chapter ten
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
[Tara sits crisscross applesauce on her bed, cradling a worn mass-market paperback like a newborn baby. The ex-boyfriend link chart is out of focus in the background.]
TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. Today we’re talking about the One That Got Away.
The One That Got Away is potentially one of the most tragic of all tropes. I’m hesitant to call it a romance trope, because more often than not, it ends in death and tears. It’s related to second-chance romance and comes in many forms. It could be two lovers who get split up during war and famine, unable to find each other. Maybe one party disappears behind magical stones, two hundred years into the future, where they belong.
If you close your eyes right now, I bet a face comes to mind. It’s someone you wonder about every so often. Someone you have to stop yourself from drunk texting, perhaps? You often wonder what could have been? Maybe you’re already fully aware that you’re missing this long-lost someone, which prevents you from moving forward in your life.
This is Brandon Wang for me.
Anyway, I’ve gotta finish getting ready. I’m about to meet him for drinks in an hour. If anyone has any advice or favorite One That Got Away books, let me know in the comments!
COMMENTS:
OMG he is HOT. Doesn’t he look like Daniel Dae Kim?
My date advice is to ditch Brandon and date your roommate. This is what we deserve!!
• • •
“CAN I ASK you a question?” I ask.
Trevor shoots me a one-eyed warning glare, evidently and understandably peeved that I’ve barged into his room without notice. When I flick the light switch, he covers his eyes like a vampire who’s deathly allergic to the sun. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”
“I did you a favor. You’re gonna mess up your schedule if you sleep any longer.” He’s been sleeping off his night shift, and I’ve been impatiently waiting for him to wake up for hours.
I’m due to meet Brandon in T-minus forty-five minutes, and I need a pep talk.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he asks through splayed fingers.
Miffed, I run my finger over the high waistband of my wrinkled, wide-leg linen pants. “My date outfit, thank you very much.”
While plotting my ensemble on the subway ride home from work, I had a momentary freak-out and made a pit stop at Gabby’s, Trevor’s hookup and my new friend, to pillage her closet. As it turns out, she owns tons of handmade pieces collected from all over the globe, all of which have some elaborate story. These pants were hand-sewn by a ninety-year-old woman in the Tibetan mountains who has nearly lost her sight.
Trevor rests against the headboard and tilts his head, studying me from every angle like I’m an abstract museum painting. “No.”
I scoff, my hands on my hips. “This is traveler chic. They’re Gabby’s, actually.”
“Why are you wearing Gabby’s clothes for your date?”
“Because . . . she’s a world traveler, just like Brandon.” As the son of diplomat parents, Brandon is well traveled. He speaks five languages. He’s spent winters skiing in the Swiss Alps, summers riding camels through deserts in Morocco. You name it, he’s done it all, three times.
Even though I take after Dad with my “gift of gab,” as Mom likes to call it, what if Brandon dubs me an uncultured swine? What if things take a turn for the horribly awkward, like they did with Segway Jeff? What if he’s nothing like I remember? What if I panic and ask for his hand in marriage?
As the horrifying possibilities besiege me, so does a potential solution. “Metcalfe?”
“Yes?” Trevor asks, slow and tentative, as if dreading my response.
“I really do need to ask you a question.”
• • •
GRANDMA FLO WAS absolutely right. Men get better with age. At least, Brandon Wang certainly has.
His face was etched by the gods. How else can you explain his perfectly proportioned features? The enchanting dark-chocolate eyes I want to stare into longer than appropriate? Or the naturally blemish- and pore-free skin that looks airbrushed in person? If that wasn’t unfair enough, he also has the sun-kissed tan of someone who’s spent many a day experiencing the world. He certainly hasn’t been rotting on the couch scrolling through Netflix’s romance section, pretending he hasn’t already watched every film five times (not that I’d know from personal experience).
We’re seated in a turquoise booth, struggling to hear each other over the fifties tunes blasting over the sound system. He’s practically glowing like in his current profile photo (a flattering shot of his sunburned self, grinning in front of an ornate temple in Thailand).
Brandon leans in like he’s going to tell me a secret. “Can you believe it’s been over ten years since we first met?”
My insides blossom with nostalgia. “God, no. It feels like just yesterday we were pulling all-nighters, hitting up the twenty-four-hour grocery store for those giant tubs of Neapolitan ice cream.”
