TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. If you’ve followed me for an ounce of time, you’ll know I’m absolute trash for most tropes. I’ll take anything: secret babies, love triangles. But for some reason, I can’t handle playboys lately. Now, I’m not against people sleeping around. You do you, boo. But I have a problem with the double standards.
The playboy hero is often rich and powerful, maybe a duke, a CEO, or the firstborn son of a crime family. As a commitment-phobic man-child, he sleeps around to cope with his overt emotional problems (due to a tragic backstory). He’s cruising through life, an empty robot until a doe-eyed, virgin heroine unexpectedly piques his interest. She’s only immune to his charm for a hot second before falling for his rakishly handsome looks and secret, true self that only she knows.
More often than not, these heroes are hyper-controlling, brooding, and possessive. They practically breathe fire if another man looks in her general direction, even though they’ve just slept with another woman an hour before.
Now, it’s known that heroines are held to a much higher standard than heroes. But why do we let our heroines fall for scum for the sake of the hero’s character arc? I’m all for a redemption story, but if I wouldn’t choose this guy to date my best friend, I just can’t root for him.
Thoughts?
COMMENTS:
Noooooo. Rakes are THE BEST. The payoff is always the most satisfying when they inevitably change their ways for THE ONE.
I like my playboys fictional. I have no time for them in real life!
? chapter twenty-three
LIKE THE EMOTIONALLY balanced millennial I am, coping with my problems by being petty on social media is my go-to. Unfortunately, one of the most beloved romance tropes got the brunt of my passive-aggressive callout.
I make the wise decision to delete the video entirely as I stomp down the stairs from the rooftop in Trevor’s hideous Crocs. Aside from being ten sizes too large for my feet, they’re disgustingly comfortable and convenient for hot tub sessions. The tiniest sliver of me partially understands the hype, but I’d rather commit to an exclusive diet of raw vegetables for life before I admit that.
The lights are off in our apartment, which tells me Trevor is still out on the town. I imagine he’s in his glory right now, surrounded by beautiful, large-breasted women, on track to bringing home another Instagram model of his choosing to ravage. Maybe five. Though he’ll concentrate most of his efforts on Kyla.
I seethe with jealousy at the mere thought of him with Kyla. How does one properly prepare themselves to hear the guy they like having sex with another woman across the hall?
Perhaps this was inevitable all along. Aside from moving out and taking up residence in a cardboard box on the street, what else am I supposed to do but suck it up? Maybe it’ll get easier with each successive woman.
The acoustics of my trusty Taylor Swift breakup playlist fill the apartment as I await my fate in the living room, engulfed in darkness (to match my mood). Like my Ex-Files box, this playlist has been with me since my breakup with Tommy in ninth grade. With each new album, I strategically add the gloomiest songs in advance of such a time as this.
I’m seven songs deep when Trevor returns, interrupting the emotional bridge of “All Too Well” (the ten-minute version, obviously). Bracing myself for Kyla’s inevitable high-pitched giggle, I drag myself into a seated position, taking in Trevor’s massive outline in the doorway. It appears he’s returned alone. Kyla is nowhere to be seen. I do the mental running man, followed by a couple of air punches. I’m far more elated about his temporary lone-wolf status than I should be.
“Hey,” I rasp through the darkness, hitting pause on Taylor Swift.
“Why are you lying in the dark alone?” His tone is lazy and slurred, a far contrast from his typical terse, rushed cadence. He wobbles a tad, groping at the wall for support. He is definitely not sober.
Drunk Trevor doesn’t care that he’s kicked his shoes into a messy pile. Or that his coat slipped off the hanger the moment he walked away. Drunk Trevor even props his feet on the coffee table the moment he slouches onto the couch.
A chunk of his usually tamed, ashy waves branches upward, Alfalfa-style. I stand to pat it down before my brain sounds the alarm, reminding me he’s like a rescue dog wearing one of those Do Not Touch, I Bite vests because he can’t be trusted yet. And neither can I.
