I stay silent, trying to avoid spooking him with any given reaction.
“I’d ask him for advice on girls and money. He was a cheap bastard too. That’s where I learned it.” He chuckles softly. “After a few months, I forgave him for being a shit dad. And then he moved for another job and it kind of felt like the first time he left, all over again. But it was almost worse, because I blamed myself. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t good enough for him to stick around.”
Instinctively, I place my hand on his forearm. When his muscles clench under my touch, I remove it. “Him leaving had nothing to do with you.”
His hard eyes search mine. “You either.” Without explaining, I know he’s referring to Seth.
I unzip my coat, my neck prickling with beads of sweat. “Do you still talk to your dad?” I ask, shifting the spotlight back to him.
He rakes a tired hand through his hair. “I hear from him every now and then. But haven’t seen him in years. Logan is exactly like him. Not proactive. Doesn’t really bother unless it’s convenient.” I’m silent for a few beats, just letting it all sink in when he nudges me. “Now do you see why I don’t do relationships?”
“Is that why you broke up with Kyla?”
He picks at a tiny leather tear on the bench. “I guess so. We dated for over a year when I came back to Boston after dropping out of college. I broke things off when Angie’s health got really bad. The thought of losing Angie was so fucking terrifying. I wasn’t in any shape to be there for anyone else. You probably think that’s ridiculous, huh?”
“No. It’s not ridiculous at all,” I assure him.
His grief makes my heart ache. I think I finally understand the glaring difference between us. The difference that renders us entirely unmatchable. While Trevor and I are both wounded by abandonment—him more severely—we handle it in opposite ways. He’s locked his heart entirely. It’s hidden behind an impenetrable fortress, surrounded by shark-infested waters. On the other hand, I’ve left my heart wide open, a gaping, only partially healed hole. And to be honest, I’m not sure which tactic is more advisable.
“I still think you should give Kyla another chance,” I say. “Hey, didn’t you two plan to have drinks soon?”
Before he can respond, the elevator dings, swinging open. Six people in various shades of black and gray wool winterwear filter out. I’m immediately drawn to a familiar face in the back.
Partially blocked by a Hulk-size man’s massive shoulder is Daniel. My long-lost childhood love.
I haven’t laid eyes on this face since he was a prepubescent teen, but I’d know those glass-cutting cheekbones anywhere. He still has that dark, silky hair and ever-so-serious expression. But he’s gotten broader. His neck is thicker. His shoulders are wider underneath his black jacket and brown corduroys. Adult Daniel could surely handle himself in a boardroom of high-powered executives, return home at a reasonable hour, roll the sleeves of his dress shirt (exposing his veiny forearms), and dutifully assist his wife with the children’s nighttime routine.
While I’ve missed him terribly, coming face-to-face doesn’t give me any sense of comfort. Quite the opposite, in fact. My body goes into flight mode as he heads for the turnstile directly across from us.
Panicked, I let out a hacking, dry cough as he stops to pull his building pass from the front flap of his messenger bag. Before he goes to scan it, I whip my head toward Trevor’s chest, shielding my face with my hands. “Shit balls. He’s coming this way! He’s gonna see me.” For once, I’m not overexaggerating. This bench is diagonal from the turnstiles. There’s absolutely no hiding.
“Isn’t that the point?” Trevor whispers.
“I didn’t actually think he’d be here! Hide me!” I’m about to curl into a ball or hide under my own coat like a coward when Trevor clasps a hand around the back of my neck. His grip is firm and demanding, but not aggressively so.
There’s a fire in his eyes as they search mine. It’s like he’s asking for silent permission. I have no idea what for, and frankly, I don’t care.
I’m in, my blazing eyes tell him.
He receives my silent cue and conceals me completely.
With his face.
? chapter twenty-one
WHEN TREVOR’S SOFT, pillowy lips settle against mine, my soul exits my body.
Nothing can resuscitate me. Here lies Tara Li Chen. At least I had a decent life.
