chapter fifteen
IT’S A BLINDINGLY sunny mid-January afternoon, or so Trevor tells me. I wouldn’t know, because I’m cloaked in shadow on the couch, curtains drawn like a comic book villain, Grandma Flo’s afghan hiked to my neck. In addition to crafting scenarios in my head that will never come to fruition, I’m two hours deep in YouTube montages of shirtless Chris Hemsworth in a last-ditch effort to boost my morale.
“You’re gonna make a permanent imprint in the couch,” Trevor warns.
“Don’t judge. I’ve never been better. In fact, I’m thriving here,” I croak, peeking at him over the back of the couch. He’s doing his biweekly kitchen deep clean, furiously scrubbing the stovetop. The chemical scent of the industrial-strength cleaner never fails to render me light-headed.
“Yup, you’re the picture of wellness.” He pauses his scrubbing, silently judging my staticky hair. “You need to get out of this apartment. Get some fresh air.” He slants an ear toward the kitchen window. To the fickle, chaotic, unpredictable world.
It’s been a rough start to the New Year, to say the least. After spending the holidays as the only singleton in my family, I decided to go hard on my ex search.
Since Daniel is still unsearchable, I tried my hand at Zion, the campus bookstore guy I went on a few dates with. We walked dogs together at the animal shelter and bonded over books. He’d play the guitar (terribly) for me while I awkwardly nodded and pretended to love it. Things ended when he decided he needed to stop dating and focus on his “studies.”
I don’t follow him on social media anymore, but a little light Google stalking revealed his consulting firm’s phone number. When I called him, we ended up having a half-hour-long chat. He seemed happy to reconnect but made it clear he was “too busy” with his business for romance. I guess some things never change.
After Zion and a few glasses of wine at Mel’s, we did some digging on Cody Venner, my high school sweetheart. Turns out he’s now a big-shot real estate agent. Judging from his photos and short bio on the broker’s website, he has his shit together, despite the fact that the trousers he’s wearing in his professional full-body shot hug every crevice of his undercarriage. Thankfully, I had enough self-awareness to preserve him for a future, less intoxicated version of me.
Because I can’t leave well enough alone, I scraped the bottom of the barrel and reached out to number eight, Linus Batton. Linus and I met through a college friend. He always mispronounced my name, calling me “Taw-rah” instead of “Tare-uh.” I let it go initially—frankly because it made me sound more sophisticated—and by our third hangout, it was too far gone to correct him. Things fizzled out between us naturally when I started working full-time at the hospital while he pursued his master’s in engineering. Since college, he’s been designing bridges, as well as dabbling in triathlons.
Linus has since been a loyal Liker of my posts on my non-bookish Instagram account, which I interpreted as a surefire sign he would be down to father my children.
As per Trevor’s advice, I invited him for a date at a board game café, despite the fact that I don’t like board games. I even limited myself to generic conversation instead of gushing soliloquies full of intense feelings. Through a couple of rounds of Risk (probably my least favorite game of all time, but Linus’s favorite), we bonded over songs we mutually despise (Maroon 5’s latest), notable books we’ve read (all romance for me, all techno-thrillers for him), and the recent season of Deadliest Catch (his guilty pleasure).
I was flying high, so pleasantly surprised at how well things were going that I casually mentioned my failed engagement with Seth. I hit a wound—a fresh, gaping, infected one at that. He tearfully confided that he too canceled his wedding last year with his boyfriend, Zach. He then began wedging him into our conversation at every opportunity. Zach always loved that movie. Oh, Zach and I were supposed to take a hot-air balloon ride for our anniversary. Even when I segued into what I assumed was the safe topic of a YouTube video of a sheep stuck in a tire swing, his eyes welled up because it reminded him (somehow) of Zach.
While I understand the heartache all too well, the last thing I want to do is get tangled up in some sort of love triangle where I’m the evil new girlfriend, the roadblock between Linus and the person he’s truly pining for. So we ended the night on friendly, platonic terms.
