chapter twenty-two
WE DON’T TALK about the Kiss.
We don’t talk about it on the treacherously snowy drive home. We don’t talk about it as we hoof it up the stairs. We don’t talk about it while Trevor makes us a nutritious grilled chicken dinner. And we definitely don’t talk about it while we watch The Bachelor, him seated safely in the armchair instead of his usual spot on the couch.
Even days later, Trevor still takes painstaking efforts to avoid looking me in the eyes, like I’m a human solar eclipse. He’s also extra broody and grump-tastic, with his clipped one-syllable responses and general skulking about the apartment.
Meanwhile, I’m still struggling to understand what the hell happened in that lobby. Have I really had a lifetime of rusted Honda Civic–equivalent kisses? Because comparatively, Trevor’s kiss was like being behind the buttery leather wheel of Mel’s Tesla. Is it humanly possible to kiss someone like that—the fervent, suppressed passion of our breath colliding, him claiming me entirely—with zero authentic emotion spurring it on?
It’s taken every morsel of self-restraint I have (which isn’t much) not to crumble like a rainbow chip cookie and demand a detailed explanation. But I don’t. What if the answer is simpler than I want it to be? Maybe it’s exactly as he said: an unexpectedly effective way to avoid attention. And if that’s the case, where the hell do I go from here?
It doesn’t help that my followers have doubled down on the room-ance thing. Now that they’ve seen Trevor’s annoyingly handsome, perfect face on video twice, it’s game over. In fact, no one really cares about my exes at all. And I’m left to wonder (in a Carrie Bradshaw voice), do I really care about them, either?
Did I really go to Daniel’s work with the intent to stage a run-in? If so, why did the reality of seeing him turn me into a fleeing gazelle at the sight of a lion at the watering hole? In fact, has this entire endeavor become so all-consuming because I truly want to find love with my exes, or am I merely basking in Trevor’s assistance?
Luckily, I have Crystal’s bridal shower to distract me from emotional ruin. We spent the morning pampering her and ourselves at the spa with manis, pedis, and facials. Now we’re at our childhood home for the shower. Originally, Aunt Lisa, the eldest sister on Dad’s side of the family, offered to host. But ever since she hosted a Lunar New Year celebration last week, which allegedly resulted in a permanent radish stain in her brand-new carpet, she refuses to entertain more than five adults in her home at a time.
Mom is a ball of anxiety when Mel, Crystal, and I arrive, clutching a trembling Hillary over her boob. Hillary is one fierce abomination of a creature today in her white cashmere sweater, snarling at every woman who dares get within a two-foot radius of Mom.
“Just put her upstairs,” I tell her, reaching to grab her myself. Hillary practically foams at the mouth when my hand grazes her pointed left ear. Mom turns, shielding her like I’m the Wicked Witch of the West.
“We just have to make sure we keep her away from the women,” Mom says casually, like it’s totally normal for a dog to be a misogynist. She flashes Mel a fake smile over my shoulder before heading upstairs to administer Hillary’s daily dose of joint inflammation medication.
The kitchen is at capacity with Dad’s side of the family. Grandma Mei stands at the island, meticulously arranging the food, clad in both a leopard-print blouse and a leopard-print apron. She’s always been extra. Vibrant prints, random pops of fluorescent, the brighter the better. With her turquoise eye shadow and mauve lip, she’s straight off the Crazy Rich Asians movie set, sans rich.
My family always says I look like a younger, happier version of her, minus the weathered skin creased between her eyes, giving the illusion she’s perma-scowling, even when she’s not.
Everyone cheers when Crystal enters the kitchen. Before Mel and I follow her in, I direct her to the mudroom to remove our coats on account of the sweltering heat emanating from the steaming pots on the stove. It reminds me of chaotic summers working in the restaurant as a teen. The staff, even those who aren’t literal family, feel like family. On any given day, no matter the time, everyone can be heard singing and tossing loving yet scorching burns back and forth in a mix of English and Mandarin, all while working diligently to prepare massive vats of delicious food.
“Explain the family dynamics to me,” Mel requests on our way back to the kitchen.
