chapter fourteen
TREVOR HAS YET to admit Angie exists, aside from joking about her being his spy handler. I’ve long given up pestering him for the truth. Technically, it’s his business. If he doesn’t want me in it, who am I to push?
Either way, during our limited time together over the holidays, I’ve learned it’s all about the small victories with Trevor Metcalfe. For example, he’s now weirdly into The Bachelor. The other night when I was watching Little House on the Prairie, he asked why I wasn’t watching The Bachelor and when did the next episode air? He’s also started reading on the couch with me during the evenings, borrowing the thrillers I haven’t had the heart to read because I don’t take plot twists well.
Ever since I accused him of being secretive, he texts me photos of everything he eats when we’re not together. Today, it’s asparagus-stuffed chicken (because of his New Year’s resolution to eat healthy). In response, I sent him a photo of my prized box of Rainbow Chips Ahoy! cookies, which I impulse-purchased after crossing ex-boyfriend number nine, Mark, off the list.
Mark and I had been members of a book club we both didn’t like but didn’t know how to politely leave. We only dated for a month, but it got serious fast. He even introduced me to his parents and his ailing grandfather, which is why I was shocked when he broke up with me after I casually made a comment about a friend’s engagement ring.
When I messaged Mark randomly on the day after Christmas, he told me straight up he wasn’t interested in meeting but that he wanted his old Beatles T-shirt back. I dutifully excavated it from the Ex-Files box and dropped it off in the mail this morning.
TREVOR: You better save me some of those cookies.
I snicker to myself as I duck into the hospital stairwell. Usually, I spend my breaks in the nurses’ lounge, but after my colleagues caught wind of my ex-boyfriend search, I can’t go a minute without one of them pestering me for details about my dates and the remaining exes. That’s something Crystal warned me about: when you’re open with your personal life online, people feel entitled to know everything about you. And if you dare prefer to keep some things private, you need a good excuse.
I snap a shot of two empty cookie container rows and send it to Trevor.
TARA: No can do. Someone stole my Greek yogurt again from the communal fridge. I need all the nutrients I can get.
TREVOR: I told you to write your name on the yogurt container.
TARA: I did! In double-thick Sharpie.
The ellipses signaling he’s typing pop up and stop numerous times before he finally responds.
TREVOR: Tara, will you accept this link?
The text is followed by a link to the casting call for the new Bachelor season.
TARA: I’m not even going to ask how you came across that.
TREVOR: Yeah, best not to ask. So are you gonna apply??
TARA: No way! I didn’t like Kurt in The Bachelorette. He’s too much of a playboy for me. I don’t think he’s reformed his rakish ways. How would I know he’s there for the right reasons?
TREVOR: Is anyone? Aside from thousands of new social media followers? It could be good for your bookstagram. And you’d make for some good TV.
TARA: I’d be the girl who loses her mind two weeks in because she’s already fallen in love and can’t handle the fact that he has 30 other girlfriends.
TREVOR: Nvm. You may not actually qualify anyways.
TARA: I’m perfectly eligible! Not that I’m applying . . .
He sends a screenshot of the eligibility small print, which specifically states Applicants must never have been convicted of a felony or ever had a restraining order entered against them.
TREVOR: If the car vandalism doesn’t count you out . . .
I send him a selfie of my demonic eyes.
Trevor responds with a shot of his faux-scared face, and it gives me life. He’s in his Boston Fire Department T-shirt, and his hair is perfectly tousled as usual. He’s at work, based on the partially obstructed body of another firefighter in the background.
TARA: FYI I was never charged. And I’ve never had a restraining order against me, thank you very much.
TREVOR: . . . Yet. Btw, I’m off at 6 today. Want me to pick you up from work? It’s New Year’s Eve and I wouldn’t want you to get mugged on the subway again.
TARA: Yes please! Text me when you’re here.
As soon as I hit Send, the stairwell door lurches open behind me.
“Cyber-stalking your exes?” Seth asks ever so casually as he passes by me. He’s one of those people who take the stairs instead of the elevator on purpose and brags about it. Even when we were together, he never bothered to hide his disappointment that I’d take the elevator instead. It got to the point where I was thankful not to be on shift with him so I could take the damn elevator in peace without him shaming me.
I pull my phone to my chest protectively. “None of your business.”
Based on the glint in Seth’s eyes and the upward turn of his thin lips, he’s definitely seen my social media. “You’re making it everyone’s business by blasting it online.” He’s not wrong. But before I can respond, he adds, “You’re actually doing it, huh? The witch-hunt?”
