chapter seventeen
THE THING ABOUT being an avid romance reader is everyone assumes you’re either a recluse with eleven cats, trying to escape your lonely, pathetic life, or a sex-crazed fiend. No in between.
After four days of texting back and forth with Cody Venner, he’s assumed I’m the latter. Case in point:
CODY: What are you wearing right now?
TARA: My hospital scrubs! Just got off work.
CODY: I can work with that. Easy to take off.
CODY: I’m just about to hop in the shower. Wish you were here.
I’m not entirely sure how we segued from a G-rated conversation about our old teachers to NSFW sexting. This is uncharted territory. Sweet teenage Cody certainly never sent texts of this nature in high school. This is the guy who timidly apologized over and over like a broken record during our first time. As a self-declared born-again virgin, I can say that sexting with Cody (however horribly) is the most action I’ve had in over a year.
Without notice, Trevor appears over my shoulder.
I gasp, red-faced, fumbling to lock my phone screen.
“You all right?” Trevor eyes me cautiously, peeking into my basket. He’s joined me for a thrift shop visit to search for a rainbow leopard-print unitard I spotted here the other day. Its tackiness had made such an impact on me, I’d described it to Trevor in great detail and he concluded it was perfect for Scott’s bachelor party in two weekends.
While Crystal has a tranquil spa day, Trevor and a few buddies plan to sneak into their apartment at the ass crack of dawn to pretend-kidnap Scott (with blindfold and rope). They’re going to toss him in the trunk of Trevor’s car and treat him to an artery-clogging breakfast, followed by an afternoon at the Ninja Warrior gym. I have no idea where the unitard fits into the equation, and it doesn’t matter, because an employee sadly informed us that someone had the gumption to purchase it.
In order to shake off his disappointment, I challenged him to a friendly competition of Find the weirdest shit and he’s accepted the task. So far, I’ve collected a hand-painted bust of E.T. (yes, the alien from the film), as well as a mint-condition ceramic piggy bank of two rabbits going at it with all they’ve got (because it reminds me of Trevor).
When I spin around, he turns away, shielding the discolored, half-disintegrated box under his arm.
“Show me,” I say, popping onto my tiptoes.
“Your items aren’t even close to beating this find,” he goads, lowering the box. It looks like a box of Christmas ornaments, only instead of beautiful glass bulbs, petrifying decapitated doll heads sit snug in the holes. I envision them side by side, arranged in various straight lines, forming a pentagram as part of an elaborate satanic ritual.
I yelp and look away. “Those demented little faces are gonna haunt my dreams tonight.”
He dangles a particularly distressed head by its patchy troll hair. “This one bears a striking resemblance to you, don’t you think? Maybe I can haggle a good deal for you.”
I whack him in the chest. “You are so mean to me. When I die, you’ll regret it.”
He shoves the box of doll heads onto a sparse shelf next to the nonfiction books. “Why? Will you come back and haunt me?”
“Yup. My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend face will be the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning.” I bless him with a short-lived preview of my wide-eyed Joker smile.
The light from the window casts an orange glow off his amused face. “That wouldn’t be so bad.”
It wouldn’t? He lets that statement linger for a fraction too long before my mind short-circuits and I’m compelled to fill the silence. “I’d also turn your pillows tags up, rearrange your spice rack, put the toilet paper roll upside down, and move your keys around. Maybe I’d even play Shania on the radio whenever you’re in the car.”
“I’m flattered you’d spend your afterlife taunting me.”
Would I really waste my ghostly powers on Trevor? Come to think of it, the ability to peep on him while he’s in the shower wouldn’t be too shabby— Oh dear. I’m officially a humungo perv.
I banish the sexual shower thoughts away, mentally securing them with a couple layers of duct tape, just to be safe.
My phone vibrates with a new text from Cody.
CODY: You should send me a photo.
“What are you and Cody texting about?” Trevor asks, pulling a random book on cupcake decorating off the shelf. He flips through with pretend interest.
“Well . . .” I turn my screen, revealing his texts.
His eyes flare as he reads. “Wow. He’s really going for it, huh? I mean, I guess he’s already seen”—he waves a lazy hand downward, toward my lower half—“it all before? Right?”
“He has. But he was never blatantly sexual like this. I don’t know what to say back. I don’t do nudes.”
Trevor continues down the aisle in front of me, scrutinizing their book-filing system. The lack of alphabetical order in this thrift shop is troubling him. “Sorry, Chen. I got nothing.”
