs, out of sight.
* * *
? ? ?
WHEN TREVOR TEXTS at the end of my shift, I’m already in the lobby, itching to get the heck out of here. I’m eager to spend my quiet New Year’s Eve plotting my strategy to reunite with the remaining exes. Daniel and Cody have been consistently leading in the polls as my most popular exes. My followers are suckers for a childhood love reunion romance.
TREVOR: Hey, come to the 6th floor.
TARA: What? Why?
There’s no sign of his car idling in the front entrance, so I double back to the elevator and press the button for floor six. Despite working in this hospital for years, I’ve never ventured to the sixth floor before.
When the elevator doors swing open, Trevor is pacing to the left of the reception desk in front of a glass case holding framed photos of tiny, colorful handprints formed like butterflies. He’s unknowingly turning the heads of everyone within a twenty-foot radius in his fitted fire department T-shirt. When he sees me, he gives me an upward chin nod. His tense stance tells me he’s in one of his withdrawn moods.
Behind him is a massive, vibrant wall mural of lush jungle greenery and a sign that reads Boston Children’s Hospital Heart Center.
Trevor watches me tepidly as I take it all in, stunned.
“What is—?” I start.
“Before you say anything, you should know—”
A tiny brunette figure zips out of a room to the right. It’s a girl, no older than eight. A baggy purple hoodie and striped pajama pants hang off her waiflike figure, further emphasizing her delicate frame. Her face is gaunt and hollow, juxtaposed by an unexpected toothy smile that somehow reminds me of Trevor’s. With a bountiful giggle, she launches herself into Trevor’s arms.
When Trevor picks her up and spins her like a wholesome nineties sitcom dad, my ovaries threaten to erupt. “Jeez, Angie. You’re getting heavier every week.”
Angie.