“Her tenth birthday party,” he says earnestly. Angie certainly doesn’t look like an almost ten-year-old, given her tiny frame. Although now her righteous sass makes a lot more sense. “Her mom, Payton, is way too busy with work, so I offered to do it.” Pained, he lets out the remaining air in his cheeks. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, And what about your brother? But I don’t. “I know you’re good with parties and events,” he says. Over the past few days, I’ve been in full planning mode for Crystal’s bridal shower in a few weeks. He’s all too familiar with my Pinterest aesthetic board.
“I am . . .”
“I know it’s a lot to ask, though, and I completely understand if you’re too busy—”
“I’m in.” Given that I cobbled together and revamped my former wedding into a brand-new wedding for Grandma Flo a couple months ago (while emotionally wounded), I’m certain a child’s party will be a piece of cake. “When is it?”
“Not for a month and a half. February fifteenth.”
Exactly seven weeks away. I drum my fingers, Mr. Burns–style. The gears are already turning with the possibilities.
His squared shoulders fall with relief. “Thank you. Seriously.”
The nurse emerges, signaling we can head back in. We stay for a little under an hour, and I watch in amusement as Trevor lovingly teases her about anything and everything, like her latest crushes (“You still in love with the kid on your soccer team?”). She gets him back with some sizzling burns of her own (“Do you still eat dinner all alone every night?”).
When it’s finally time to leave, I promise to come back and visit on my breaks, if she wants me to. This pleases her. She even asks me to write down my schedule so she knows when to expect me, which I take as the highest compliment.
Trevor and I are silent as we wait for the elevator. The beeping and the high-pitched laughter of the women at the nurses’ station echo behind us.
My thoughts are heavy with a whirl of questions and concerns as we step into the elevator. “What are her chances?”
“They’re hopeful we can find a donor.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “But you never know. I want her to have a good birthday . . . just in case.”
There’s a long pause as I take in the expression on his face. After years of dealing with parents in the NICU, I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s terror.
Naturally I want to fold him into a comforting hug, but I settle for a reaffirming pat on the forearm. His muscle flexes underneath my touch.
“Don’t worry, Trev. She’s gonna have a kick-ass party. I’ll make sure of it.”
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—FIGHT CHILDHOOD HEART DISEASE STACK CHALLENGE
[Tara looks somberly into the camera, dressed in a red sweater with tiny white hearts.]
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
Tara: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. Today we’re talking about something non-bookish.
Did you know approximately one out of four children diagnosed with congenital heart defects will require surgery within the first year of life? And potentially more in the future?
In honor of all children diagnosed with congenital heart defects, @Emilybooklover, @MeganReadsRomance, @CurvyFitnessCrystal, and @Melanie_inthecity have teamed up. We will be donating one dollar for every red-and-white book stack any of our followers post throughout the month of January to support local Boston families of children with heart defects.
Further, my grandma (follow her at @LoopsWithFlo) is donating crochet dolls to the children’s hospital for every fifth stack. Don’t miss out! They’re adorable!
COMMENTS:
Wow this is such an amazing cause!
You are amazing Tara.
This is a cause close to my heart. My son was diagnosed with CHD at two years old. He had surgery and he’s perfectly healthy now. I’m posting my stack tomorrow!
? chapter fifteen
IT’S A BLINDINGLY sunny mid-January afternoon, or so Trevor tells me. I wouldn’t know, because I’m cloaked in shadow on the couch, curtains drawn like a comic book villain, Grandma Flo’s afghan hiked to my neck. In addition to crafting scenarios in my head that will never come to fruition, I’m two hours deep in YouTube montages of shirtless Chris Hemsworth in a last-ditch effort to boost my morale.
“You’re gonna make a permanent imprint in the couch,” Trevor warns.
“Don’t judge. I’ve never been better. In fact, I’m thriving here,” I croak, peeking at him over the back of the couch. He’s doing his biweekly kitchen deep clean, furiously scrubbing the stovetop. The chemical scent of the industrial-strength cleaner never fails to render me light-headed.
