chapter nineteen
ARE YOU AND Uncle Trev an item?” Angie so bluntly wants to know. She casts a suspicious eye at the folded red construction paper in my hand. Arts and crafts with Angie during lunch break has become a regular routine. We’re making Valentine’s Day cards today.
I’m particularly thankful for the opportunity to pretend I’m a child for an hour. Prior to lunch, we had our bimonthly NICU all-staff meeting. Seth used the opportunity to launch a number of petty, non-job-related claims.
People have been stockpiling the good Keurig pods.
People have been clogging the kitchen sink with their lunch containers.
When the meeting was adjourned, I overheard him updating another doctor in the lounge about my ex-boyfriend search after my latest social media update, boisterously delighting in the fact that I only have one ex left. He went on to ramble about how embarrassing and unprofessional it is to post these things and how I must have “scared off the other nine.”
I have a working theory that Seth suffers from youngest-child syndrome. His three older brothers are a bunch of bullies whose immediate instinct is to pretend to wrestle in any given social situation. As the smallest, he always got bulldozed. He was relegated to the scraps, the leftovers. He never got to choose what to watch on television. And because the poor lamb missed out on so many cartoons, he’ll wield his power any way he can have it.
Crystal picked up on this straightaway. The first time I brought Seth home to meet the family, he debated her on a variety of fitness and nutrition topics, brushing off her credentials because he was a doctor. The entire family was outwardly disturbed when I proposed. When we broke things off, Crystal sat me down with a prepared list of every reason Seth was wrong for me.
For the longest time, I was convinced she was just trying to make me feel better. She didn’t know the real Seth, the one who saved the lives of newborn babies on the regular and showered me with affection in those first few months of our relationship. But the more he shows off who he really is, the easier it gets.
I’m grateful to have Angie to occupy my mind and prevent me from spending my lunch hour in the stairwell, plotting revenge scenarios I’ll never have the guts to carry out.
My lips part in a blend of shock and amusement at Angie’s question about her uncle. “Me and him? An item? As in dating? No way.” I stare down at my card for Trevor. It’s totally non-romantic, or so I assumed. I’ve cut out a mini succulent in a flowerpot with a smiley face. For a dude who was vehemently opposed to my succulents, I think they’ve grown on him. In fact, he’s been watering them for me, single-handedly keeping them alive.
I’ve written My Life Would Totally Succ Without You across the top of the card in faux calligraphy. This card screams friend-zone. At least, I thought it did. Technically, I’ve made the eyes tiny hearts. Under Angie’s critical eye, I’m now paranoid Trevor will mistake it for a declaration of love, which is the last thing I need.
“But you live together,” Angie reminds me, carefully cutting her next red heart along the pencil line.
As I draw over the heart eyes, transforming them into innocent, totally casual circles, I remind myself I’m attracted to Trevor purely on a physical level only. It’s just a minuscule, microscopic, basically nonexistent crush. If I repeat that enough times, it must be so. Besides, Trevor Metcalfe doesn’t do love.
“We live together as platonic friends.” My tone is clipped as I press down a loose corner of one of the succulent leaves where the glue didn’t hold.
When she scrunches her nose and asks what platonic means, I’m reminded I’m speaking to a nine-year-old, despite her disgruntled-adult vibes. Time for a crash course in the bleak reality of love.
“Platonic means strictly friends. No romantic feelings. At all,” I explain, holding the booklet of construction paper to obstruct her view of my flaming cheeks. “Do you have any friends who are boys?”
She smothers a cutout heart with white school glue. “My best friend Dylan is a boy. He’s not cute. And he only shares his snacks with Sally.” She grimaces, apparently displeased with this Sally person.
“Aw, give him a break. He’s probably in love with her.” I let out a nostalgic sigh, abandoning Trevor’s card to start on Crystal’s. “My first crush, Daniel, gave me butterflies. Every year on Valentine’s Day, I’d give Daniel the biggest, most extra card. He’d give me a full-size chocolate bar when everyone else got minis.” If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.