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)
“Since you’re my life coach now, do you have any suggestions to turn my day around?” I avert my gaze from the swell of Trevor’s rippling biceps as he attacks the island countertop with a steel sponge.
“Who says I’m your life coach?”
“Me. Obviously.”
He huffs. “That title comes with too much power. Besides, you do not want me giving you life advice. And even if I were qualified, you wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”
I pout. “I listen! Most of the time.”
“Sure you do.” He snickers. “Why don’t you declutter your room? Or better yet, burn the Ex-Files items of the dudes already crossed off the list?”
I perk up, perching my elbows on the back of the couch. It might be therapeutic to get rid of some of it. “Like burning them in a cleansing ritual? Would you help me?”
“No. I’m just kidding. I can’t support open fires. Why don’t you go sit in a coffee shop and talk to people?” he suggests.
“That’s a possibility. I do like coffee shop people. They’re always willing to spill the tea.” I drum my chin, considering. “What are you up to today? I tried texting Mel and Crystal, but they’re both busy.”
He cocks his thick brow. “Sounds like I’m your third choice.”
“You’d be my first choice if you didn’t give me so much attitude.” I give him a pointed look. “Picture this: We people-watch on the Common. Maybe go to the plant store for a new succulent. I could even buy you a snack, as long as it’s under five dollars. I’m broke.”
“Whoa, you’re really threatening me with outright fun,” he says dryly.
“Oh, come on. You need fresh air too. You’re going to poison us both with chemicals if you keep cleaning.”
He finally lifts his gaze from the countertop. “I’d love to freeze my nuts off with you outside, with no snacks, but I have to get to work soon.”
I point to our side-by-side schedules posted on the fridge. “You’re not on the schedule tonight.”
“I know. I have the food drive tonight.”
“Food drive?”
“We do it every year at the firehouse. Go around in the fire trucks and pick up donations around the city.”
That sounds heaps more appealing than lying on this couch, staring into the void. Then again, just about anything trumps that. “Can I come?” I ask meekly.
“You really want to come to work with me?” He squints, confused.
I barrel-roll off the couch and shimmy onto the stool in front of the island. “I swear, I won’t get in the way. Manual labor isn’t my strength, but—”
“We leave in an hour.”
• • •
MY TOES TAP in my boots as I endeavor to find a half-decent radio station. Trevor is laser focused on the snowy road. I’m tempted to prod him a little, ask what he’s thinking about, but I refrain, recalling how annoyed Seth used to get when I asked him that same question.
Curiosity aside, I’m hesitant to disturb the peaceful ambience. Trevor’s quiet brings me a sense of comfort. In the presence of anyone else, I usually feel an unspoken obligation to maintain lively conversation. But with Trevor, I don’t feel the pressure to do anything but just exist.
The silence can no longer be sustained when Shania Twain’s “Any Man of Mine” filters through the speakers. Without permission, I crank the volume and belt the intro with abundant soul, church choir–style.
Trevor casts me a concerned side eye. His mouth is fixed in a stern line, but his knee is bouncing along with his fingers drumming the steering wheel. Even a macho dude like Trevor isn’t immune to the mood-boosting magic of a Shania Twain classic.
“You like this song,” I conclude, pleased with my discovery. “You’re tapping your knee to the beat.”
He purposely stops tapping like a miserable curmudgeon. “Nope.”
I reach over the console to shake his biceps. It’s more like a pathetic attempt at a shove, because my palm doesn’t come close to spanning that solid mass of muscle.
My head tilts like an eager puppy listening to the sound of kibble trickling into an empty dish. I expected him to defend this until the end times. “Can I ask—” I stop myself before he can cut in and say no. “Why do you hate when I ask if I can ask a question?”
“Because it freaks me out.”
“Why?”
“There’s no question more anxiety-inducing than Can I ask you a question? It could be anything. You could be asking me to divulge all my darkest secrets, or what I ate for lunch.”