The fact that he’s keeping tabs on my search is an interesting development. In fact, he’s consistently one of my first story viewers. Mel thinks it means he’s still hung up on me, but I know Seth. It’s purely a control thing. “Please don’t call it a witch-hunt. And are you really that shocked I’ve moved on?”
Seth leans against the railing. “I mean, let’s be honest. You don’t let go of things easily.”
I shoot him daggers. “Excuse me for being a little upset that you canceled our wedding.”
Without eye contact, he arrogantly smooths his hand over his gelled hair. “Can I offer you a bit of advice?”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” I nearly shove an entire cookie in my mouth and avert my focus to my phone.
“Whoa, attitude. You don’t have to be so rude. I’m trying to be nice.”
Knowing Seth, he’ll argue with me all day, so I treat him to a painfully fake smile. “Sorry, but I’m good. Really. Though I appreciate the concern. Bye,” I say primly, simply to make him disappear.
My tactic works. Without another word, he continues on down the stairs, out of sight.
• • •
WHEN TREVOR TEXTS at the end of my shift, I’m already in the lobby, itching to get the heck out of here. I’m eager to spend my quiet New Year’s Eve plotting my strategy to reunite with the remaining exes. Daniel and Cody have been consistently leading in the polls as my most popular exes. My followers are suckers for a childhood love reunion romance.
TREVOR: Hey, come to the 6th floor.
TARA: What? Why?
There’s no sign of his car idling in the front entrance, so I double back to the elevator and press the button for floor six. Despite working in this hospital for years, I’ve never ventured to the sixth floor before.
When the elevator doors swing open, Trevor is pacing to the left of the reception desk in front of a glass case holding framed photos of tiny, colorful handprints formed like butterflies. He’s unknowingly turning the heads of everyone within a twenty-foot radius in his fitted fire department T-shirt. When he sees me, he gives me an upward chin nod. His tense stance tells me he’s in one of his withdrawn moods.
Behind him is a massive, vibrant wall mural of lush jungle greenery and a sign that reads Boston Children’s Hospital Heart Center.
Trevor watches me tepidly as I take it all in, stunned.
“What is—?” I start.
“Before you say anything, you should know—”
A tiny brunette figure zips out of a room to the right. It’s a girl, no older than eight. A baggy purple hoodie and striped pajama pants hang off her waiflike figure, further emphasizing her delicate frame. Her face is gaunt and hollow, juxtaposed by an unexpected toothy smile that somehow reminds me of Trevor’s. With a bountiful giggle, she launches herself into Trevor’s arms.
When Trevor picks her up and spins her like a wholesome nineties sitcom dad, my ovaries threaten to erupt. “Jeez, Angie. You’re getting heavier every week.”
Angie.
This is the Angie. The mystery girl he loves.
My theory was so wrong, it’s almost laughable. Angie is a child, not a woman trapped in a loveless marriage of convenience. The basket of candy makes so much more sense now. I fight to work down a massive lump in my throat as a group of chattering nurses pass by.
Playboy Trevor has a child . . . with a heart condition?
The moment my brain settles on that conclusion, Angie drops another bomb. “I gained a pound, Uncle Trev.”
Uncle.
I’m rendered mute, frozen, my mouth hanging open as I digest the newest twist. Angie is his niece. Through my shock, my stomach flips, gutted that Angie is a patient in the heart center. Why would Trevor choose to reveal his niece to me like this? In such a heavy-handed manner? It strikes me as uncharacteristic.
Angie casts a skeptical glance at me. “She your flavor of the month?” she asks bluntly.
I let out an embarrassingly loud hoot. You know you’re a playboy when your kid niece takes a jab at your lifestyle. This girl speaks her truth, and I’m here for it. “I’m not his flavor of anything.”
“She’s my roommate,” Trevor explains, giving her a gentle pat on the head. “And don’t listen to everything your mom says about me.”
I give an awkward jazz-hand wave. “I’m Tara. It’s really nice to meet you, Angie.”
“My real name is Angela, but everyone calls me Angie.” She extends her small hand in a surprisingly strong and purposeful shake.
“I’m Tara. Everyone calls me Tara.” I realize my joke fell flat on its face when she side-eyes me to Trevor before turning around.
Trevor laughs at my expense as we follow her into her room. It’s meant for two patients, although the bed nearest the door is vacant. Angie has a prime spot next to the window, though it has a rather unfortunate view of the parking lot.
