TREVOR RUNS TOWARD me through a lush, green, tranquil field. The sleeves of his white Flynn Rider dress shirt billow in the breeze with each strong yet graceful slow-motion stride. Sunlight bathes his skin in liquid gold.
He’s half a football field length away and it might as well be a continent. The sun doesn’t extend to my half of the field, which is cold, slate-gray, and shrouded in miserable decay. A cruel cloud hangs directly above me, ominous, inky, and full, threatening to burst at any moment to drench me in an icy sheet of rain.
Desperate to sprint into the warm safety of Trevor’s arms, I ready myself for the first stride. But my limbs refuse to budge. I’m stuck. Immobile. I can barely even exhale a breath.
The more I struggle, the more pressure builds against my ribs. Something black, shiny, and thick has coiled itself around my entire body, squeezing tighter and tighter, intent on sucking the life out of me. Strangely, it smells like a mixture of sweet and soothing, like my White Strawberry Herbal Essences shampoo.
It’s my own hair. I’m being strangled to death by my own Rapunzel-like hair.
A gray, frizzy-haired Mother Gothel–like figure with Seth’s shark face transplanted over the top looms behind me, running its bony, shriveled hands over my shoulders. Her villainous eyes glint, delighting in my distress, jagged yellow fingernails scraping my skin.
“Let me go. I think he likes me,” I rasp, my throat as dry as the Sahara, staring longingly at sunlit Trevor. He’s still running, but somehow, he’s not getting any closer.
Mother Gothel releases a witchy cackle into the shell of my ear. “Likes you? Please, Tara, that’s demented!”
* * *
? ? ?
MY CHEERFUL, CHIRPING bird alarm snaps me to a welcome consciousness. Yellow strands of light poke through the slats in my blinds, confirming I am indeed safe in my bed, not in a sketchy field.
That enthralling cinnamon scent—Trevor’s scent—grounds me with the comfort of home. Like a drug addict, I attempt to flop onto my side toward the source, craving more, but I’m still stuck.
Unlike in my dream, my limbs are not bound by my own hair, which is both relieving and disappointing. Having lusciously thick, long, glossy shampoo-commercial-worthy hair a la Mel’s wouldn’t be too shabby, so long as it doesn’t try to strangle me to death.
In reality, it’s my sheets that have cocooned me like an Egyptian mummy in an ancient tomb. They’re pulled tight all around me, military-style. The other pillow is smoothed and plumped. For the first time in years, my bed is made . . . with me in it.
This is a surefire sign that Trevor Metcalfe was here. That last night wasn’t another one of my elaborate, R-rated dreams.
My alarm is still going off. Bleary-eyed, I struggle to free myself from the tightly wound sheets to hit Stop.
It’s eight thirty. Trevor’s flight was at six forty-five.
I lug myself out of bed and tiptoe across the hall to check his bedroom. Just as I suspected, his bed is made. Everything is in its place. Except for him, of course.
He’s gone. He left without saying goodbye.
I return to bed, smoothing my hand over the empty space where he fell asleep next to me, replaying everything he said to me yesterday about how he wanted to try. How he was going to give this relationship his all. How I agreed to take things slow with him, emotionally at least.
I wish I could magically summon him back to talk through it all again in more detail. To confirm it was all real. I wish I could summon the feeling of the pads of his fingers hypnotizing me with small circular strokes. The tingle of my skin as his lips danced over me in an intricate, private show. The feeling of being more in sync with another human being than I ever thought possible.
I fall back asleep, my heart filled with hope but also fear.
DANIEL: Please call me. I’m so sorry about Friday night.
This is Daniel’s third apology.
I haven’t responded yet.
As Mel leads us through the mall in search of a dress for the gala in two days, Crystal lectures me on the art of forgiveness. “I know you hold a mean grudge. But Daniel’s only human. He’s obviously really sorry.”