“Nine times out of ten, I’m asking what you ate for lunch. Anyways, I was going to ask, why don’t you sing songs you like? You only hum your T. Swift shower song. Why not belt the lyrics too?”
He lets out a single laugh, checking over his shoulder before seamlessly merging into the lane. “Yeah, that’s not my thing, sweetheart.”
I ignore the way my stomach flips when he says sweetheart in that thick, sexy, I-just-woke-up voice. Logically, I know it’s pure sarcasm. But that has no bearing on my physiological response. I’m very aware of the many layers I’m wearing underneath my peacoat. My cream-colored, chunky-knit sweater suddenly scratches against my skin like an itchy heated blanket. When I reach to close the vent, Trevor notices and promptly turns the heat down two notches. He also turns off my seat warmer.
The rest of the drive is silent, save for my singing. I think he’s grateful to escape the car when we pull into the parking lot of the redbrick firehouse. It’s wide with four massive garage doors, each housing a red truck. As I step out of Trevor’s car, I’m hit with the scent combination of gasoline, rubber, and a faint hint of smoke.
Scott comes marching around the corner of the engine bay, fully suited in fire gear, his helmet tucked under his arm. He double-takes when he spots me, running a hand through his thick, overgrown hair, which he’s very proud of. “Hey, what are you doing here?”
“She needed some sun. She was slowly turning into a vampire,” Trevor tells him nonchalantly. “I’m just gonna go gear up. Be right back.” He gives me a playful nudge to the back of the shoulder.
Scott waits for Trevor to be out of earshot before giving me a quizzical expression. “That was weird,” he mutters under his breath.
“What was weird?”
“Oh, nothing.” He drops his eyes to his boots, quickly changing the subject. “Hey, did you know Trevor got promoted before the holidays?”
I slow-blink. “What? A promotion?” Why wouldn’t he tell me?
“He’s the new lieutenant.” Scott’s expression softens. “Don’t take it personally that he didn’t tell you. He doesn’t tell anyone anything.” Before I can respond, he ushers me along. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew.”
Meeting the team distracts me from angsting over Trevor’s secrecy. Notably, there’s Kevin, who is the first to tell me that under no circumstances will he lift a finger today, due to a back injury. Paula is one of three women at the station and is grateful for my presence. She even insists I need to ride in her truck to debrief about the latest season of Euphoria. Everyone is laid-back, boasting friendly demeanors that hit me like fresh ocean air, compared to the polluted smog that is the hospital, with its endless drama.
And then there’s Cameron. He’s built like a lumberjack, towering over even Scott, who’s well over six feet.
Cameron introduces himself with a burly handshake. “How you doin’?” he asks in a Joey Tribbiani New York–style accent. “You’re Scotty’s sister-in-law, huh?”
“Soon-to-be sister-in-law,” I correct, shooting Scott a look. “Although they’re eloping to tropical paradise without me. Leaving me behind in the dead of winter.”
Cameron gifts me with a Calvin Klein model smile. “Hey, it’s not so bad. I’m here in Boston.”
Before I can react to his blatant confidence, Trevor materializes behind me. “Ready to go?” he asks, eyeing Cameron.
I go to respond, but the visual of Trevor suiting up changes life as I know it. Men in uniform have never sparked the fanny flutters, until now. Even in a completely shapeless jacket, his sex appeal has skyrocketed to new heights. The whole thing plays out in my mind in slo-mo. Flexing tendons, strained forearms, all dipping and twisting like art in motion.
The corner of his mouth quirks up when he notices me blatantly ogling him like a tiger awaiting a hunk of raw, bloody meat to be tossed into its enclosure. I think I may have just ovulated.
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
My cheeks burn, and I do a one-eighty to beeline for the first available truck, which happens to be Cameron’s.
As I take my first step, Trevor gives the collar of my peacoat a soft tug. “Nope. Not that one. You’re my responsibility today.” His tone is neutral, although I can’t help but feel as if I’m burdening him. Like he’s obliged to babysit me.