“Okay, so Dad is the second eldest. He’s the favorite, to the dismay of the aunties and Uncle Michael, who isn’t here. See, they all work at the restaurant, except Dad, and he still gets preferential treatment.” I point to Aunt Lisa and Aunt Rachel, who are hovering around Mei as she chops water chestnuts. “Those two have an unspoken rivalry going on. They like to one-up each other with material possessions. Like when Aunt Lisa got a Louis Vuitton tote, Aunt Rachel had to get two.”
Mel gives her best attempt at a laugh, a far cry from her typical enthusiasm for juicy gossip. Now that I think of it, she’s been uncharacteristically quiet all day.
“You okay?” I ask.
She fusses with the ruffled collar of her blouse. “Yeah. It’s just . . . you’re really lucky to have such a close extended family. On both sides.” I don’t know much about Mel’s extended family, aside from the fact that she isn’t close with them.
“You’re always more than welcome at our family gatherings,” I pledge.
“I’m fairly certain your family doesn’t want some rando at their holidays.”
“You would be wrong.” I nod toward Dad, who’s barreling around the corner to give Mel a high-five greeting.
He slaps her delicate hand far too hard, barely noticing her wince. “Mel! Good to see you. Maybe today I can finally teach you how to use chopsticks,” he teases.
She cracks a smile. A couple of months ago, she dropped a massive fish ball on the floor at family hot pot night. Hillary lunged out of Mom’s arms and gobbled it up before Mom could wrench it from her teeth. “I’m not that bad, am I?” While Mel is Chinese, she was adopted as an infant and raised by her white parents, whom she doesn’t talk about much. She doesn’t know a lot about her roots, aside from what she picks up from me and Crystal.
“Terrible.” Dad shakes his head solemnly and gives her a fatherly arm pat. “But no fear. We’ll get you in tip-top shape.”
“See?” I side hug her, nuzzling my head against her shoulder even though I know she detests hugs. “You’re stuck with us as your family. Sorry about your luck.”
For once, she’s not entirely disturbed by my lack of boundaries, accepting my hug without a fuss. “I love you guys.”
In pure Chen fashion, Grandma Mei, Aunt Lisa, Aunt Rachel, and my tween cousins, Kendall and Maddie, descend on us the moment our butts touch the stools on the island.
Aunt Lisa, the most direct sibling, quickly becomes bored with Aunt Rachel soliciting Mel’s advice on eyebrow microblading and angles herself to me, bracelets clinking against the granite counter. “I saw online you’re dating your ex-boyfriends?”
I’m taken aback as Mei passes me a full plate of carefully selected appetizers she knows I’ll eat. She’s one of the only family members who doesn’t snark on my picky eating habits. “I didn’t know you knew about my book account.”
“Your dad linked me.” She regards me like I’m a sad lamb, as she has since my wedding was called off.
“I always liked the skinny little one with the bowl cut who came to the restaurant with you,” Aunt Rachel cuts in, stealing a fried wonton from my plate.
“Daniel Nakamura?”
Aunt Lisa nods vigorously. “Oh, I liked that boy too. Never spoke a word, the little thing,” she says with an evil grin, turning to Aunt Rachel. “You know I like a man who can be easily controlled.”
Aunt Rachel makes a whip motion with her hand, followed by a swish sound. “I think Tara needs an equal. A man who can match her personality and energy. Someone outgoing, extroverted, not afraid to take up space.”
Aunt Lisa disagrees. “Oh, no. It never works when both parties are talkers. Only leads to frustration and resentment. Opposites are ideal.”
I move my fried rice around my plate absentmindedly while they bicker about which ex is least likely to grow tired of me. My mind trails to Trevor again and how he explicitly stated he never gets sick of my stories. That was weeks ago. I wonder if that’s still the case.
Aunt Rachel clasps both hands together, prayer-style. “Oh, I hope your true love is Cody. I always adored him. Such a little gentleman.”
I sigh, dipping my sesame ball. “Turns out, Cody Venner is happily married with kids.” I say happily sarcastically, though my meaning goes over Aunt Lisa’s head.