Angie hops onto the bed with ease, pulling the hot-pink comforter back to reveal floral sheets tucked with military precision, like Trevor’s bed at the apartment. Trevor gestures for me to take the chair by the window, while he parks himself on the edge of her bed.
He asks about her day, how she’s feeling, whether her mom came by yet, and if they’ll be doing anything special for New Year’s Day tomorrow. He doesn’t ask about her dad, who I’m assuming is his younger and only sibling, Logan. He’s mentioned Logan just once, during a conversation about childhood TV shows, describing how he and his brother used to watch Are You Afraid of the Dark? religiously on Nickelodeon. I make a mental note to confirm the family dynamics later.
The drab wall across from the foot of Angie’s bed is proudly covered with what appears to be her own artwork. Most of the paintings depict cozy houses, blue skies with bright-yellow suns, and big-petaled flowers.
Trevor extends his arms over his head in a labored stretch before standing. “I’m gonna go grab a coffee. Want something from the cafeteria, kid?”
“I’ll take the usual,” she responds with the confidence of a forty-year-old.
Before heading out, he glances at me over his shoulder. “Can I grab anything for you? More cookies?”
“If I eat another cookie, I might hurl,” I admit, offering a weak smile.
I’m a jumble of nerves under the weight of Angie’s Mafia-boss stare when Trevor peaces out, footsteps growing faint. It’s like I’m back in middle school at the height of puberty. There’s no logical reason to be anxious. Angie is a child. And I’m at work, in my own element, technically.
“You’re a nurse?” Angie inquires, breaking the silence.
I nod, gesturing to my scrubs. “I am.”
She gives me a comically skeptical squint. “Why haven’t I seen you around? I know all the nurses.” For a moment, her confidence shakes me, and I almost question my own identity.
“I don’t work on this floor. I work with very sick newborns, actually, in the NICU a couple of floors down.”
I anticipate a sass-filled response, but she gives me a silent nod, like she understands.
“What kind of stuff do you like to do, Angie?” I immediately cringe at my own question. What can she really do while in the hospital? “I mean, when you’re not . . .” Oh God. I’m not prepared for this. No wonder I work with babies. They don’t talk. I inwardly curse Trevor for springing this on me.
A coy smile tugs at her lips. “When I’m not in the hospital?”
I meet her smile and relax my posture ever so slightly. “Can I ask what you have?”
She reaches for the Disney coloring book atop the side table. “DORV.” I’m only vaguely aware of the acronym. I know the D stands for Double and the V is Ventricle. But I can’t recall the middle letters. At the risk of sounding like a fool and losing all credibility in front of Angie, I make a note to Google it.
She continues. “I got a new heart when I was a baby. But now Dr. Lam says I need a new one,” she explains matter-of-factly.
“You’re very brave” is all I can think to say without being patronizing. She’s too mature for the bullshit.
She watches me for a beat before settling on a fresh page in the coloring book. It’s Snow White’s enchanted forest. “I watch a lot of princess movies.”
I perk up. “Who’s your favorite princess?”
“Rapunzel.”
“She’s my favorite too. I love Tangled. Do you have any others?”
“I like Moana too. And Anna. But not Elsa.”
I laugh. “Why not Elsa?”
“She’s kind of boring. She likes being alone. I don’t like being alone.” Isn’t that the truth? Her honesty churns my stomach. With Trevor’s demanding shift schedule, I wonder how often he’s able to visit her.
I hang my head, picturing her sitting in her room all by herself. “I don’t like being alone, either.”
Trevor returns with a package of blue raspberry Jell-O in hand, along with a coffee and a vending machine–size bag of Cheetos, which he drops in my lap.
I thank him profusely. My diet is officially a smear on humanity.
A nurse I recognize from around the hospital over the years follows close behind Trevor. She smiles at me and doesn’t bother to question my random presence. “Time for your meds,” she chirps to Angie.
While the nurse fusses with Angie, Trevor and I give them space, stepping into the hallway. From the way he keeps his head ducked, his hands in his pockets, I think he senses I’m a little shook.
“Why didn’t you tell me Angie was your niece? Your niece who’s a patient at the hospital where I work?” I fury-whisper. “I thought she was some woman you were hopelessly in love with.”
“A woman I’m in love with? Really, Chen?” he repeats, sarcasm abundant. It’s as if I thought Angie was his extraterrestrial friend who required immediate assistance returning to her home planet. I treat him to a frosty look until his expression softens. “I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise when you asked me about Angie. It wasn’t meant to be a big secret. Besides, your theories were too amusing to come right out with the truth.”