I shrug it off, following him into the correct truck. There are two face-to-face seats on either side in addition to a row along the back. He promptly points me toward a face-to-face seat, taking the backward one. Kevin is our driver. Sadly, I’m not in Paula’s truck, or Scott’s. But the other two guys, Ernie and Jesse, are supportive of my suggestion to crank the music.
Everyone but Trevor belts a Queen song as the truck barrels down the city streets toward the first pickup location. Ernie even offers me a red Twizzler. I thank him, peeling one out before passing the bag to Trevor. When he reaches for it, I catch the tail end of a tattoo that extends to his wrist.
“When did you get your first tattoo?” I ask through a sticky bite.
“When I graduated high school. I moved to Arizona for a while for college. I was missing home when I got this one.” He pulls back the sleeve to reveal an artfully designed compass on the inside of his wrist.
“You were in college?”
“Yup. Had a scholarship for rugby.”
More breaking news. Yet another major detail about Trevor Metcalfe I was unaware of. I try to ignore the press of our knees together as the truck slants downhill. Trevor doesn’t seem to notice or care, because he doesn’t shift away.
“I had no idea you played rugby at the college level.”
“I dropped out after the second year.” He catches my concerned-mother reaction and quickly adds, “Came home and joined the BFD.”
“Why did you leave?”
He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Lots of reasons. I got injured after the second season. But mostly because I hated being away from home. And Angie was born during my second year. I knew my brother wasn’t stepping up, so it didn’t feel right to be so far away,” he says. “My grandma passed away in that same year too.”
“She must have been really proud of you for getting a scholarship.”
His jaw tics, and he averts his stare to his lap, clearly done with the conversation.
One layer at a time with Trevor, I remind myself as we arrive at our first stop. It’s a local grocery store. The owner and staff wait in the entrance as Trevor and the crew retrieve the food donations. A reporter in a vibrant emerald jacket hovers on the sidelines, snapping photos. Trevor blinks away the flash as he squats down to lift a box of canned soup.
“You don’t like the paparazzi?” I prod.
He passes the box to Kevin, who grumpily agreed to take on the role of stacking the boxes in the truck. “Nah. I’d rather do it without all the fanfare—” He pauses when a stout, balding man approaches, his hand extended.
“I was told you’re the man in charge here. I’m Yoni, the store owner,” he says.
Trevor meets his handshake. “Good to meet you, Yoni. I’m Trevor.”
“I just wanted to thank you guys before you head out. It means a lot.”
“We couldn’t do it without the donations. So thank you,” Trevor tells him.
Yoni nods, casting a proud gaze at the stack of boxes in the truck. “The food bank is a cause close to my heart. As a young boy, my family relied on it. I do what I can to give back.”
Trevor gives him a terse nod and a slap on the back. “Mine did too, man. Full circle, huh?”
I bow my head at the revelation as we return to the truck. I feel terrible for all the times I teased him for being cheap. An apology is necessary, though now doesn’t seem to be an appropriate time.
We repeat the pickup at five more locations. One is another grocery store, while the other four are random neighborhood checkpoints. And by the time our route is over, the truck is stuffed to capacity with donations. With each pickup, Trevor’s mood lightens. At one point, I even catch him mouthing the words to a Bon Jovi classic. It’s not much, but I’ll take it.
The last stop is to drop the boxes off at the food bank. Even I partake in the labor, taking mostly the boxes with pasta and other light goods.
By the time it’s all over, Trevor and I are flat-out exhausted. In the car, I find myself lazily studying his profile. I never noticed before, but the man has a beautiful nose. Perfectly straight. Proportionate to his face. It’s slightly pointed, almost pretty boy, contradicting the rest of his gruff exterior.
When he side-eyes me, I blink, stopping myself from staring at him.
“Hot tub when we get back?” he asks, moving a hand over his right shoulder. He winces slightly as he reaches for his seat belt.
“Yes. I need it. Is your shoulder okay?”