“Really? I’m shocked you don’t have a stockpile of nudes.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve never asked a woman for a nude in my life. And dirty texts aren’t my style.” He turns to face me again, his eyes smoldering.
“Hm. I thought you’d be the type who’s into sexting and dirty talk and all that.” My neck erupts with prickles at the memory of my illicit car dream.
He averts his stare entirely, deflecting. Yup. He’s totally a dirty talker. “You’re the one who reads hundreds of sex books a year. Why don’t you pull a line from one of those?” He gestures to the two worn bodice rippers in my basket.
“Dirty talk in romance novels doesn’t translate to real life. I can’t tell him I want to ride his throbbing member with a straight face,” I point out.
An elderly woman pushing a full cart near us clutches her bosom and speeds off in the opposite direction.
I wait for Trevor to chide me for uttering the term throbbing member in a public place, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a distressed groan, his eyes closed. “That was a mental image I didn’t need. This is so weird.”
Something inside of me dies a little as he charges ahead of me. Splendid. I repulse him.
I spend some time regrouping before I follow him into the mystery/thriller section. “Sorry for disturbing you. But I have one last question. Is it appropriate to suggest an alternative location? I don’t want to have virtual shower sex.”
I nearly smash into his chest when he turns around. “I still don’t understand your grudge against the shower.”
“I told you, I don’t do water sex. Talk to me about sex between the stacks in a library. Or anywhere with books.” The moment the words come out of my mouth, I regret them.
He recognizes my slipup, because he clears his throat awkwardly and leans back against a book display, toppling multiple books onto their sides. “Books, huh?” He clumsily rights the books, not bothering to alphabetize them.
I’m very much aware of how small these aisles are. The books are closing in on me, pages threatening to swallow me whole. Trevor’s sizzling stare manages to penetrate. I’m paranoid he can read my mind, which is a flurry of blatantly sexual thoughts. I’m contemplating peeling off my pink cable-knit for some air when Cody texts again.
CODY: Boo, don’t forget to pick up the kids at my mom’s today on your way home.
I reread the text at least three times before I show it to Trevor, who stares at it, confused. “Who the hell is Boo? Is he trying to role-play with me or something?”
He opens and closes his mouth, pressing his lips together, like he’s unsure whether to offer his opinion. “I . . . have a feeling that text wasn’t meant for you.”
Another text comes in.
CODY: Woops. Meant to send that to someone else.
TARA: Who? Your wife?
Little dots appear instantly, and then disappear. Proverbial crickets.
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)
• • •
“DON’T BEAT YOURSELF up over him, Tara. He’s a dog.” Trevor’s face is partially obstructed by the billow of steam.
After I struck Cody’s name off the list, leaving me with only Daniel as my last hope two weeks before the gala, Trevor urged me to relax in the hot tub before making any rash decisions, like calling Cody’s wife to tell him her husband is a cheater.
Unwinding from life stress in the hot tub has become somewhat of a ritual. I’ve come to look forward to these moments. I’m not sure whether it’s the fresh air or the lack of distraction (aside from the times Gerald joins us), but Trevor tends to open up more than usual up here.
A few days ago, he confided in me about another rough day at work. He and the crew were the first on the scene of a fatal car accident that left the driver marred beyond recognition. Brutal as his description was, it’s nice to have someone to talk to about even the worst aspects of the job, like blood, gore, and bodily fluids. As first responders and medical professionals, we’re not supposed to talk in such detail. It makes people squirm, understandably so. But as I’ve come to learn, speaking the words out loud releases them from my head. Talking about it is therapeutic in a way, especially with someone who understands.
The only downer to Trevor’s and my hot tub hangouts is that they do little to stop my illicit dreams. I’ve had at least two more since the car dream. And somehow, they’ve gotten steamier. One even involved the hot tub itself, which is proving to be more awkward than I’d anticipated it would be.
I sink into the warm water until the bubbles hit my chin. “His poor wife and kids. Cody wasn’t the cheating type in high school. He was dedicated to me, basically a human golden retriever. He’s changed so much . . . Then again, I guess that’s men for you.”
Trevor pokes my shin under the water with his toe. “Don’t lump all of us in with him. Not every guy is a cheater.”
