chapter twenty-three
LIKE THE EMOTIONALLY balanced millennial I am, coping with my problems by being petty on social media is my go-to. Unfortunately, one of the most beloved romance tropes got the brunt of my passive-aggressive callout.
I make the wise decision to delete the video entirely as I stomp down the stairs from the rooftop in Trevor’s hideous Crocs. Aside from being ten sizes too large for my feet, they’re disgustingly comfortable and convenient for hot tub sessions. The tiniest sliver of me partially understands the hype, but I’d rather commit to an exclusive diet of raw vegetables for life before I admit that.
The lights are off in our apartment, which tells me Trevor is still out on the town. I imagine he’s in his glory right now, surrounded by beautiful, large-breasted women, on track to bringing home another Instagram model of his choosing to ravage. Maybe five. Though he’ll concentrate most of his efforts on Kyla.
I seethe with jealousy at the mere thought of him with Kyla. How does one properly prepare themselves to hear the guy they like having sex with another woman across the hall?
Perhaps this was inevitable all along. Aside from moving out and taking up residence in a cardboard box on the street, what else am I supposed to do but suck it up? Maybe it’ll get easier with each successive woman.
The acoustics of my trusty Taylor Swift breakup playlist fill the apartment as I await my fate in the living room, engulfed in darkness (to match my mood). Like my Ex-Files box, this playlist has been with me since my breakup with Tommy in ninth grade. With each new album, I strategically add the gloomiest songs in advance of such a time as this.
I’m seven songs deep when Trevor returns, interrupting the emotional bridge of “All Too Well” (the ten-minute version, obviously). Bracing myself for Kyla’s inevitable high-pitched giggle, I drag myself into a seated position, taking in Trevor’s massive outline in the doorway. It appears he’s returned alone. Kyla is nowhere to be seen. I do the mental running man, followed by a couple of air punches. I’m far more elated about his temporary lone-wolf status than I should be.
“Hey,” I rasp through the darkness, hitting pause on Taylor Swift.
“Why are you lying in the dark alone?” His tone is lazy and slurred, a far contrast from his typical terse, rushed cadence. He wobbles a tad, groping at the wall for support. He is definitely not sober.
Drunk Trevor doesn’t care that he’s kicked his shoes into a messy pile. Or that his coat slipped off the hanger the moment he walked away. Drunk Trevor even props his feet on the coffee table the moment he slouches onto the couch.
A chunk of his usually tamed, ashy waves branches upward, Alfalfa-style. I stand to pat it down before my brain sounds the alarm, reminding me he’s like a rescue dog wearing one of those Do Not Touch, I Bite vests because he can’t be trusted yet. And neither can I.
“I’ve never seen you under the influence before. I hope you Uber’d,” I say, forcing both hands at my sides where they belong.
“Course I did. What’d you do tonight?”
“Hot tub. Self-loathing. The usual.”
His chuckle is light and easy, almost giddy. He runs his hand through his hair, inadvertently making his cowlick worse. He fishes the remote from the crack between the cushions. Without notice, he tosses it to me, thoroughly entertained when I dazedly fumble it like a slow loris. “Wanna watch The Bachelor with me?”
“You’re going to watch it without me either way, aren’t you?” I venture. “Who knew you’d become such a proud citizen of Bachelor Nation.”
He swings me a lazy, resigned grin. “What can I say? I’m invested in Wyatt’s life now. Come on, sit with me.”
“Spoiler alert: he will choose a bride and they’ll split up six months later,” I inform him, not budging. If I know myself as well as I think, spending more quality time with a guy I have unrequited feelings for can only end in a tsunami of tears.
He pats the middle cushion next to him for emphasis. Like the weak-willed individual I am, I concede, settling on the far cushion. My entire body is engulfed in flames. I’ve basically just agreed to a TV date with Satan.
I’m profusely sweating in my flannels throughout Wyatt’s group date. The girls are quite literally boxing and taking punches to win his affection. One girl is hard-core, nearly breaking another woman’s veneers.
Trevor nudges me on the thigh with his knuckle. “I could see you breaking someone’s nose. You’re like a little scrappy hamster.”
“I once bit another girl who tried to kiss Daniel at recess,” I admit.
“You’re a biter?” He pretends to recoil to his side of the couch.
I peel my eyes from the television to shoot him my best faux-evil look. “It’s my secret weapon.”
“That’s officially my new favorite thing about you.” When he beams at me, I have to avert my gaze back to much less desirable Wyatt on the TV. I couldn’t look into Trevor’s eyes and not feel a little something. One more second of eye contact and my poor little soul would shrivel, unable to cope with the beauty.
“You have other favorite things?” I pry.
“Oh yeah.” He doesn’t bother to elaborate. He’s too distracted by sexy grade school teacher Mona, his favorite Bachelor contestant.
After many beats of cruel silence, Trevor shifts his attention back to me when the host moseys into the mansion to give Wyatt a pointless heart-to-heart. “You must have really liked Daniel to bite another girl.”
“He was my best friend. Ever. In the whole world.”
“Umm, ouch. I’m sitting right here.” He folds a hand over his heart and pretends to wince in pain. “I thought I was your best friend.”
“I didn’t realize we’d advanced to that level. Am I your best friend?”
“Maybe. You know all my secrets now. Most of them, at least.”
I don’t respond. I’m plagued with far too many feelings over this statement. On the one hand, I’m mush. Being labeled as Trevor Metcalfe’s best friend is the highest of compliments. On the other hand, the only thing more unromantic than friend status is best friend status.