“Yeah, all good. It acts up once in a while. I dislocated it in rugby, and again a couple of years back during a fire call. It hasn’t been the same since.” He reaches over the console and nudges my arm. “Hey, thanks for coming today.”
“Thanks for bringing me, even if I annoyed you.”
He pins me with a small smile as we pull out of the parking lot. “Not at all. Everyone loves you. Especially Cam,” he adds, his expression unreadable.
I snort at the memory of Cameron flirting with me when we reconvened at the food bank. He strategically positioned himself next to me while we unloaded the items. And while he’s a little too bro-ish for my liking, the attention was kind of nice, especially after my shit dating luck. “You think?”
“You make everyone smile.”
I beam like a child in a toy store. I shouldn’t get such a soaring high from a simple statement of affirmation from a friend, but I do. Mel and Crystal compliment me on the regular. But praise from noncomplimentary Trevor feels hard-earned, like junk food after working out versus junk food after lazing about on the couch all day.
We drive a couple of miles in silence. The steady squeak of the wipers nearly soothes me to sleep. With every swipe, my lids grow heavier. When my eyes close completely, his voice snaps me back to full consciousness. “My mom died when I was thirteen. In a fire.”
I pause for a moment, so as to ensure I’ve heard him correctly. “What?”
“You keep asking why I became a firefighter.”
I sit up in my seat, pin straight, cracking the window for some much-needed fresh air.
His face flickers with annoyance when I open the window, so I savor the blast of cold air for a brief few seconds before closing it again. “Summer going into eighth grade. My mom was napping inside after a double shift. My brother and I were outside with some neighborhood kids. A woman who lived in our building came running out, screaming about smoke in the building. The fire had blocked all the exits. Two firemen had to go in through the window to get her. She passed away later that day from the smoke inhalation.” His tone is emotionless, but his face is pained.
My gut clenches, unable to imagine. “I’m so sorry, Trevor.”
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago,” he says, his eyes on the road. “Logan and I went to live with my grandma after that. The one who taught me how to bake.”
“Were you close with your grandma?”
“Yeah. That woman was no bullshit. We always joke that Angie is her reincarnation,” he says with a small smile. “When she took us in, she had to take on another job to support us. She was always worried about how we’d get through the month. I felt like shit about that. Sometimes I wonder if it’s our fault she kicked the bucket early, you know? Like maybe all the extra stress caused it.”
“I doubt it. And even if it did, I can guarantee she wouldn’t have had it any other way.” I pause, turning toward him. “That must have been really hard. Losing your mom and your grandma.”
“It was,” he admits. “Anyway, was that personal enough for you?”
“I don’t want you to feel pressured to talk about things like that. Especially if it upsets you,” I tell him. I let a few beats of silence go by before speaking again. “Congratulations, by the way, on your promotion. Scotty told me.”
“Thank you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Just didn’t think it was that big a deal,” he says.
“It is to me,” I assure him. I rest my head back against the seat, cursing myself for the shit timing of my fatigue.
“You get one more question, and then no more talking, okay?”
This perks me up momentarily. I rack my brain for a juicy one. “Okay. If you could picture any woman to break your non-relationship spell, what would she be like? Hypothetically.”
He goes stiff as a board. “I dunno, Tara. What do you think she’d be like?”
My lids close as I visualize. “Hmm . . . Beautiful. Probably the type who would watch sports with you. Eat a burger. Drink beer. One of the not-like-the-other-girls.”
“What’s that?”
“Exactly how it sounds. The girl who doesn’t care what anyone thinks. Isn’t needy or anything like a stereotypical girl. Like Seth’s girlfriend, Ingrid.”
He chuckles. “So . . . the opposite of you.”
“Basically. You know how in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, supercool Kate Hudson pretends to be a clingy, emotional, fern-obsessed girl to make Matt McConaughey dump her?”
He clears his throat. “No, but go on.”
“I always hated that movie because that girl was me. I was the annoying one that no guy would ever want to date. Anyway, I think that’s the kind of girl you’d be with. The cool one.”