He mocks a retch. “That stuff was revolting. Especially the strawberry. I can’t believe we ate like that. Nowadays, my body can’t take it.”
“It’s all downhill after thirty, Bran. Or so I’ve heard,” I say. I roll up the sleeves of my cardigan as the waiter with a Mr. Monopoly mustache drops a heaping plate of loaded nachos in front of us.
Polite as ever, Brandon waits for me to pull my first cheesy nacho from the top of the pile before methodically selecting his. As expected, he chooses a relatively plain one, which he smothers in sour cream. “Oh, definitely. I used to be able to fall asleep anywhere. I can’t get a lick of shut-eye on planes anymore. Or any old pullout cot at a hostel. I’m a princess now,” he says through a crunchy bite, massaging his neck for emphasis.
A grin spreads across my face upon recollection of the many instances when he fell asleep in the library, mid–study session. “You’re basically a geriatric. Are you sure you can handle a round of mini putt without throwing out your back?” I joke.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I can hack it. Hope you practiced your swing.” He cracks his knuckles, making a show of competitive spirit before peering at the nearest putting hole to our right. It’s a Star Wars–themed hole with rotating lightsabers ready to block incoming balls.
Putters bar is admittedly an appropriate date spot, with the retro black-and-white-checkered floor and charming neon signage. It’s located in a huge warehouse consisting of three massive mini-golf courses alongside two designated food and drink areas. Unlike a typical Astroturf course, each hole is a callback to a famous movie or television show. Behind the Star Wars hole, there’s a partially obscured Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz at the end of a yellow brick road.
As I strain to see the other holes from my vantage point, I catch Trevor’s eye. After much groveling and empty promises to be his personal chef for a week, he agreed to leave the supreme comfort of his bed to accompany me. Of course, he’s subtly seated one booth down. To Brandon and any other patron, he’s just a random dude. Little does anyone know, he’s my moral support, at the ready to ensure I don’t say anything I regret.
But the longer I talk to Brandon, the more I realize I didn’t require backup after all. Turns out, my memory isn’t totally unreliable. Brandon is as delightful and outgoing as he always was—practically a walking eharmony ad. He asks all the right questions, makes just the perfect amount of eye contact, nods at all the appropriate times. And every time he smiles, my heart does ten consecutive somersaults. I want a custom-embroidered pillow with his face on it. That got admittedly creepy, real fast. Why am I like this?
Like the precious creature he is, he’s letting me scrounge all the cheesiest nachos for myself. It’s reminiscent of long nights in the campus library studying for finals. Brandon and I would combine snacks. He’d bring sweet, and I’d bring salty. Candy bags from the corner store were his go-to, and he always saved the fruity ones for me, knowing I didn’t like the other kinds.
As we plow through the nachos, Brandon tells me he’s still traveling the world, all while doing freelance website design remotely. Despite the success of his business, he still craves the “authentic” travel experience, preferring to stay in hostels. He obliges me with some hostel horror stories, including mentions of cockroaches and bedbug infestations. His dream is to live in a tiny hut over the water in a tropical paradise, without a cell phone or footwear. I try to envision that life for myself, to no avail.
“So where’d you get those pants?” he asks, leaning sideways to peek at them under the table. “They’re so unique. My friend has a similar pair from Nepal.”
My lips part, but zero sound comes out. Behind Brandon’s shoulder, Trevor gives me a self-satisfied I told you so smirk while merrily sipping his beer. He promptly goes back to flirting with the cute blond waitress who’s been chatting him up since we arrived.
Thankfully, the mustached waiter saves me before I dig myself a deep grave and blurt out a lie. He hands us our putters and golf balls and rattles off a brief description of each course. Brandon thanks him and remarks how he himself can’t grow a mustache to save his life, quickly winning the waiter over with his natural, self-deprecating charm.
When the waiter leaves, there’s a moment of film-worthy perfection when Brandon and I just stare at each other, grinning, high off the memories of our younger selves. I almost wish someone would snap a photo of us in this moment. It would be the perfect movie or book cover.
We decide to start on the course labeled Intermediate. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or a fairy godmother above, but I sink the first Jaws-themed hole in one go.
“We have a pro over here!” Brandon announces, chuckling at my mini happy dance.
We spend our time between holes reminiscing about college. He fills me in on what some of our old friends are up to, and I do the same. Cheat sheet: They’re all married and having children. Except for us. Despite that depressing fact, Brandon’s presence puts me at ease, so much so that I don’t even know why I dragged poor Trevor along in the first place.