“I’ve never seen you under the influence before. I hope you Uber’d,” I say, forcing both hands at my sides where they belong.
“Course I did. What’d you do tonight?”
“Hot tub. Self-loathing. The usual.”
His chuckle is light and easy, almost giddy. He runs his hand through his hair, inadvertently making his cowlick worse. He fishes the remote from the crack between the cushions. Without notice, he tosses it to me, thoroughly entertained when I dazedly fumble it like a slow loris. “Wanna watch The Bachelor with me?”
“You’re going to watch it without me either way, aren’t you?” I venture. “Who knew you’d become such a proud citizen of Bachelor Nation.”
He swings me a lazy, resigned grin. “What can I say? I’m invested in Wyatt’s life now. Come on, sit with me.”
“Spoiler alert: he will choose a bride and they’ll split up six months later,” I inform him, not budging. If I know myself as well as I think, spending more quality time with a guy I have unrequited feelings for can only end in a tsunami of tears.
He pats the middle cushion next to him for emphasis. Like the weak-willed individual I am, I concede, settling on the far cushion. My entire body is engulfed in flames. I’ve basically just agreed to a TV date with Satan.
I’m profusely sweating in my flannels throughout Wyatt’s group date. The girls are quite literally boxing and taking punches to win his affection. One girl is hard-core, nearly breaking another woman’s veneers.
Trevor nudges me on the thigh with his knuckle. “I could see you breaking someone’s nose. You’re like a little scrappy hamster.”
“I once bit another girl who tried to kiss Daniel at recess,” I admit.
“You’re a biter?” He pretends to recoil to his side of the couch.
I peel my eyes from the television to shoot him my best faux-evil look. “It’s my secret weapon.”
“That’s officially my new favorite thing about you.” When he beams at me, I have to avert my gaze back to much less desirable Wyatt on the TV. I couldn’t look into Trevor’s eyes and not feel a little something. One more second of eye contact and my poor little soul would shrivel, unable to cope with the beauty.
“You have other favorite things?” I pry.
“Oh yeah.” He doesn’t bother to elaborate. He’s too distracted by sexy grade school teacher Mona, his favorite Bachelor contestant.
After many beats of cruel silence, Trevor shifts his attention back to me when the host moseys into the mansion to give Wyatt a pointless heart-to-heart. “You must have really liked Daniel to bite another girl.”
“He was my best friend. Ever. In the whole world.”
“Umm, ouch. I’m sitting right here.” He folds a hand over his heart and pretends to wince in pain. “I thought I was your best friend.”
“I didn’t realize we’d advanced to that level. Am I your best friend?”
“Maybe. You know all my secrets now. Most of them, at least.”
I don’t respond. I’m plagued with far too many feelings over this statement. On the one hand, I’m mush. Being labeled as Trevor Metcalfe’s best friend is the highest of compliments. On the other hand, the only thing more unromantic than friend status is best friend status.
He’s still watching me. “If your best friend Daniel hadn’t moved, do you think you’d have dated?”
“A hundred percent. I was in love with him . . . though to be fair, I was in love with all the boys in my class. But no one topped him.”
Trevor smiles lazily. “Think you’ll go back to try another run-in?”
“For sure.” I have no specific plans to stage another run-in, but the gala is in a week. I need to figure something out. “I just hope he remembers me.”
“He will.”
Through the rose ceremony, Trevor sinks horizontally on the couch, unexpectedly resting his head in my lap. I’m frozen as he adjusts the weight of his head evenly over my thighs. My senses magnify. I’m all too aware of the rhythm of his breath, a few beats slower than my own. The poke of his hair through the fabric of my flannel pajama bottoms. The delectable yet not overpowering smell of his aftershave.
My fingers twitch, unsure what to do with my hands. Do I keep them like noodles at my sides? Rest one hand on his hard, impeccably honed pectorals? Give him a head massage? Cradle his head and sing him to sleep like any perfectly normal best friend would do?
I make the safe decision to keep my hands to myself.