“Yup, you’re the picture of wellness.” He pauses his scrubbing, silently judging my staticky hair. “You need to get out of this apartment. Get some fresh air.” He slants an ear toward the kitchen window. To the fickle, chaotic, unpredictable world.
It’s been a rough start to the New Year, to say the least. After spending the holidays as the only singleton in my family, I decided to go hard on my ex search.
Since Daniel is still unsearchable, I tried my hand at Zion, the campus bookstore guy I went on a few dates with. We walked dogs together at the animal shelter and bonded over books. He’d play the guitar (terribly) for me while I awkwardly nodded and pretended to love it. Things ended when he decided he needed to stop dating and focus on his “studies.”
I don’t follow him on social media anymore, but a little light Google stalking revealed his consulting firm’s phone number. When I called him, we ended up having a half-hour-long chat. He seemed happy to reconnect but made it clear he was “too busy” with his business for romance. I guess some things never change.
After Zion and a few glasses of wine at Mel’s, we did some digging on Cody Venner, my high school sweetheart. Turns out he’s now a big-shot real estate agent. Judging from his photos and short bio on the broker’s website, he has his shit together, despite the fact that the trousers he’s wearing in his professional full-body shot hug every crevice of his undercarriage. Thankfully, I had enough self-awareness to preserve him for a future, less intoxicated version of me.
Because I can’t leave well enough alone, I scraped the bottom of the barrel and reached out to number eight, Linus Batton. Linus and I met through a college friend. He always mispronounced my name, calling me “Taw-rah” instead of “Tare-uh.” I let it go initially—frankly because it made me sound more sophisticated—and by our third hangout, it was too far gone to correct him. Things fizzled out between us naturally when I started working full-time at the hospital while he pursued his master’s in engineering. Since college, he’s been designing bridges, as well as dabbling in triathlons.
Linus has since been a loyal Liker of my posts on my non-bookish Instagram account, which I interpreted as a surefire sign he would be down to father my children.
As per Trevor’s advice, I invited him for a date at a board game café, despite the fact that I don’t like board games. I even limited myself to generic conversation instead of gushing soliloquies full of intense feelings. Through a couple of rounds of Risk (probably my least favorite game of all time, but Linus’s favorite), we bonded over songs we mutually despise (Maroon 5’s latest), notable books we’ve read (all romance for me, all techno-thrillers for him), and the recent season of Deadliest Catch (his guilty pleasure).
I was flying high, so pleasantly surprised at how well things were going that I casually mentioned my failed engagement with Seth. I hit a wound—a fresh, gaping, infected one at that. He tearfully confided that he too canceled his wedding last year with his boyfriend, Zach. He then began wedging him into our conversation at every opportunity. Zach always loved that movie. Oh, Zach and I were supposed to take a hot-air balloon ride for our anniversary. Even when I segued into what I assumed was the safe topic of a YouTube video of a sheep stuck in a tire swing, his eyes welled up because it reminded him (somehow) of Zach.
While I understand the heartache all too well, the last thing I want to do is get tangled up in some sort of love triangle where I’m the evil new girlfriend, the roadblock between Linus and the person he’s truly pining for. So we ended the night on friendly, platonic terms.
Daniel (childhood love)
Tommy (ninth-grade boyfriend)
Jacques (Student Senate boy)
Cody (high school sweetheart)
Jeff (frosh week fling)
Zion (campus bookstore cutie)
Brandon (world traveler—the one that got away)
Linus (Brandon rebound)
Mark (book club intellectual)
Seth (ex-fiancé)
“Since you’re my life coach now, do you have any suggestions to turn my day around?” I avert my gaze from the swell of Trevor’s rippling biceps as he attacks the island countertop with a steel sponge.
“Who says I’m your life coach?”
“Me. Obviously.”
He huffs. “That title comes with too much power. Besides, you do not want me giving you life advice. And even if I were qualified, you wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”
I pout. “I listen! Most of the time.”