chapter twenty-four
SWEET CHRIST. I am not equipped for this.
Panicked, I wet my bottom lip, readying for another earthshaking kiss.
Is this really happening? Why am I wearing ugly flannel PJs, of all things? I ask myself as his hand cups my cheek with the lightest touch. His thumb does a gentle sweep over my bottom lip, sending a shiver hurtling down the back of my neck. In a startling whoosh, that same hand reaches downward, toward my waist.
“Goodnight,” he whispers, reaching for the doorknob. He pulls it shut, cruelly separating us.
For an indeterminate amount of time, I blink in the darkness, in the confines of my own bedroom. I press my palm against the door, royally dumbfounded.
What the actual fuck was that?
• • •
IN THE LIGHT of day the next morning, Trevor’s shoes are arranged in a straight line and his coat is now safely back on the hanger. When I emerge from my room in my scrubs to eat my morning Pop-Tart, he’s already parked at the kitchen island eating an omelet. He greets me with a shy chin dip.
“You’re looking suspiciously healthy after a night of heavy drinking,” I say, waiting for my Pop-Tart to toast. Unlike the rest of us mere mortals, Trevor doesn’t resemble a corpse after a night out. No. He looks like an angel with his bright eyes and perfect, hydrated complexion. He could probably hike the Dolomites right now if someone asked him to.
He shrugs. “I don’t really get hangovers. You off to work?” he asks casually, as if everything is totally normal. As if that heated encounter in the hallway last night didn’t happen.
I blink, wondering if I dreamed the entire scenario. Before I head to work, we talk about a myriad of topics, like final preparations for Angie’s party, Trevor’s disappointment that Scott didn’t get drunk last night at his own bachelor party, and my unwavering position that he should be indicted on a federal offense for smothering his omelet in ketchup. We touch on literally everything except his bizarro behavior from last night.
There’s little time to overanalyze today, because work is insanely busy. We get an influx of patients, including a week-old patient with a severe case of sepsis we’re particularly worried about.
Seth catches me on a five-minute breather in the nurses’ lounge and decides it’s an opportune time to inquire about my personal life.
“Hey,” he says, sidling up beside me in front of the Keurig. The fancy coffee machine in the doctors’ lounge has long been repaired, but in an unfortunate turn of events, Seth has concluded he prefers the machine in here. “How’s the search coming along?”
“You’ve been actively keeping up with my search online,” I say, making it clear I know he’s watched every single story. “I’m sure you’re already aware.”
He ignores this fact. “Think you’ll bring one of these lucky guys to the gala?” he asks, even though he knows full well there’s only one left—Daniel.
“Yeah. I think I might.” I make a concerted effort to sound optimistic. The gala (Valentine’s Day) is now only days away. It would be nice to have someone by my side, like Daniel.
“I’m proud of you, you know? I thought this was all a little ridiculous at first. But I’m glad you have something else to focus on.” I don’t miss the condescension in his tone.
I’m tempted to strike him in the forehead with a coffee pod as a distractive measure and run away, but alas, I’m a professional. Instead, I just force a smile, take my coffee, and GTFO.
While interactions with Seth are never pleasant and often require spiritual recuperation, maybe this was the kick in the pants I needed. Far too much energy has been expended over Trevor in the past week, and for what?
With all the confusion with my roommate, I’ve nearly lost sight of my original goal of securing my storybook second-chance romance. I can’t let these strange little moments with Trevor knock me off course.
I think about all my followers and how invested they are in my relationship journey. It’s like I’m a romance heroine they’re rooting for. The last thing I want to do is report to them that it’s all been a complete and utter failure.
I also made a vow to Crystal and Mel months ago that I’d focus on my exes, and I am not the kind of person to break a promise.
• • •
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 8
Tara Chen • 5:46 P.M.
Hi Daniel,
This is going to seem random, but we used to be best friends as kids. In case you forgot who I am (and I don’t blame you if you did, I’m forgettable), I’m the girl who used to make you embarrassingly gushy Valentine’s Day cards. The one who used to eat most of the Dunkaroo icing and leave you with the dry biscuits. You gave me a pink Furby for my sixth birthday party, and we named her Roxy.
We lost touch after middle school, which is probably for the best. I did not thrive in high school. Now we’re 30. I’ve spent a lot of time mourning our youths and I miss you. It appears you are not online anywhere except here on LinkedIn. Of course, I’ve thought about emailing you at [email protected] (LOL), but I assume you are no longer using that email address.
Anyway, no pressure, but I’d love to hear from you. It would make my day (no, my life!).
—Your Best Friend, Tara
• • •
“THIS IS PROBABLY a massive waste of time,” I grumble to myself as I hit Send on my subway commute home. I make a pact with myself that if he ignores my LinkedIn DM, I’ll take it as a sign to give up on love entirely and purchase a rescue dog who won’t break my heart.
Luckily, I have a brand-new audiobook to distract me while I await a response. This one is another second-chance reunion romance, about Shelley, a New York City socialite who goes back to her down-home roots after a scandal. Upon return, she discovers her ex-boyfriend, Kent, a muscly cattle rancher, has been running her late father’s farm.
When I return to the apartment, I hit Play while I prepare a sophisticated dinner of chicken nuggets and curly fries. The narrator’s buttery smooth voice drowns out the noise of my excessive thoughts.
While I’m waiting for the oven to preheat, Trevor emerges from his bedroom and quietly begins rooting around the kitchen for his own food. The sultry, late-night-radio-show voice of my audiobook fills the dead air between us.
“Shelley gripped the base of his cock, feeling its pulse against her palm . . .”
He clears his throat behind me, chucking a head of broccoli onto his cutting board. “Whoa. What are you listening to?”
The bold voice plows forward with gusto, entirely shameless. “Kent let out a low, hungry growl as his eyes feasted upon her glistening . . . ”
“My audiobook,” I say, my tone clipped as I arrange my nuggets on the pan in the shape of a heart.
He snickers and mutters something I can’t hear.
No fail, listening to sex scenes via audiobook is painfully awkward, even solo. Double the awkward when someone else is in the room. I go to hit Pause and shriek.
I have a LinkedIn notification. It’s a DM response. From Daniel.
If this were a movie, an upbeat pop song would fade in. Something with a heavy piano. Maybe “A Thousand Miles” by Vanessa Carlton or “Brighter Than the Sun” by Colbie Caillat. Regardless, it’s the sound of everything in my life finally coming together. The weight of my failed engagement with Seth, moving two times, my exes, and the emotional turmoil that is Trevor have seemingly dissolved now that I’ve finally made contact with Daniel.
Trevor’s too busy chopping his broccoli to notice my reaction to my phone. Either that or he doesn’t care.
I slink away to the privacy of my own room to read it.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 8
Daniel Nakamura • 7:13 P.M.
Hi Tara,
Are you kidding me? Of course I remember you. In case you forgot, I don’t like many people. You were one of the few. If you can believe it, I too was very uncool in high school. It might have been nice if we could have been uncool together, don’t you think?
You’re definitely right—I do not use my old email address anymore. Though Dragon Ball Z is still KEWL. I thought about writing you as well, but I figured you weren’t still at [email protected].
I plucked my first gray hair the other day. How did we get so old? Let’s catch up for dinner soon? Things are really busy with work, but I could make myself available this Friday or Saturday night, if you’re free?
—Your Best Friend, Daniel
Ps. I am so glad to hear from you.
You and me both, Daniel.