“Enough of you are. And then us women are called crazy for being paranoid about it. Seth was like that,” I note bitterly. “He and Ingrid were friends while he and I were together, actually. They were always texting in those last three months. When I’d look at their conversations, they were overtly flirty. When I called him out, he acted like a victim, like I was some monster for not trusting him. And then they were dating right after we broke up. This is why men deserve less,” I grumble, glaring into the night.
“Think of it this way: you dodged yet another bullet,” Trevor concludes. “And now you don’t have to worry about sexting.”
“True. But I won’t lie, it was kind of exciting.” I bite my lip, shifting away from the blast of the jet, which isn’t helping the perma-tension between my legs. “Don’t laugh at me, okay? But I haven’t had sex in over a year.” And I’m having very inconvenient sex dreams about you.
He clears his throat, resting his elbows back on the edge of the tub. “Really? An entire year?”
“Yup. Actually, more like a year and a half. Seth and I weren’t having sex regularly in the last few months.”
He winces in sympathy. “That’s rough.”
“We’d been together for three years,” I say defensively. “At the one-year mark, things tend to just go downhill.”
“How so?” he asks curiously.
I swallow, all too aware I’m discussing my pitiful sex life with my roommate, of all people. “Well, actually that’s not accurate. It was never all that amazing to begin with. He just liked to dive right in there. No warm-up. Never really cared to ask what I liked.”
He slaps his hand over the surface of the water, disturbing his pile of bubbles. “That’s fucked-up. Making sure you were satisfied should have been his number one priority.”
“I guess I can’t really blame him,” I say, shifting in my seat. “He was a busy guy, being a doctor and all.” I withhold the fact that Seth also had a fiery grudge against sex toys for some reason, because the poor bugger thought I was supposed to get off on his skill set alone (lol).
He gives me a horrified look. “Um, no. Being busy isn’t an excuse to be selfish in bed.”
I toss my palm to the sky, growing increasingly frustrated. Not over this conversation, necessarily, but over the stark reality of what I put up with. What I thought was normal. “I don’t know, Trevor. Maybe I just wasn’t great in bed. Maybe he just wanted to get it over with.”
Trevor’s jaw tics as he stares moodily into the middle distance in the space behind my shoulder. “I sincerely doubt that, Tara.” That statement rolls off his tongue with so much ease, a dull tension thrums between my thighs.
I shift in my seat, reminding myself he’s just being nice. As usual. “Either way, my point still stands. After a while, passion fades.”
He shakes his head in haughty disagreement. “No. Nope. Just because you’re in a long-term relationship doesn’t mean you stop having sex.”
“It absolutely does. Ask any stable, long-term couple. Lack of regular sex is practically a rite of passage.”
“Wow. You’re making long-term relationships sound so appealing,” he quips. “Sign me up.”
“The cuddling makes the lack of sex worth it,” I assure him. “Wouldn’t you rather cuddle with . . . say . . . Kyla than bang some random?”
His eyes widen at the mention of his flight attendant ex-girlfriend. After keeping tabs on her Instagram on Trevor’s behalf, which is full of all her extensive travels, I discovered she’s returning to Boston in a few days. I brought this to his attention and spent the better part of last night convincing him to DM her. Finally, he caved and typed Hi. Lucky for him, I was there to peer-review his texts to ensure he didn’t use too many periods so as to come across too harsh.
They agreed to meet up for drinks when she comes back to the city next week. It’s hard to tell whether he’s excited about it or not.
“It’s not as bad as you’re making it seem,” I continue while he distracts himself with bubbles. “It’s kind of like . . . If you eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast every day for years. You still like Pop-Tarts. You’re still attracted to Pop-Tarts. But you don’t feel this carnal urge to devour them every day.”
He smirks. “This is why I switch it up. Smoothies, cereal, omelets. Maybe you should try it sometime. Break out of your comfort zone.”
I’m about to scrunch my nose at the thought of a stranger’s naked body over mine, but I stop myself. Maybe Trevor has a point. Why the hell shouldn’t I switch things up? Maybe a meaningless hookup with a total stranger is just what I need to distract me from my lack of success with my exes and this ridiculous crush on Trevor.
Crystal used to swear by casual sex, claiming Tinder hookups were therapeutic. I never believed her, but maybe I’ve been overly stubborn. Based on the sounds I’ve heard coming from Trevor’s room, perhaps it’s high time I find out what I’m missing.
“You know what? I’m gonna do it,” I say, abruptly launching from the water.
Trevor blinks. “What? Have toast tomorrow instead of a Pop-Tart?”
“No. I’m gonna have a one-night stand!”