He’s still watching me. “If your best friend Daniel hadn’t moved, do you think you’d have dated?”
“A hundred percent. I was in love with him . . . though to be fair, I was in love with all the boys in my class. But no one topped him.”
Trevor smiles lazily. “Think you’ll go back to try another run-in?”
“For sure.” I have no specific plans to stage another run-in, but the gala is in a week. I need to figure something out. “I just hope he remembers me.”
“He will.”
Through the rose ceremony, Trevor sinks horizontally on the couch, unexpectedly resting his head in my lap. I’m frozen as he adjusts the weight of his head evenly over my thighs. My senses magnify. I’m all too aware of the rhythm of his breath, a few beats slower than my own. The poke of his hair through the fabric of my flannel pajama bottoms. The delectable yet not overpowering smell of his aftershave.
My fingers twitch, unsure what to do with my hands. Do I keep them like noodles at my sides? Rest one hand on his hard, impeccably honed pectorals? Give him a head massage? Cradle his head and sing him to sleep like any perfectly normal best friend would do?
I make the safe decision to keep my hands to myself.
He doesn’t even bat an eye when I make the executive decision to put on Tangled.
Throughout the majority of the movie, Trevor is the only one paying attention. My mind is a rush-hour traffic jam during the winter’s worst snowstorm. Hurried thoughts collide and cut each other off. Sitting on the opposite end of the couch was nerve-inducing enough, but this up close and personal view of his face is hazardous. Having feelings for Trevor Metcalfe is like driving in the opposite lane on a busy freeway as oncoming traffic barrels toward you.
When Tangled ends, he peers up at me through the dense forest of his lashes. I take in the perfect slope of his nose. The mixture of dark and light stubble along his defined jaw. The little half-inch scar over his left eyebrow, which I know he sustained falling face-first into a coffee table at age five. Even through the darkness, the TV light casts a reflection off his eyes, making them shine like crackling sparks in the wildfire raging through me.
“Tangled wasn’t awful,” he admits.
“Are you telling me you actually liked a Disney movie?”
“I didn’t mind Flynn Rider. He was cool.”
“See? I told you he wasn’t off-brand. You should be happy I assigned you him and not . . . the Beast.”
He chuckles softly. “This was fun.”
“Yeah. Beats lying here alone in the dark, self-loathing.”
He makes a tsk sound and frowns up at me. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. There is absolutely nothing about you to loathe.”
“It’s actually healthier than it sounds—getting real with myself. Having cathartic cries every now and then. My therapist highly recommended it.” I work down a swallow, nearly crossing into the spirit world when he runs his index finger over my knee, catching a piece of lint.
“You see a therapist?” he asks.
“I used to see one on and off since high school. Her name was Wendy. I called her my breakup therapist. My mom forced me to see her after Cody dumped me. I was inconsolable in my room for weeks, and no one knew what to do with me. I’d see her every time my life went off the rails. Went back recently after my split with Seth, but she retired last spring. I haven’t tried anyone new since.”
He presses his cheek against my thigh. “You should. Spilling your guts on the regular seems like it would be healthy for you.”
“Probably. I’d recommend therapy for anyone, actually.” I absentmindedly pat down the section of his hair that’s sticking out. Working my fingers through his dense, silky mane shouldn’t feel so comfortable, so ritualistic, like I’ve done it a million times before.
“I don’t know about therapy for everyone,” he decides after a few moments of silent enjoyment of his head massage. His eyes are closed now, which is probably safer for everyone involved—mainly me.
“You don’t think it would be healthy to talk to someone about your . . . baggage?”
He cracks a lid and smiles up at me. “You think I have baggage?”
I level him a serious look. “Metcalfe, you have a full luggage cart of baggage. You’ve gone through a lot with your parents, your brother, and Angie. I know you don’t love talking about them, or your feelings in general, but maybe it would help.”
“I think it’s the talking-to-strangers part I have an issue with.” He peers up at me again. “Maybe you can be my therapist. I like talking to you.”
I meet his gaze, holding my breath. Somehow, that seemingly insignificant statement means everything. Regardless of whether he has feelings for me, he feels comfortable talking to me, of all people. “I like talking to you too.”
“You like to talk to everyone, though.” He pauses, letting out a one-syllable laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Chen.”
I have no idea how to interpret this, nor do I have time to, because from the sound of his labored breathing, he’s fallen asleep on my lap. As much as I’d love to be his pillow for the night, this does not bode well for either of us. He stirs as I gently shift his head.
“Where are you going?” he slurs.
“Bed. We both need to go to bed.”
He opens his eyes and frowns. “Can’t we stay here?”
“If I let you sleep on the couch, you’ll just complain tomorrow about having a sore neck.”
“Yeah . . . You’re right.” With a long sigh, he stands, stretching his arms toward the ceiling, allowing me the briefest flash of his delicious abs when his shirt lifts.
Head down, I follow him into the dark hallway. I expect him to head straight to his room and close the door, but he lingers in the middle of the hall outside my bedroom doorway. As I pass through the tight space toward my room, his fingers just barely graze mine.
“ ’Night,” he says, ever so formally.
I smile. “Goodnight.”
A beat of silence.
He doesn’t go to his room, and neither do I. We’re standing in our respective doorways in a weird, nonconfrontational face-off.
Why isn’t he going to bed?
Why aren’t I?
My heart thumps wildly against my chest wall like a steel drum. Just like that moment of intense telepathy in Daniel’s lobby, right before he kissed me, I hold his stare, mentally daring him to approach.
And he does.