Daniel and I had an adorable meet-cute on the first day of kindergarten I’d be proud to tell my grandchildren about. He was wearing denim overalls and an oversize red ball cap, which I later learned covered the botched bowl cut his mother had given him. He was sitting in the sandbox, ugly crying and being an overall miserable little twat.
Daniel never grew to like other kids. I didn’t mind his antisocial tendencies in the slightest, mostly because I did enough talking for the both of us. It also meant I had Daniel all to myself. We bonded over our shared love of boxed sugary snacks, reading all the books we could get our sticky hands on, and a morbid obsession with pretending to be ghosts in his attic. We were inseparable, so much so that Mom and Dad referred to Daniel as the son they never had.
Bypassing the cootie stage entirely, we graduated to awkward, prepubescent hand-holding and close-lipped pecks by age ten. According to my doodle-filled notebooks and diaries, I was the future Mrs. Nakamura. It was destiny, or so I thought, until Daniel’s parents took a grand dump on my life plan and moved the family across the city partway through middle school. We sent emails back and forth for a year and a half, but their frequency fizzled the longer we were apart. We lost touch entirely by high school.
Angie isn’t buying it. “Butterflies?”
“Imaginary butterflies. Inside.” I point to my stomach. “Imagine a bunch of butterflies fluttering around in there.”
Angie giggles and scrunches her tiny nose. “That would tickle.”
“Exactly. That’s how it feels when you like someone. Like all the butterflies are flapping their wings inside of you, ready to spread their wings and soar.” I probably sound like an old kook, but Angie seems to understand.
“Why didn’t you marry Daniel?” she asks.
I woefully explain how he moved away and how I’ve been unable to locate him since, which is unfortunate given he’s the lone ex left on my list. Far too many hours have been logged searching all the variations of Daniel’s name I can think of, with zero success. I’m beginning to wonder if he was the unfortunate bystander of a Mafia hit and had to go into witness protection.
“I get the butterflies around Matty. And Oliver,” Angie admits shyly. She tells me all about Matty and Oliver, two boys in her class who are “cute” for different reasons (one is a bad boy who gets a lot of time-outs; the other is a dependable nerd). She reminds me of my young self, hopelessly rotating between crushing on literally every boy in class.
“Exactly my point. Attraction is key. I’m not attracted to your uncle Trevor,” I point out. “I mean, he’s handsome, but not my type.” My eye twitches again. I’ve lied to a child. A hospitalized child waiting for a heart transplant, no less. I’m officially going to hell, and my permanent residency is well deserved. At the same time, coming clean about my crush would only result in a myriad of questions, all of which I can’t answer. The last thing I want to do is explain to a nine-year-old that her uncle has deep-rooted commitment issues.
Angie gives me a sassy head tilt. She knows I’m full of shit, but she’s allowing me to live in denial. Bless.
“Why? Has your uncle said anything about me?” I ask, pretending to be wholly focused on Crystal’s card. I cut out a little container of protein powder and write I’m WHEY into you along the top.
A devious smile spreads across her tiny face. “He says you have the worst singing voice he’s ever heard. He likes to talk about you.”
I lurch forward in my chair, ready to demand a play-by-play of the entire conversation, start to finish. Context is key. But I manage to rein it in.
“My mom calls Uncle Trevor a spinny door.” She twirls her finger around in a clockwise circle.
“A spinny door?” I repeat, rifling in Angie’s pencil case for the glitter glue.
“Like the ones downstairs that spin around. Because of all his girlfriends,” she says matter-of-factly. “He has lots. But he doesn’t let me meet them.”
I laugh, realizing she’s referring to the revolving doors in the hospital lobby. Angie’s mom isn’t wrong about Trevor having a revolving door of women. Though in his defense, he hasn’t brought anyone home since Gabby over two and a half months ago—back when my feelings toward him were simple and not a chaotic shitstorm. Now I’d rather undergo an unnecessary rectal exam before hearing him and a random rocking each other’s respective worlds through the tissue-thin walls of our apartment. And still, emotionally unavailable men like Trevor are to be regarded as potentially lethal plagues, to be avoided at all costs.
