Chapter Twelve

chapter twelve

MY MIND IS fuzzy static.

I can neither do nor think of anything but the quickened pace of my breath and the dizzying way Trevor has pinned me in place with just one look.

Instinctively, I sweep my tongue over my bottom lip. Electricity courses between us in wavy cartoon lines. The mental barrier I’ve placed to convince myself he is not my type has vanished into a poof of swirling black and purple smoke.

I don’t know if it’s the liquid courage, the fact that my date with Brandon went sideways, or the steam from the hot tub, but I do the unthinkable. I inch closer, pressing my arm flat against his. Close enough that his face blurs entirely. He doesn’t move, allowing the radiating heat of our labored breath to collide and pass through each other, in and out.

My heart thrashes wildly, and I’m convinced I can hear his too, syncing with mine in a tangled, pulsing rhythm. Encouraged by the comfort of our proximity, I position my head just so, for the perfect alignment of our lips. He holds himself there, tentative, the tip of his nose grazing mine like a whisper.

I ache for him to put me out of my misery, close that millimeter of desperate air, and brush his soft lips against mine.

But instead, his eyes snap open, wide with fear as I approach. He’s on his feet faster than the Flash, dodging me like I’m a toothless sex predator.

He rakes his hair haphazardly, wobbly in his footing. “Uh, I should get to bed. Early shift tomorrow.” His gaze is glued to the floor as he careens down the hallway, bolting for his bedroom.

If I were a normal person, I’d shake the whole thing off and yell a casual “Goodnight,” like absolutely nothing happened. But when I move my lips, nothing comes out. My body is like my college PC laptop I never shut down. Loud. Disruptive fan. Overheating when more than two tabs are open simultaneously. Powering down at the most inconvenient of times.

I’m rigor mortis as the stranglehold of humiliation prevents me from doing anything but wish for a swift, painless death.

LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—AWKWARD KISSES

[Tara wears an ill-fitted fluorescent workout top and messy bun. She lies on a red mat at the gym. Unlike the patrons in the background, she is not doing physical activity.]

EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT

TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. Today we’re talking about kissing. Now, there are a lot of awkward kisses in books and film. Usually, I’m here for them either way. But one thing I’ll never get on board with? Kissing in the rain. Sure, the allure of a passionate, wet lip-lock may be what some consider spontaneous. Marginally sexy, even. Nature makes people do weird shit. But is the short-lived thrill worth resembling a drowned sewer rat and getting pneumonia? Unlikely.

And even worse than rain kisses are upside-down, Spiderman-style kisses. Who does this? Are the mechanics of a normal, upright kiss not stressful enough? I have a hard enough time deciding if I’m going right or left or if I’m top- or bottom-lip heavy.

Have you ever experienced an awkward kiss that made you want to dissolve into dust and nothingness? Tell me about it in the comments below!

•   •   •

FROM THE SWEAT raining down my face, one would presume I’ve been waterboarded by a hostile government or murderous terrorist group.

Nope. I’m just here in my own special little ring of hell, sweating out my regret in Crystal’s Muscle Fit class with twenty other red-faced patrons. In the last few months, she started teaching in-person classes at the gym, which are in such high demand, people book weeks in advance.

Crystal observes my poor biceps curl form like a drill sergeant. “Keep engaging your core. Just ten more seconds and we’re done,” she instructs in her encouraging-trainer voice.

Beside me, Mel is holding strong in those last few curls, barely breaking a sweat.

Beads of salty, alcohol-infused sweat seep past my lash line, stinging my eyeballs. I’m now half-blind, and the pop tune blasting over the sound system certainly isn’t doing much for my stamina. When my sweaty fingers lose their grip on the barbell, I know it’s game over. It lands with a thud at my feet, turning the heads of the other ladies in class.

Mel hands me my water bottle, and I refrain from dousing myself like a heroic Olympic decathlete crossing the finish line to victory. I’ve never sweat so much in my life. This can’t be normal, or healthy.

I’d do unspeakable things for a shower right now—preferably the type where I’d do nothing but stand there in the steam, critically evaluating my life decisions, letting the water wash away the glaring memory of the dumpster fire that was last night.

Being turned down by two separate men in the span of two hours is a first—with the exception of New Year’s Eve circa ninth grade, when, drunk off two wine coolers, I valiantly confessed my love for not one but two crushes while rocking a distressed-denim vest.

But at least teenaged me wasn’t stuck in a tiny, eight-hundred-fifty-square-foot apartment with them. Avoiding Trevor Metcalfe, my off-limits roommate whose bedroom is a mere five feet from mine, is not so simple.

I haven’t seen him since last night, after he lurched away from me like I was an ailing troll. Immediately, I hauled ass to bed before I could make matters worse. By the time I woke up this morning, Trevor was long gone for his early shift.

In the light of day, the weight of last night’s error in judgment is staggering. To the point of indigestion. Sure, our shoulders and noses touched for a hot second. We may have even flirted a little. He may have gazed longingly at my lips. But flirting is Trevor’s default mode. He can’t help himself. And for all I know, maybe he was simply staring at a zit on my face.

The blunt truth remains—none of it meant a thing. We don’t want the same things, a crucial consideration, as he pointed out himself. Besides, there’s still this mysterious Angie person in the picture.

Why did my traitorous brain venture into the forbidden and unavailable? Why did I let my followers coerce me into thinking Trevor would be a good idea? Why must I be so overeager in every aspect of life?

