chapter twenty-six
CAN I OFFER you a drink yet, ma’am?” Rogan, the waiter, asks for the third time in a faux Queen’s style British accent. For the past twenty minutes, he’s been silently judging the shit out of me from afar as I demo the house breadsticks.
“I’d still like to wait for my date, thanks.” I give him my best breezy, unbothered smile, like I’m perfectly content alone at this table for two. Just me and my breadsticks.
Rogan gives me a tight-lipped nod and shuffles away to observe from afar with the other waitstaff. I’m convinced they’re taking bets about me based on their not-so-subtle glances and whispers. After years of working in my grandparents’ restaurant, I’m painfully aware that making dumb bets on customers is sometimes the only source of entertainment in an otherwise monotonous shift.
Ten bucks says her date won’t show.
Let’s wager a guess when the waterworks start.
Why is it that sitting alone in a fancy establishment is so much more humiliating than in your average chain restaurant? No one would judge me if I were eating these breadsticks solo at Olive Garden.
I drum the toes of my heels against the lush carpet, trying to block out the classical music, which probably wouldn’t be so grating if I weren’t languishing all by my lonesome. Daniel is late, and I’m starting to wonder when it’s appropriate to phone it in and order a slice of the twelve-layer chocolate cake on the menu, to go. I curse myself for not confirming the date and time after my fitting at the costume shop.
When my phone lights up, a jolt of electricity rips through me. It has to be Daniel, telling me he’s on his way posthaste, followed by a long-winded explanation of the harrowing incident that caused his tardiness.
But no such luck. The text is from Trevor.
TREVOR: How’s dinner going?
I’m half-tempted to ignore his text, simply to avoid the pity.
TARA: I think I’m being stood up. Going to leave soon probably. Do we have chips at home? I’m gonna need them.
TARA: *GIF of Sad Pablo Escobar all by his lonesome on ugly patio swing*
At the half-hour mark, I shoot Daniel a DM, letting him know I’m waiting at the restaurant. He has yet to respond.
At the front of the room, Rogan whispers to the hostess, who has vacant eyes and fuchsia lipstick on her teeth. They simultaneously cast grim expressions toward me. If I had to guess, they’re stressing about the lack of table space. I can’t say I blame them. Mamma Maria’s is a full house tonight. The lineup is out the door, spilling down the brown, slushy sidewalk. I’m the annoying customer needlessly wasting a table, throwing everything off.
I hold my breath as the hostess sashays over. “Do you know if the other member of your party will be here soon?” she asks, brandishing a frighteningly fake lopsided smile. Her name tag is only half-visible behind her blond curls, allowing me to make out the first few letters (Mer). “We have another reservation in half an hour.”
“He’ll be here. In ten minutes,” I say reassuringly, though more to myself.
She gives me a pitiful expression and sighs dramatically, like she’s doing me a massive favor. “Ten more minutes,” she warns, like a weary parent granting their child extra playtime at the park.
I picture an ancient, hand-carved hourglass emptying with just two measly grains of sand stubbornly holding on. At the nine-minute mark, Rogan strides forth to officially kick me out. He clears his throat, cruelly forcing me to look him in the eyes while he does so. “Ma’am, I apologize, but I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“Hey, I’m so sorry, babe. I got held up in a meeting,” a booming voice sounds over his shoulder.
It’s not Daniel.
It’s Trevor.
His eyes are warm, almost amber-colored from the glow of the candlelight. And he’s dressed in a suit, no less, casually taking a good decade off my life-span.
A good suit can elevate any man at least two notches. Some men are just born to wear suits, like the Christian Grey or Chuck Bass types, the ones who command respect when their suave selves stride into a boardroom, their brows raised inquisitively. They smell like mahogany, radiating status and sex appeal with a dash of sociopathic tendencies. The mere fastening of a cuff link is enough to make the postmenopausal secretary shift in her chair. On rare occasions, they may be spotted in the wild in casual wear, and it’s jarring, like seeing your first-grade teacher next to you in the condom and lube aisle of the local pharmacy.
Then there are men like Trevor Metcalfe. The rugged, emotionally damaged types who would rather wear literally anything else, preferably their ripped, distressed jeans and leather jacket that smells like danger. But in exceptional circumstances when they wear a suit, it’s game over for humanity. Personally, I’m offended I’ve been deprived of such a magnificent sight until now.
A dark-charcoal jacket spans Trevor’s broad shoulders like a glove, the fabric straining a little over his physique, accentuating his tapered waist. His wavy hair looks like shaved dark chocolate, slightly damp, fresh from a steamy shower straight out of my dreams.
Rogan frowns as Trevor settles into the seat across from mine, relaxed and self-assured.
I bumble out some garbled nonsense, unable to speak English through my shock.
Trevor gives me an easy wink over the menu that makes my heart dolphin-flip. In return, I flash him a half-terrified, half-thankful smile while stuffing a quarter of a breadstick in my mouth.