“But he lit-ral-ly forgot about me. Who forgets about dinner with their long-lost childhood best friend?” I’m still feeling some type of way about being stood up at Mamma Maria’s. And frankly, does it even matter anymore, now that I have Trevor?
“He’s your very last ex, right?” Mel asks bluntly, reminding me of that sad fact as we veer to the side, avoiding a trio of adorable elderly women doing some gentle mall walking in matching velour tracksuits.
As expected, the Sunday pre–Valentine’s Day at the mall is all-out anarchy, packed with bumbling fools last-minute gift hunting for their special someone. Today’s crowds are even worse than the Boston subway at rush hour and the grannies at the grocery store combined. Mel even sustained a broken acrylic nail battling for the last baby-blue cashmere sweater. RIP nail.
“He is the last one,” I say, barely masking my neutrality. Neither Crystal nor Mel knows what happened with Trevor, mostly because mic dropping this plot twist that we’re suddenly together now via our iPhone group chat just didn’t seem appropriate. I’m waiting for the opportune moment to spring it on them today.
As we enter a cute formalwear boutique, Mel gestures to a mannequin in the window posing broken doll–style in a seventies neon-yellow feather cocktail dress. “Is that too much for your gala?”
“Honestly, I don’t know if I want to go. Maybe I’ll just fake sick,” I tell Crystal and Mel, rooting around a rack full of gorgeous yet out-of-budget dresses. Further confirmation I should sit this event out.
The existential dread of going to the gala alone without Trevor hits me like a wrecking ball. I miss him. Terribly. And it’s only been a day since he left.
It doesn’t help that we’ve barely texted, aside from a quick message when his plane landed. My entire being has been itching to ask him how he’s doing, how the fires are, what he’s been thinking about, and if he still feels the same way about me as he did on Friday night. I’m desperate to unpack our brief conversation from before we had sex. Sure, we agreed we were giving this a shot. But we never discussed the logistics of how our relationship would change, whether we were an “official” couple now.
Last night, I even woke up at the devil’s hour, opened my Notes app, and started typing a half-baked declaration of love so at least he’d know where I stood. When I realized my text was nearly a full screen length long, I remembered what Trevor told me that night when I was texting Brandon.
He will run far, far away if you send this.
The last thing I need is to scare him off with my obsessive self, only days before Valentine’s Day. There’s also the fact that he specifically told me he needed to take things slow. I promised him we would, not just for him but for me too. I want to do things differently this time. I don’t want to cannonball headfirst like in my past relationships, all of which crashed and burned. I want to be measured, sure of myself, not desperate like I usually am.
“But it’s Valentine’s Day. You shouldn’t be alone with your thoughts. Do we really want a repeat of last year?” Crystal gives me a pointed stare. I spent last Valentine’s Day crying on Crystal’s couch while she petted my hair like a destitute stray in a Sarah McLachlan animal welfare commercial.
I press my hand over my heart. “I solemnly swear I won’t require emotional support this year.” I turn to Mel, who’s examining a gold sequin number that costs one month’s rent. “This is your first Valentine’s Day alone in years. Want company? I can supply the wine, excellent company, and cuddles,” I offer eagerly.
“Sorry, Tara,” Mel says sympathetically, like she feels sorry for me. “It’s tempting. Really. But I already committed to a Live makeup tutorial with one of my influencer friends.” She points me toward the dressing room area. She’s selected an armload of overpriced gowns for me to try on.
“You sure? I could even hang out in the background and watch. I won’t get in the way,” I suggest, desperate.
“Maybe you wouldn’t have to be alone on Valentine’s Day if you text Daniel back,” Crystal reminds me.
Mel holds a black cocktail dress in front of me, one eye closed. She frowns, like I’m a disgraceful contestant on America’s Next Top Model. “I don’t think I like black on you. Too gothic,” she mutters. “Anyway, I disagree. Don’t call Daniel. He deserves to suffer a little after making you sit alone at the restaurant like a loser.”
Yeah, until Trevor showed up and proceeded to change life as I know it.