“So, Angie,” I say, clearing my throat, eager to change the subject from Trevor’s sex life to my main objective—party planning. “Is Rapunzel still your favorite princess?”
Distracted by the glitter glue, she nods, slightly less enthusiastic than the last time she told me.
“Do you want to dress up like her for your birthday?” I ask, spreading glitter glue over Crystal’s card.
Her brown eyes light up for a split second, before darkening in disappointment. “Marissa says I can’t be Rapunzel because I’m not blond.”
My heart aches at her admission. Whoever this Marissa is, I want to give her a piece of my mind.
“That’s not true.” I move from my chair to the end of the hospital bed. It creaks under my additional weight. “When I was growing up, there was only one Disney princess who looked like me. And Mulan was great, don’t get me wrong. But just because I didn’t have blond hair like the other princesses didn’t mean I couldn’t be who I wanted to be.”
She stares at me for a moment, like she’s not sure whether to believe me. “Do you think that’s true?”
“Of course. Think about Rapunzel. She’s funny, right? Brave?”
Angie nods, holding her completed card an arm’s length away to examine it. “She’s nice to animals too. She has a pet chameleon.”
“Exactly. Pretend all the princesses looked the same. They’d still have their own unique personalities. Whoever’s personality you like the most is the princess you get to be, no matter what you look like on the outside. Rapunzel is still the same princess even when she loses her magic hair.”
Before she can respond, her eyes light up at the presence of a woman in a powder-blue bomber coat in the doorway. “Hi, Mom.”
Upon first look, there doesn’t appear to be much of a resemblance between Angie and her mom. Angie has soft, round features contrasting her mother’s angular, sharp lines. But the moment she opens her mouth, it’s evident the resemblance is in the mannerisms. The leftward curve of her lips. The slight indent that isn’t quite a dimple but wants to be.
Her mom gives me a curious smile. “I’m Payton, Angie’s mom. Are you one of the new nurses?” Her voice is low and a bit gritty, almost worn.
I stand and extend my hand in a friendly shake. “Oh, um, no, actually. I am a nurse, but not on this floor. I’m Trevor’s friend . . . and roommate.”
She lights up. “Oh! Taryn, right?” Before I can tell her my name is Tara, not Taryn, she pulls me into her bony embrace. “He told me you were helping with her party. And about the money you were raising on your social media. Seriously, I can’t thank you enough. You have no idea how much we appreciate this. Really.”
“I love planning parties. I have a lot of ideas,” I say, smiling at Angie.
Payton looks solemn for a moment, waving me into the hallway. I follow her out. “Honestly, sometimes I feel like a shit mom. I mean, what kind of mom can’t even plan her own kid’s birthday party?” she whispers.
“A mom who has her priorities straight,” I offer. I know from Trevor that she’s working two jobs to pay for Angie’s treatment. She probably doesn’t even have time to sleep, let alone plan a birthday party.
She blows her overgrown bangs from her face. “Trevor told me you were going the extra mile. We really appreciate it, especially with her dad out of the picture.” She says it so nonchalantly, like it’s just a straight fact. Nothing to be weird about.
“Where is her dad?” I ask.
Her heavy eyes narrow, like she’s confused. “Trevor didn’t tell you about Logan?”
“No. He’s not exactly an open book.”
She nods in knowing agreement. “Logan left two years ago. Hasn’t even come back since Angie got sick again. He’s working out in Louisiana on the oil rigs.”
I frown. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
She shrugs. “He wasn’t all that involved when he was in Boston anyways. It’s not much different. Though Trevor was raging mad when he left. Went all the way down South to try to get him to come back. They got in a pretty bad fight over it.”
My heart aches. No wonder Trevor gets all tense when I ask about Logan.
Payton senses the drop in my mood and gives me a reassuring smile. “It’s all good, though. We’re just thankful Trevor’s been there for us. Ever since the beginning. With all the medical appointments . . . God, he’s even helped us financially. He’s a good guy,” she says, like she’s trying to convince me for some reason.