I contemplate my options as Crystal confidently leads the class through a series of cooldown stretches on the mats, which are more on my level. I’m grateful for the chance to be horizontal.

Once the class is over, Mel and I stick around on the mats, watching Crystal do a quick ab workout on her own.

Crystal claps her palms together. “Scott and I . . .” Her voice trails off, and she stares at me like she’s about to drop some bad news. “We decided to elope in March. In St. Lucia.”

I don’t entirely blame her. When I was planning my wedding to Seth, dealing with the Chen side of the family was no joke. First, Grandma and Grandpa Chen insisted on inviting at least twenty “close friends” they play mah-jongg with. This includes one woman who insisted on a plus-one for her deceased husband’s urn, which she brings with her wherever she goes. Then there are Dad’s three siblings and ten adult cousins, many of whom are feuding and refuse to be seated at the same table.

Crystal and Mel eye me expectantly, noticing I’m staying tight-lipped. Truthfully, I’m picturing Dad’s face, which will be one of cutting disappointment. He’s been waiting ages to host one of our weddings. Fatherly pride aside, he lives for a good party, particularly if he gets an excuse to be in the limelight.

Belatedly, I shrug. “I completely support whatever you guys want to do, so long as you livestream your ceremony. I want to live vicariously,” I add.

Crystal shakes her head. “He was up for whatever I wanted to do, as long as we get married as soon as possible. He’s mostly excited to go on a honeymoon.”

Mel sits upright and gives her a subdued aww. After a string of short flings in the past year, she’s in a phase where the sheer mention of commitment makes her full-body shudder. Her commitment phobia aside, I understand her decision. I’d be off men too if my last boyfriend rocked an exclusive wardrobe of turtlenecks.

Aware of Mel’s less-than-enthusiastic outlook on love, Crystal tries to backtrack with an unromantic ramble about the merits of saving for a down payment on a home instead of “frivolously” spending it all on one day.

Mel avoids my eyes, struggling to pick at a hangnail on account of her sparkly acrylics. “Absolutely not. I like my life the way it is. I get to focus all my energy and attention on my business without having to feel guilty. I don’t have to compromise what I want to watch on Netflix or what I want to eat for dinner.”

She studies her coral running shoes, obviously not eager to dwell much longer. “Nope. I have Doug to keep me warm at night.”

She cracks a smile while not-so-discreetly worming out of my embrace. “Take it from me. Men are burdens to be abandoned at the first sign of trouble. Anyway, someone tell me something fun and scandalous. I just killed the mood.”

I volunteer myself as tribute. She lives for gossip, and I’m willing to sacrifice my dignity for her temporary amusement. “Okay, fun story, I tried to kiss Trevor last night.”

Crystal propels upward in a hard-hitting crunch, bewildered. “What fresh hell? You tried to kiss Trevor?”

Mel slaps the mat enthusiastically. “I saw that coming a mile away.”

The pinks in their cheeks darken to crimson with secondhand embarrassment as I rattle off the grisly details of last night.

I don’t know why, but I feel an overwhelming urge to come to his defense. “Didn’t he give you solid advice for grand-gesturing Scotty?” Last summer, Crystal broke up with Scott temporarily when a photo of the two of them went viral and a bunch of trolls fat-shamed her. Trevor helped her orchestrate a grand apology right here in the gym where they first met.

Mel’s concern transitions into a knowing grin. “I think you should sleep with him. Just once. Get it out of your system.”

I shudder at the thought of a one-night stand. With my roommate. Of all people. “God, no. Do you even read the romance books I loan you? Every time romance characters have sex to get it out of their systems, they end up hopelessly attached. And besides, Trevor doesn’t like me that way.” I look away, suddenly very interested in the woman near the window squatting what appears to be my body weight.

Since move-in day, I’ve lived with the truth that I am not Trevor’s type. I held on to that fact with pride, like a lifeline. Without the unspoken sanctity of our strictly platonic relationship, my perfectly stable living situation goes straight down the tube.

I frown. “Why are you looking at me like I need an intervention?”

Mid-crunch, Crystal levels me with a hard stare. “Because I know how you get. You get obsessed. Dickmatized, as the great Ali Wong would say. You would fall in love with a tree branch if you spent enough time with it.”

My first instinct is to go on the defensive and remind her of her own crappy exes. But to be fair, she isn’t saying anything that isn’t true.

I’ve been this way my entire life, misinterpreting kindness for affection, ready to launch into fantasy mode at any given moment (He looked in my general direction, so it must mean he wants me to be his wife. Right?). I’m like an overenthusiastic dad on a trampoline who jumps a little too far to the left and lands crotch-first on the springs.

Perhaps the most pathetic part is that I’ve been in a staring contest with my phone all day, waiting for Trevor to text me. To say something. Anything. To acknowledge what happened. When my phone screen illuminates in my hand with a notification from Instagram, I check my texts for the seventy-fifth time, confirming I have exactly zero.

I desperately need to get my priorities in order, which do not include Trevor, who is so fundamentally wrong for me, it’s almost laughable. I must keep my eye on the prize, securing my second-chance love story, definitely not getting my heart broken yet again.

Crystal readjusts her messy topknot. “Impossible. He’s a straight-up man-whore. Not for you. You’ve come so far since Seth and the wedding. You’re finally happy again, living on your own. I just don’t want Trevor bludgeoning all your progress to death.”

They’re right. They’re both completely right, and I know it. The last thing I need is to pack up my life for the third time this year. I need stability, desperately.

Crystal looks unconvinced. “Promise?”