Trevor Metcalfe is kissing me. He. Is. Kissing. Me. There is nothing else. There is no life, no reality outside the confines of this bench. Daniel who?
His hands are strong and urgent on either side of my head. He does something with his thumb, like a mini massage against my temple. It’s such a small thing, but it feels like affection. It brings me to life.
My previously motionless lips traitorously follow his lead. His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip and melds against mine so expertly, I force my eyes open momentarily to confirm that this is real. This is happening. My hands slink up his muscled shoulders and through his soft, thick hair. With both hands, I pull his face closer to mine a little more aggressively than intended.
When his low groan vibrates into my mouth, my body descends into chaos. Blood courses through me like a riptide. My heart is thrashing so hard, I’m convinced someone has broadcasted the audio over the building’s PA system.
His hand is still clasped around the back of my neck, his fingers moving in possessive circular strokes that do little to suppress the cavewoman inside me I didn’t know existed.
Just as I contemplate a side-aerial onto his lap, he rips his lips from mine.
For a span of far too many prolonged seconds, our faces are inches apart. His chest rises and falls rapidly, in sync with mine, heavy and labored, as if we’ve just completed a Spartan race, not made out for a mere few seconds. Or was it minutes? An hour? Who knows?
His horrified eyes fuse with mine. Lips parted ever so slightly. Head tilted like a dog. Expression of pure anguish, as if that was the single worst moment of his entire life.
He breaks eye contact, peering out the lobby window behind us. I follow his gaze to Daniel, strolling down the snowy sidewalk outside, his nose buried in his phone, none the wiser.
“What are you waiting for?” Trevor urges. When he leans in, I hold my breath. I half expect him to kiss me again, but all he does is shove me off the bench. “Go.”
My legs are no longer attached to my body. I’m like a shaky newborn deer. All limbs, no balance. No sense of direction.
By the time I actually reach the sidewalk, I can barely see ten feet in front of me. Trevor wasn’t wrong about the snowstorm. Everyone rushes by, heads down, hoods up, desperate for shelter from the harsh elements. A juicy snowflake pelts me straight in the eyeball.
Half-blind, I can only vaguely make out the back of Daniel’s head approaching the intersection. I make a weak attempt to call his name, but all that comes out is a muffled retch marred by the howl of nature. I’m helpless, frozen, watching him disappear into the white, icy void.
I should be pursuing him with the gusto I had all of an hour ago, but I’m too stunned to go on, thanks to Trevor Metcalfe.
By the time I have the wherewithal to return to Trevor’s vehicle, he’s already inside, seemingly dazed, staring straight ahead out the windshield, into the void.
The click of my seat belt quells the dense silence. “I couldn’t do it.”
He gives me a sideways glance. “Really? We came all the way here and you’re chickening out now?”
If I’m being honest, my mind is not in this conversation. It’s stuck on loop. On the events of literally a few minutes prior. “You kissed me.” My statement comes out harsher than I meant it to.
“I did,” he says, as if he can’t believe it himself.
It takes a lot to leave me speechless. And he’s succeeded. “Why?” I finally dare to ask.
As if he can sense I’m descending into an internal spiral, he presses his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do. I wasn’t thinking. You asked me to hide you and I thought people would look away and . . .” His explanation is entirely logical. He’s told me this before, how PDA makes him cringe and turn away. “Please don’t read into this,” he begs.
The kiss wasn’t real. No feelings. Or rainbows. Or butterflies. Realistically, I should be grateful he had the wherewithal to try to conceal my stalking. He was being a good friend, helping me in dire straits, right? Why am I so disappointed?
“I’m not reading into it.” I might be.
“Are you sure?” he asks slowly, like he’s expecting me to confess my obsession with him right here, right now.
I hate that he sees me in such a pathetic light. “Relax. I’m not. I may be in the market for a soul mate, but even I’m not naive enough to think it would be you.”