As much as I would love to deny that fact for my own self-preservation, she’s entirely right. Sure, Trevor isn’t your standard cinnamon-roll nice guy. He’s grumpy. Blunt. Rough around the edges. I’ve held on to those facts, trying to convince myself those qualities automatically count him out. That he’s somehow not good, for me at least.
But continuing to deny it is becoming an impossibility, especially after everything he’s done for me the past few months. All the dating advice. The company. Ensuring I’ve eaten on any given day. The most endearing part about it all is that he isn’t one of those smug people who waltzes around being a do-gooder to make themselves feel better (*cough* Seth *cough*). He doesn’t do things for glory or status. He’s never once bragged about his job or how many lives he’s saved.
He’s pure, authentic, and good.
How maddeningly inconvenient.
• • •
“WHAT THE HELL is that supposed to be?” Scott points his tube of school glue in the vague direction of Trevor’s oddly shaped cardboard structure.
“It’s a horse, dick-wad.” From his cross-legged position on the floor, Trevor casts an envious scowl at Scott’s surprisingly well-executed outline of Cinderella. The three of us are at Crystal and Scott’s, constructing life-size cardboard cutouts for Angie’s Disney party. Crystal is on party store duty, picking up plates, cups, balloons, and goody bag items.
Ever since my lunch with Angie four days ago, where I confirmed the vision and direction for her party in less than two weeks, I’ve been in full Disney planning mode. I even booked the lounge in the hospital to host the festivities. The lounge’s décor is a vague attempt at cheer with its canary-yellow walls, but a couple Disney-themed plates and hats won’t change the fact that she’s celebrating her birthday in a hospital. Life-size cutouts of her favorite Disney princesses may be extra, but I’m determined to give her an escape from reality, if only for an afternoon.
Scott squints at Trevor’s creation, tilting his head as if a different perspective will help its cause. “Looks like a sad, mangled giraffe, man.”
“It kind of does.” I nod in agreement. “Maybe next time, thicken the neck a bit?”
“I still don’t get why we got stuck with craft duty.” Disgruntled, Trevor tosses the cardboard figure into the growing trash pile.
“Because grown men who wear Crocs can’t be trusted to make good decisions at a party store,” I retort, shooting daggers at their feet. Ever since I called him out for the army-green atrocity, Trevor has been wearing them around the apartment and at work like a second, terror-inducing skin.
Turns out, Scott recently purchased his own pair. Wearing Crocs is this bizarre joke that all the crew at the firehouse have adopted like a badge of honor during their off time. I’m currently developing a plot to steal them in the cloak of darkness (Grinch-style) and burn them at the stake. I’ll drop them into the fire, one by one, using barbecue tongs to avoid direct contact. They’ll emit witchy squeals and maybe even refuse to burn as I douse the flames with gasoline.
Scott stretches his bright-blue Crocs toward me, giving me a gentle kick. He’s not even my official brother-in-law yet and he’s already finding ways to antagonize me. “I’ll never take them off. You’ll have to bury me in them.”
“Not in the Chen family plot.” I snort, my gaze falling over Trevor, who apparently can’t be bothered to take the task at hand seriously. He’s too distracted admiring his hideous footwear. I launch a pencil at his chest. “Stop wasting cardboard. You need to outline it before you start cutting at random.”
“Sorry. It’s this music. How am I supposed to work under these conditions?” Trevor casts a troubled look at my phone, which is blasting a bomb Disney playlist.
“Oh, come on, you’re practically itching to break out into song and dance,” I tease, nodding at Scott, who’s tapping his Croc merrily to Hercules’s “I Won’t Say (I’m in Love).”
Trevor rewards me with a dead-eyed stare. “Don’t compare me to that.”
“You can’t tell me you never watched these movies as a kid?” Scott chucks a balled-up wad of construction paper at his head.
Trevor catches the ball of paper before it hits him, like he’s some genetically modified super soldier. He tosses it into his personal trash pile, neatly stacked next to him. “Not by choice. The real question is, why did you?”
“I grew up with two sisters, man.”