“You’re telling me he’s married? Happily? Nonsense,” she says, waving my words away.
As Mei pushes a basket of dumplings in front of Mel and me, my phone lights up with a text.
TREVOR: Hey. Hope you’re having a good bachelorette day. Scott almost threw up at the Ninja Warrior gym. Too many pancakes this morning.
TARA: Lmao! Oh no. Hope he’s okay! You would never catch me dead at the Ninja gym. Things are dandy over here. Crystal got pampered this morning. Now we’re eating.
I send him a photo of the table spread.
TARA: Are you guys having a good time? Heading to the club tonight?
TREVOR: Ya.
TARA: Have fun!!
TREVOR: Thx.
TARA: I’ve been meaning to tell you . . . I think you still need some help with your texting game. You better not be texting Kyla like this
TREVOR: My texts are perfectly fine.
TARA: For the 39434th time, you simply cannot punctuate with a period. It’s a mark of death! You’re an emotional person’s nightmare texter
TREVOR: THE HORROR!!!! From now on I’ll make sure I end all my texts with exclamation marks okay?! Just for you!
TARA: I feel so special
TREVOR: You should! I’m only doing this for you!
“Is that a heart-eye emoji? For Trev?” Crystal peeks at my screen as she reaches for a dumpling. Her Bride to Be sash nearly dips onto my plate.
I dispose of my phone in the back pocket of my jeans and lean against the island. “Yes. But don’t read into it. There’s nothing going on with us.”
“Figured as much,” she says casually. I don’t know why her knowing tone irks me so much, but it does.
Mel analyzes me, her expression marginally less critical. “You’re not telling us something.”
I buckle immediately under the pressure of her callout. “Fine. He kissed me. When we did surveillance at Daniel’s work. One minute, Daniel was coming out of the elevator, and the next, Trevor was kissing me. With tongue.” I elegantly gnaw at a chicken wing, awaiting my crucifixion.
Crystal’s eyes bulge, as if I’ve regaled them with a tall tale about running a 10K, or something equally unbelievable and outlandish.
I rehash our hot-and-heavy make-out, explaining his justification—how he was diverting attention away from us. When I say it out loud, it sounds weak. Surely, he could have taken less drastic measures, like tossing his coat over my face or pushing my head down.
Crystal scrutinizes me, shifting out of the way as Aunt Lisa inches behind us to the perimeter of the kitchen, eager to serve her lemon cake. “You’re not overthinking this, are you?”
“No,” I say quickly, my eyes turning to my chicken wing bone.
“You are. I can see the wheels turning,” she says leerily.
“Okay, fine. I can’t help but wonder sometimes. We have the best conversations. He’s opened up to me a lot in the past month. There’s actually a lot more to him than meets the eye. He’s sensitive and he listens, like, really listens,” I gush.
Crystal gives me a pitiful look, like she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. “Is he still . . . sleeping with other women?”
“I don’t know.” I hang my head. “The last girl he brought home was Gabby. From your gym. Though he is casually texting one girl he used to date. Kyla.”
“Has he ever given you any hint he has real feelings for you?” Mel asks.
“He smiles at me a lot, mostly when he thinks I’m not looking. Oh, and he feeds me,” I add, grasping at straws. “He even tries to make food I’ll like.” Just a few evenings ago, he made me a flatbread pizza. Half was loaded with veggies, while the other half was plain sauce, pepperoni, and cheese, just for me.
Crystal’s doubtful expression tramples my theory to dust. “I mean, the smiling . . . he’s a bit of a flirt in general.”
I frown. “Maybe. But hypothetically, what if I’m not reading too much into things? What if he did catch feelings for me?”
“Expecting to be the exception to the rule is like eating Taco Bell and being shocked when you get mad diarrhea,” Crystal says pointedly.
Mom huffs at us as she passes by with beady-eyed Hillary. “Crystal! People are eating.”
Crystal mouths a lazy Sorry and looks to Mel for support. “I love you. But the last thing I want is for you to get hurt again.” She watches me for a few more beats. “Do you mind if I consult Scott?”