Halfway through, I loosen up and order a Bellini. Three drinks later, we’re at the last hole, doubled over, belly-laughing as we recount a particularly messy night in residence that resulted in one of our friends sleeping in an orphaned grocery store cart in the parking lot (he’s now a father and a tech millionaire). Brandon offers a celebratory high five as we return our putters. No wonder I got myself arrested by airport police for this guy.
I flash Trevor a stealth thumbs-up on our way back to the booth, silently giving him permission to leave if he so chooses. But he doesn’t. He continues nursing his beer.
“Have you done any traveling since college?” Brandon asks, sipping his new drink.
His question is like an abrupt scratch on a record player. I mumble a low “No, not yet.” This elicits a frown. “I’ve been super busy with work,” I clarify, like that’s the sole reason.
Brandon’s face lights up with renewed curiosity. “There’s always tons of jobs open for nurses at the Red Cross. You should totally look into it. It would give you so many opportunities to see the world, all while making bank.”
“Really?” The very idea is disturbing, and yet my desire to please him compels me to keep going. “I’d love to do something like that. Or just take a couple of months off, pack my life into a suitcase, and hop on the first flight I can find,” I say with the casual, dismissive air of a socialite who globe-trots via private jet at her whimsy, monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage in tow.
He drums the table with his knuckles enthusiastically. “Why not? I mean, what’s stopping you?”
Besides my extreme fear of flying? My aversion to the unfamiliar? My mountain of debt?
“Nothing, I suppose.” I mentally slap myself as the words roll off my tongue with far too much ease. My gaze drifts from Brandon’s face, catching Trevor behind him. He’s wide-eyed, frantically making a cross with his arms, mouthing, No.
I ignore him, refocusing on Brandon, who’s passionately describing his upcoming three-month trip to Indonesia to spend some time in Borneo. Deep in the rain forest at Sepilok.
“What’s Sepilok?” I ask, my jaw tensing.
“An orangutan sanctuary where they teach young orphans how to live in the wild. I was there a couple of years ago, and it changed my life. Orangutans are so humanlike. So sentient. It’s incredible. I think you’d absolutely love it.”
What would ever give him the impression I would love that? Does he actually know me at all? “I mean, it sounds . . . cool.” I pretend to nod with interest, while plagued by graphic images of the woman who made international news after a monkey tore off her face.
“We could even go to Bali, check out some of the smaller, underrated islands. They don’t get enough credit.”
While the thought of lying on a warm beach with Brandon sounds like heaven, I still can’t get past the flying. And the monkeys. But for some ridiculous reason, I say, “Let’s do it.”
Behind Brandon, Trevor buries his face in both hands.
“You’re really in?” Brandon beams with affection. “You’re so different than you were in college.”
I perch my elbows on the table and smile. Now that I’ve started this persona, I can’t seem to stop. “Yeah. I mean, it sounds like the trip of a lifetime.”
“I gotta say, I was shocked when you reached out. What made you think of me?”
A series of unfortunate events in my love life, obviously. And I’m about to tell him so, until my phone lights up with a text.
TREVOR: Don’t tell him about the ex search unless he already knows.
I had no intention of hiding the search from Brandon, considering it’s broadcasted all over my public social media account. But Trevor’s warning throws me off my game. Will Brandon think I’m nuts? Just like the others?
“Oh, uh, just thinking about college,” I stammer, groping for the nearest napkin to shred.
Brandon smiles, delving into a long-winded monologue about all our prospective adventures, including jetting over to Thailand to spend a week at an elephant sanctuary.
“So, after all the excitement of traveling, what’s next for you?” I ask at the first opportunity, convincing myself that I could stomach traveling if it means the two of us settling into a detached home with a sprawling lawn near my parents, or maybe across the street from Crystal and Scott’s future home. Brandon and Scott would get along swimmingly.
The crease between his brows deepens. “Do you mean where to after Indonesia? Probably Peru, or—”
My heart sinks like an anchor. “Oh? Are you not planning to settle back down in Boston?”
“Why would I stay in Boston?” He’s genuinely confused.
“Well, you’re thirty. Don’t you want to settle down soon? Have kids?”
Trevor is giving me his urgent horror-movie eyes again, as if I’ve just asked Brandon to divulge his Social Security number.