I swing a warning glare at Trevor. “You better learn some of these tunes if you’re gonna be a half-decent prince at the party. All the good princes sing and dance.”
Trevor scoffs. “For the hundredth time, I’m not dressing up.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
Scott snickers. “I would pay money to see this. Good money.”
I scrutinize Scott up and down. “Oh, you’ll be there too. You’re going to be Prince Charming.”
Scott ponders that for a moment. “Works for me.”
“See? Scott’s gonna do it,” I goad.
Trevor glowers at him like he’s just broken sacred bro-code. “Because he’s a sucker. And he likes attention—”
“Hey, fuck off.” Scott chucks another wad of paper at him. This one hits him clean on the forehead, bouncing onto the floor.
Trevor continues on valiantly, like he didn’t just get smoked in the head. “And even if I were going to dress up, which I’m not—”
“You are—” I interject.
“Nope.”
I level him with a poisonous stare. “Do you realize how happy Angie would be if you dressed up? Besides, I already promised her you would. You can’t back out now. She’ll be heartbroken.” Truthfully, I never made such a promise to Angie. But he doesn’t need to know that.
His eyes meet mine, softening instantly. Bingo. I’ve pierced him straight through the heart with my arrow of guilt. He slumps his shoulders in grumpy resignation. “Okay. Fine. But no pictures. And why does Scotty get to be Prince Charming?”
“Because he’s charming,” I explain, to Scott’s delight. Normally, I have no interest in feeding my brother-in-law’s already inflated ego, but I’m willing to take one for the team if it means grinding Trevor’s gears.
Trevor places a hand over his chest, offended. “And I’m not?”
I try my best to keep a straight face while denying his natural charm. “You’re certainly not a wholesome type of charming.” I let my gaze flit over the intricate Celtic knot tattoo adorning his right arm.
Trevor mutters something unintelligible under his breath and starts slicing into the cardboard with his X-Acto knife as the soothing, instrumental melody from the lantern scene in Tangled fills the room.
Suddenly, I’m hit with a momentary stroke of genius. “You’re going to be Flynn Rider.”
“I don’t even know who that is. Why do I have to be some off-brand prince?”
Before I can explain that Flynn Rider is anything but off-brand and happens to be Angie’s favorite, Crystal bursts through the door with a hefty load of plastic bags on each arm.
“What took you so long?” I demand, popping up to inspect the bags.
“The roads are bad. I had to drive slow,” Crystal explains, kicking off her slushy leather booties in the entryway. She sets the bags on the floor and shuffles over to admire my Rapunzel tower, which will double as a photo shoot prop. “I was also busy with a little research.”
“What research?” I ask, smirking when Scott not-so-subtly checks out her backside.
“Found out where Daniel works,” she says nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal. Like he isn’t my very last hope.
I drop my Sharpie and lurch forward on my heels. “What? How did you find Daniel before me?” I ask, though it probably comes out more like HOWDIDYOUFINDDANIELBEFOREME? I wait with bated breath as the rush of adrenaline plunges my body into all-out chaos.
For dramatic effect, Crystal waits a few seconds before revealing her findings. “He works at that big tech company downtown. Flopify. That one that took over the old Macy’s building.”
“How did you find him? I’ve looked everywhere.”
“I have my ways,” she says, her eyes glinting, keeping the mystery alive. “Just kidding. I found him on LinkedIn. It really wasn’t that hard. I texted you the link to his profile.”
“I’m forever indebted. Seriously, though. I would lick your gym shoes if you asked me to.” I throw my arms around my sister’s shoulders, only narrowly avoiding stepping on the hot-glue gun.
She inches away from my smothering hug. “Really not necessary.”
“Are you gonna DM him?” Trevor asks, not looking up from his latest attempt at a horse cutout.
I shudder at the thought. “Oh, no. I can’t reunite with him via DM. I only have a week and a half before the gala. It’s not enough time to reestablish our rapport. I need to run into him naturally.”
Trevor sighs. “You’re going to stake out the front of his workplace, aren’t you?”
“Correction: we are.”