I gape at him. “This is how you decide to reveal her identity? And you say I have a flair for the dramatics. Of all people, I would have understood,” I say, lowering my voice as a tiny pale child passes by with a nurse.
“I know, I know. It’s just, Angie doesn’t like when people treat her differently. I thought if you knew going into it, you’d have a warped perception of her. She’s really strong for a kid of her age and in her circumstances.”
I frown, bracing myself. “She said she had DORV?”
“Yeah. Double-outlet right ventricle. In a regular heart, the pulmonary artery connects to the right ventricle, whereas the aorta connects to the left. In Angie’s heart, both the pulmonary artery and the aorta connect to the right ventricle, causing it to circulate oxygen-poor blood,” he explains. “When Angie was born, she had her first heart surgery. But it was so complex, she needed a transplant. She’s never been healthy like most kids, but last year, she started getting really sick and the doctors realized her body was rejecting the heart. It’s rare for that to happen after so long. So she’s on the transplant waiting list again.”
“That’s awful. I can’t even imagine.” I grimace. “But I’m still confused. Why would you want me to meet her?”
He shifts his weight, his gaze to the floor. “I was kind of hoping . . . you’d help me with something.”
“With what?” I ask.
“Her tenth birthday party,” he says earnestly. Angie certainly doesn’t look like an almost ten-year-old, given her tiny frame. Although now her righteous sass makes a lot more sense. “Her mom, Payton, is way too busy with work, so I offered to do it.” Pained, he lets out the remaining air in his cheeks. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, And what about your brother? But I don’t. “I know you’re good with parties and events,” he says. Over the past few days, I’ve been in full planning mode for Crystal’s bridal shower in a few weeks. He’s all too familiar with my Pinterest aesthetic board.
“I am . . .”
“I know it’s a lot to ask, though, and I completely understand if you’re too busy—”
“I’m in.” Given that I cobbled together and revamped my former wedding into a brand-new wedding for Grandma Flo a couple months ago (while emotionally wounded), I’m certain a child’s party will be a piece of cake. “When is it?”
“Not for a month and a half. February fifteenth.”
Exactly seven weeks away. I drum my fingers, Mr. Burns–style. The gears are already turning with the possibilities.
His squared shoulders fall with relief. “Thank you. Seriously.”
The nurse emerges, signaling we can head back in. We stay for a little under an hour, and I watch in amusement as Trevor lovingly teases her about anything and everything, like her latest crushes (“You still in love with the kid on your soccer team?”). She gets him back with some sizzling burns of her own (“Do you still eat dinner all alone every night?”).
When it’s finally time to leave, I promise to come back and visit on my breaks, if she wants me to. This pleases her. She even asks me to write down my schedule so she knows when to expect me, which I take as the highest compliment.
Trevor and I are silent as we wait for the elevator. The beeping and the high-pitched laughter of the women at the nurses’ station echo behind us.
My thoughts are heavy with a whirl of questions and concerns as we step into the elevator. “What are her chances?”
“They’re hopeful we can find a donor.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “But you never know. I want her to have a good birthday . . . just in case.”
There’s a long pause as I take in the expression on his face. After years of dealing with parents in the NICU, I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s terror.
Naturally I want to fold him into a comforting hug, but I settle for a reaffirming pat on the forearm. His muscle flexes underneath my touch.
“Don’t worry, Trev. She’s gonna have a kick-ass party. I’ll make sure of it.”
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—FIGHT CHILDHOOD HEART DISEASE STACK CHALLENGE
[Tara looks somberly into the camera, dressed in a red sweater with tiny white hearts.]
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
Tara: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. Today we’re talking about something non-bookish.
Did you know approximately one out of four children diagnosed with congenital heart defects will require surgery within the first year of life? And potentially more in the future?
In honor of all children diagnosed with congenital heart defects, @Emilybooklover, @MeganReadsRomance, @CurvyFitnessCrystal, and @Melanie_inthecity have teamed up. We will be donating one dollar for every red-and-white book stack any of our followers post throughout the month of January to support local Boston families of children with heart defects.
Further, my grandma (follow her at @LoopsWithFlo) is donating crochet dolls to the children’s hospital for every fifth stack. Don’t miss out! They’re adorable!
COMMENTS:
Wow this is such an amazing cause!
You are amazing Tara.
This is a cause close to my heart. My son was diagnosed with CHD at two years old. He had surgery and he’s perfectly healthy now. I’m posting my stack tomorrow!