Brandon notices my pointed glare at Trevor and glances over his shoulder. Trevor abruptly averts his eyes, suddenly taking a supreme interest in the salt and pepper shakers.
Brandon swings back to me, confused and probably questioning his own sanity. “Uh . . . Probably not. You?”
“I mean, yeah. That’s always been the goal. Marriage and kids in my early thirties.”
I barely have time to register Brandon’s indifferent shrug, because Trevor coughs, half choking on his drink.
Brandon turns, concerned. “That guy is choking.”
“Nah, he’s fine,” I say, waving his worry away with my mangled napkin, which resembles a worn flag that’s been shredded in a gruesome medieval battle.
Brandon isn’t convinced, and I’m not shocked. He’s always had a Good Samaritan complex, which attracted me to him in the first place. One time, we missed our dinner reservation because he insisted on helping a stranded woman on the side of the freeway change her tire, despite not knowing how.
He peers over his shoulder once again. “You okay, buddy? We have a nurse over here.” He points at me, preemptively offering my services.
Trevor hits his chest with his fist like a macho marine. “All good, man. Thanks.”
Satisfied that the stranger in the booth behind us is not having a medical emergency, Brandon turns his attention back to me. “Sorry, what were we talking about?”
Before I can offer a response, a new text comes through.
TREVOR: Meet me in the bathroom NOW.
I let out a tortured sigh, scooting out of the booth. “Be right back. Just going to the restroom.”
“No worries. Take your time,” Brandon says cheerfully, clearly relieved that the topic of children has come to an abrupt end.
Trevor is pacing in the dingy narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, his fingers linked behind his head. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m just having a casual conversation. Why are you freaking out?”
He huffs. “You brought up children.”
I scoff, as if I haven’t already named our three unborn daughters. “Look, I hate small talk. It’s not my vibe. And it’s not like he’s a stranger. He’s an ex. When we broke up, he said maybe things could work out in the future. I’m trying to find out where he’s at.”
Trevor eyes me sideways. “No. It’s way too soon for that conversation. He’s about to hurl himself off the nearest ledge.”
“He invited me on a three-month trip. How is it too soon?” I frown. “I don’t want to just hook up or casually see each other. I’m putting it all out on the table.”
“And then some,” he grumbles, partially distracted by the waitress he’s been seducing all evening. She gives him a flirty smile, thick high ponytail swaying, expertly balancing a tray of pizza. He returns her smile briefly before turning back to me with a scowl. “You’re not seriously going to follow him on that rain forest excursion, are you? I thought you said you hate traveling. And what about work?”
I immediately shut down Trevor’s pessimism. “You know what? You should just go hang with that waitress. You’re distracting me, and I don’t need your unsolicited two cents.”
“My two cents was solicited, actually. Do you not remember begging me to come with you? To make sure you don’t mess this up? To save you from yourself?”
“I appreciate it, but I need to do this my way. I need to know if I’m wasting my time.” Before he can protest, I spin on my heel and march back to the booth.
The glimmer in Brandon’s eyes when he spoke about travel has now dulled. In fact, his expression is generally serious, like it used to be five minutes before exam time. He smiles when I settle across from him, but the joy doesn’t quite reach his eyes. This date has officially taken a turn for the worse.
“I just don’t know if I see myself settling down and having kids, to be honest. I don’t want to waste your time,” he finally confesses.
My stomach bottoms out. While I respect his decision, I’ve always clung to the eventuality of having children. Visions of Brandon and me living a fabulous life in the suburbs all but evaporate. “Really? I mean, I guess I just thought when we broke up the first time that you’d be ready, sometime in the future.”
His face looks pained. A heavy silence fills the space between us as we sip the rest of our respective drinks. In fact, Brandon is chugging his like he’s dying of thirst. Then he twirls his glass, dragging the puddle of condensation around the table in a figure eight. “Sorry, Tara. You’re a great girl. Honestly, the best. I love spending time together. I just . . . I’m not looking to settle down in one place with a family and white picket fence. And if you’re still remotely the same girl you were in college, it wouldn’t be fair of me to give you false hope and lead you on.”
The chaos of mini putters and bar patrons blurs around me as I struggle to recover from his truth bomb. There’s nothing I can do but let out a strained laugh, which sounds reminiscent of an injured whale stranded on the beach.
Another one bites the dust.
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)