I barely have time to agree before Scott’s face takes up Crystal’s phone screen. He tells her about the trauma of being kidnapped and nearly punching Trevor in the face. Crystal laughs, her face aglow at the sight of her soon-to-be husband, as if they’ve been apart for days and not mere hours. “Can you step away for a minute? I have a question for you.”
“About what?” Scott asks, taking refuge away from the guys in the gym changing room.
I press my cheek against Crystal’s so I’m visible on camera. “We need your advice. A behavioral analysis, if you will.”
“We need your help with Trevor,” Crystal clarifies, giving him a brief rundown of my situation. “Has he said anything about Tara to you?”
He raises a contemplative brow. “He talks about her sometimes at work.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Crystal waves a hand. “This is important information, babe. Care to elaborate?”
“I didn’t think it was a huge deal.” Scott frowns. “He’ll just laugh at texts she sends at work. Nothing too major.”
“He’s your friend. Could you ask him for us? Get the intel. Whatever it is that dudes do,” Crystal requests.
Scott is mildly taken aback, like we’ve just asked him to commit a crime on our behalf. “You want me to flat-out ask him if he likes Tara?”
“Yes,” we say in unison.
He leans against the hand dryer, accidentally turning it on. “Fine. But he’s gonna know something is up. We never talk about feelings,” he shouts over the fan.
My lips twist like I’ve just sucked a lemon. “Seriously? Never in your decade of friendship have you talked about feelings?”
“Unless you count our feelings toward hockey, Crocs, or fire calls, no.” When we shake our heads in derision, he gets defensive. “Hey, it’s not like I’ve never tried. He’s just not a very open guy.”
I sigh. “That’s . . . pathetic.”
Crystal scoffs in solidarity. “Gotta love toxic masculinity.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Scott rolls his eyes and leans in close to the camera, suddenly channeling FBI agent vibes. “Okay, I’ll ask him tonight when we go out once he’s liquored up. How should I play it? Casual? Or like I’m an overprotective new brother who’ll murder him if he breathes amorously in your direction?”
“I mean, I appreciate the brotherly support, but definitely not the latter,” I warn. “Just be casual and report back.”
“Deal.”
TARA: Hello?? I haven’t heard from you in like an hour. You promised a play-by-play.
SCOTT: Sorry. At club now . . . Trev ordered a beer. He’s hanging out with a girl.
TARA: A girl? Who?
SCOTT: She met him here. I think they already know each other. Her name is Kayla or something.
TARA: Is she tall? Smiles with her mouth open?
SCOTT: Yeah.
Kyla. It’s Kyla.
Trevor’s ex-girlfriend.
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—THE PLAYBOY TROPE AND WHY I HATE IT
[Tara’s face is partially obscured by poor lighting. She is neck-deep in a hot tub, her hair crunchy and partially frozen, looking like a straight-up mess.]
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. If you’ve followed me for an ounce of time, you’ll know I’m absolute trash for most tropes. I’ll take anything: secret babies, love triangles. But for some reason, I can’t handle playboys lately. Now, I’m not against people sleeping around. You do you, boo. But I have a problem with the double standards.
The playboy hero is often rich and powerful, maybe a duke, a CEO, or the firstborn son of a crime family. As a commitment-phobic man-child, he sleeps around to cope with his overt emotional problems (due to a tragic backstory). He’s cruising through life, an empty robot until a doe-eyed, virgin heroine unexpectedly piques his interest. She’s only immune to his charm for a hot second before falling for his rakishly handsome looks and secret, true self that only she knows.
More often than not, these heroes are hyper-controlling, brooding, and possessive. They practically breathe fire if another man looks in her general direction, even though they’ve just slept with another woman an hour before.
Now, it’s known that heroines are held to a much higher standard than heroes. But why do we let our heroines fall for scum for the sake of the hero’s character arc? I’m all for a redemption story, but if I wouldn’t choose this guy to date my best friend, I just can’t root for him.
Thoughts?
COMMENTS:
Noooooo. Rakes are THE BEST. The payoff is always the most satisfying when they inevitably change their ways for THE ONE.
I like my playboys fictional. I have no time for them in real life!