He doesn’t even bat an eye when I make the executive decision to put on Tangled.
Throughout the majority of the movie, Trevor is the only one paying attention. My mind is a rush-hour traffic jam during the winter’s worst snowstorm. Hurried thoughts collide and cut each other off. Sitting on the opposite end of the couch was nerve-inducing enough, but this up close and personal view of his face is hazardous. Having feelings for Trevor Metcalfe is like driving in the opposite lane on a busy freeway as oncoming traffic barrels toward you.
When Tangled ends, he peers up at me through the dense forest of his lashes. I take in the perfect slope of his nose. The mixture of dark and light stubble along his defined jaw. The little half-inch scar over his left eyebrow, which I know he sustained falling face-first into a coffee table at age five. Even through the darkness, the TV light casts a reflection off his eyes, making them shine like crackling sparks in the wildfire raging through me.
“Tangled wasn’t awful,” he admits.
“Are you telling me you actually liked a Disney movie?”
“I didn’t mind Flynn Rider. He was cool.”
“See? I told you he wasn’t off-brand. You should be happy I assigned you him and not . . . the Beast.”
He chuckles softly. “This was fun.”
“Yeah. Beats lying here alone in the dark, self-loathing.”
He makes a tsk sound and frowns up at me. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. There is absolutely nothing about you to loathe.”
“It’s actually healthier than it sounds—getting real with myself. Having cathartic cries every now and then. My therapist highly recommended it.” I work down a swallow, nearly crossing into the spirit world when he runs his index finger over my knee, catching a piece of lint.
“You see a therapist?” he asks.
“I used to see one on and off since high school. Her name was Wendy. I called her my breakup therapist. My mom forced me to see her after Cody dumped me. I was inconsolable in my room for weeks, and no one knew what to do with me. I’d see her every time my life went off the rails. Went back recently after my split with Seth, but she retired last spring. I haven’t tried anyone new since.”
He presses his cheek against my thigh. “You should. Spilling your guts on the regular seems like it would be healthy for you.”
“Probably. I’d recommend therapy for anyone, actually.” I absentmindedly pat down the section of his hair that’s sticking out. Working my fingers through his dense, silky mane shouldn’t feel so comfortable, so ritualistic, like I’ve done it a million times before.
“I don’t know about therapy for everyone,” he decides after a few moments of silent enjoyment of his head massage. His eyes are closed now, which is probably safer for everyone involved—mainly me.
“You don’t think it would be healthy to talk to someone about your . . . baggage?”
He cracks a lid and smiles up at me. “You think I have baggage?”
I level him a serious look. “Metcalfe, you have a full luggage cart of baggage. You’ve gone through a lot with your parents, your brother, and Angie. I know you don’t love talking about them, or your feelings in general, but maybe it would help.”
“I think it’s the talking-to-strangers part I have an issue with.” He peers up at me again. “Maybe you can be my therapist. I like talking to you.”
I meet his gaze, holding my breath. Somehow, that seemingly insignificant statement means everything. Regardless of whether he has feelings for me, he feels comfortable talking to me, of all people. “I like talking to you too.”
“You like to talk to everyone, though.” He pauses, letting out a one-syllable laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Chen.”
I have no idea how to interpret this, nor do I have time to, because from the sound of his labored breathing, he’s fallen asleep on my lap. As much as I’d love to be his pillow for the night, this does not bode well for either of us. He stirs as I gently shift his head.
“Where are you going?” he slurs.
“Bed. We both need to go to bed.”
He opens his eyes and frowns. “Can’t we stay here?”
“If I let you sleep on the couch, you’ll just complain tomorrow about having a sore neck.”
“Yeah . . . You’re right.” With a long sigh, he stands, stretching his arms toward the ceiling, allowing me the briefest flash of his delicious abs when his shirt lifts.
Head down, I follow him into the dark hallway. I expect him to head straight to his room and close the door, but he lingers in the middle of the hall outside my bedroom doorway. As I pass through the tight space toward my room, his fingers just barely graze mine.
“?’Night,” he says, ever so formally.
I smile. “Goodnight.”
A beat of silence.
He doesn’t go to his room, and neither do I. We’re standing in our respective doorways in a weird, nonconfrontational face-off.
Why isn’t he going to bed?
Why aren’t I?
My heart thumps wildly against my chest wall like a steel drum. Just like that moment of intense telepathy in Daniel’s lobby, right before he kissed me, I hold his stare, mentally daring him to approach.
And he does.
? chapter twenty-four
SWEET CHRIST. I am not equipped for this.
Panicked, I wet my bottom lip, readying for another earthshaking kiss.
Is this really happening? Why am I wearing ugly flannel PJs, of all things? I ask myself as his hand cups my cheek with the lightest touch. His thumb does a gentle sweep over my bottom lip, sending a shiver hurtling down the back of my neck. In a startling whoosh, that same hand reaches downward, toward my waist.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, reaching for the doorknob. He pulls it shut, cruelly separating us.
For an indeterminate amount of time, I blink in the darkness, in the confines of my own bedroom. I press my palm against the door, royally dumbfounded.
What the actual fuck was that?
* * *
? ? ?
IN THE LIGHT of day the next morning, Trevor’s shoes are arranged in a straight line and his coat is now safely back on the hanger. When I emerge from my room in my scrubs to eat my morning Pop-Tart, he’s already parked at the kitchen island eating an omelet. He greets me with a shy chin dip.
“You’re looking suspiciously healthy after a night of heavy drinking,” I say, waiting for my Pop-Tart to toast. Unlike the rest of us mere mortals, Trevor doesn’t resemble a corpse after a night out. No. He looks like an angel with his bright eyes and perfect, hydrated complexion. He could probably hike the Dolomites right now if someone asked him to.
He shrugs. “I don’t really get hangovers. You off to work?” he asks casually, as if everything is totally normal. As if that heated encounter in the hallway last night didn’t happen.
I blink, wondering if I dreamed the entire scenario. Before I head to work, we talk about a myriad of topics, like final preparations for Angie’s party, Trevor’s disappointment that Scott didn’t get drunk last night at his own bachelor party, and my unwavering position that he should be indicted on a federal offense for smothering his omelet in ketchup. We touch on literally everything except his bizarro behavior from last night.
There’s little time to overanalyze today, because work is insanely busy. We get an influx of patients, including a week-old patient with a severe case of sepsis we’re particularly worried about.
Seth catches me on a five-minute breather in the nurses’ lounge and decides it’s an opportune time to inquire about my personal life.
“Hey,” he says, sidling up beside me in front of the Keurig. The fancy coffee machine in the doctors’ lounge has long been repaired, but in an unfortunate turn of events, Seth has concluded he prefers the machine in here. “How’s the search coming along?”
“You’ve been actively keeping up with my search online,” I say, making it clear I know he’s watched every single story. “I’m sure you’re already aware.”
He ignores this fact. “Think you’ll bring one of these lucky guys to the gala?” he asks, even though he knows full well there’s only one left—Daniel.
“Yeah. I think I might.” I make a concerted effort to sound optimistic. The gala (Valentine’s Day) is now only days away. It would be nice to have someone by my side, like Daniel.
“I’m proud of you, you know? I thought this was all a little ridiculous at first. But I’m glad you have something else to focus on.” I don’t miss the condescension in his tone.
I’m tempted to strike him in the forehead with a coffee pod as a distractive measure and run away, but alas, I’m a professional. Instead, I just force a smile, take my coffee, and GTFO.