He watches me for a moment. “You’re tired. You should take a nap. Save your voice before you talk my ear off,” he instructs, giving me an unexpected yet gentle squeeze on the forearm.
I can barely even register the delicious scorch of his touch. His eyes ensnare mine unexpectedly, and for some reason, I can’t look away. His small smile is the last thing I see before my lids flutter to a close.
• • •
ALL I SEE is beige. The fabric of the interior ceiling of Trevor’s car. There’s a hot sensation pooling in between my thighs, countering the coolness of the car window soothing the side of my head.
My skin is a live wire. Tingly, pulsing, and sensitive to the tiniest gust of air. Soft lips dance past my chest, making a trail down the valley of my stomach. I can’t see his face, but I know it’s Trevor. The tiniest scrape of his stubble sends a ripple through me. I’m counting my breaths, because if I don’t, I’ll surely pass out. And with each inhale, his spicy scent overpowers everything else. It’s all around me and I want to bask in it like a load of warm, freshly dried laundry.
My breath quickens as his lips move past the curve of my belly button, over the groove of my hipbone, and down. One hand gently palms my breasts while smoothing over my thigh, parting my legs.
Somehow, I’m already undressed from the waist down, sweater bunched up around my stomach, and for some odd reason, I’m not surprised about it. There’s pressure in my thighs as rough fingers dig into the softness of my flesh.
I angle myself upward to run my fingers through his hair, pulling in a light tug. He teases the patch of skin above where I desperately want him. Like the pain in the ass he is, he takes his lips off my skin and meets my eyes in a seductive challenge.
“Keep going,” I whisper, arching my back to push against his compliant mouth.
My vision is a blur of stars as the pressure crescendos higher and higher and—
Click, click. Ding.
My eyes fly open. A harsh flood of fluorescent-yellow light hits me straight in the eyeballs, rendering me near blind. The sweet, chemical aroma of gasoline floods my senses as I force-blink my spotty vision away.
I let out a muffled cry. For the briefest of seconds, I think I’ve been kidnapped—until I take in the finger-drawn lopsided heart in the fog on the windshield I drew earlier in the firehouse parking lot. Past the window, there’s a painted number 35 on the concrete wall that tells me I’m in the apartment parking garage.
Trevor grunts as he hauls himself out of the driver’s seat.
A brief glance downward tells me I’m still in my clothes too, bundled in my coat. Layered leggings, wool socks, and boots laced tight.
Trevor is certainly not in between my legs. And his mouth certainly isn’t down there, despite the warm, tingly sensation I feel, as if he really were.
Reality settles around me, like pixels slowly but surely filling a screen.
Hello, bleak reality.
It was a dream.
I should be grateful that I haven’t been taken by some psycho who plans to hold me captive as one of three wives in his secret torture dungeon to birth an army of offspring, but I’m pissed. Frustrated. Like a kid reaching for a decadent piece of chocolate cake on the counter, only to have it snatched away by a health-conscious parent at the very last second.
I’ve received my fair share of oral sex, but no one has made me feel like that. Like he knew exactly what I wanted, without words. Sure, it was erotic and dangerous, but there was a comfort that’s unexplainable. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t fret about how I looked, or sounded, or tasted. Then again, it wasn’t really me.
It was just a dream, I remind myself. It wasn’t real. The feeling wasn’t real. Trevor and I are platonic. Friends only. We do not see each other naked (except accidentally). And we are most certainly not together, despite how perfect it felt.
I clutch my throat, practically choking myself as I come to terms with the horror. I had a sex dream about Trevor. And I liked it. Really liked it.
This means nothing, I tell myself. Dreams are nothing but random compilations of subconscious thoughts, as logical Mel would say. Don’t put too much stock in it. Who wouldn’t have a naughty dream or two about a person they’ve heard having sex through very thin walls?
An impatient tap on the passenger window snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts. “You coming?” Trevor’s deep voice is muffled from behind the glass.
Nope. Not anymore. Thanks for reminding me.
I need an intervention, and fast.