“What can I get for you tonight?” Rogan asks, callously reaching to swipe the bread basket.
To his shock and horror, Trevor snatches it with superhuman speed, setting it back on the table where it belongs. “Sorry, sir. We aren’t done with the bread. And I’m good with whatever you have on tap, please.”
He certainly did not request to keep the bread for himself. One does not simply get a hard body like that by mindlessly shoveling empty carbs down their throat. He saved that basket of bread for me, knowing damn well I’ll go down in a blaze of wheaty glory in the name of carbs. Maybe I’ve been wrong about Trevor’s romantic lead potential all along, because that was some real hero shit.
Rogan shoots eye lasers at the bread basket, mentally turning it to a pile of ashy crumbs. “And to eat?”
“I’ll take the twelve-ounce steak, medium rare, veggies on the side.” Trevor pauses, regarding me. “I assume you want my baked potato?”
“Um, hell to the yes. Twice baked, please. If you’re not having it, I mean,” I add.
Trevor smiles and folds up his menu. “What are you having, sweetheart?” For the second time tonight, a term of endearment rolls off his tongue so naturally, I’d assume we really were a real-life married couple with plans for a bright future with two kids, a yellow Lab, and maybe a beta fish I’ll inevitably forget to feed.
Oh dear. I’m in too deep. I require a bright-orange life raft and a couple of flares, stat.
I snap my focus back to Rogan, who’s bouncing on his toes, probably itching to report back to his colleagues. “Uh, I’ll take the fettuccini alfredo?”
“She’ll take a glass of merlot too, please.” Trevor gently collects my menu and hands it to Rogan. When he runs off to his minions, Trevor gives me a dazzling, mischievous grin over the glass candelabra, which is too large for a two-person table. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? Pasta is the worst date food.”
I hold his stare. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? I don’t play by bullshit rules.”
He chuckles. “That’s my girl. You look great tonight, by the way. That dress is just . . .” He waves a hand at my tight blue dress with a plunging neckline.
I didn’t realize the extent of Trevor’s acting abilities. He deserves an award for pretending to be a supportive, sweet boyfriend. I shoulder check, expecting one of the waitstaff to be standing behind me, observing his performance. There is no one there. “Can I ask what the heck you’re doing here?”
Trevor shrugs, like giving up his night and busting out fancy attire from the depths of his closet didn’t put him out in the slightest. “You told me you can’t stand the thought of eating alone, right? That depressing story about the guy at your grandparents’ restaurant. But I figured you’d need some moral support. I wanted to be here for you. Just in case. I know I’m no Dwight K. Schrute, but . . .”
A flame lights up my insides, filling me with a liquid warmth so comforting, I don’t know what to do with my body. In fact, I don’t realize I’m smiling until the moisture threatens to pool over my lash line. This is the single most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.
“Hey, you okay?” Trevor asks, reading my expression. He even nudges the bread basket toward me. Why must he be so damn thoughtful?
I suck in a deep breath, willing back the floodgates as the blur of Rogan brings our drinks. “Yeah. I really am. Thank you for coming. I’m sure you had better things to do with your night.”
“Like what?”
I give him a knowing look while shamelessly dipping a breadstick in the tiny tray of whipped butter. That is definitely not something I’d be doing in front of Daniel. “Like having some hot sex with an Insta model?”
He smirks. “I’m eating an expensive meal with an Insta model. That’s gotta count for something.”
I make a pft sound at his flattery, swirling my wine. “I’m no Insta model. I don’t photograph well, remember?”
“Right. The Satan eyes,” he says through a snort. “You really missed your opportunity. When your meme went viral in high school, you shoulda trademarked that shit. Started a Crazy Ex-Girlfriend mass following or something.”
I drum my fingers together. “You make an excellent point. I could have been a charismatic cult leader of all crazy girls everywhere.”
As Trevor and I contemplate all the ways I could have monetized that meme and reclaimed the term, our food arrives. To the waitstaff’s horror, Trevor and I eat slowly, not out of spite, but because we can’t stop talking about random things, like what we’d do in the event of an apocalypse (him: head for fresh water; me: curl up in a ball and succumb to inevitable death) or what we’d choose to eat for our last meal on death row (him: this steak; me: a bag of Cheetos).
A couple emitting some serious first-date vibes is seated at the table next to us as I devour my pasta before it gets cold. “This is exactly why I refuse to date online,” I whisper as the man awkwardly remarks that the woman looks totally different in person than in her profile photo.
We eavesdrop as the woman asks the man whether that’s a “good thing or a bad thing” and proceeds to grow visibly annoyed and understandably offended when he changes the subject.
Trevor gives me his Jim from The Office look, his chest rising and falling with silent laughter. “Yeah. That guy might as well just give up now.”
“I think she’s about to leave,” I mouth.
“Sorry, I was just being honest. You don’t look like your photos,” the man says, his palms up.
Miffed, the woman tosses her cloth napkin on the table with a no-nonsense grumble. “Well, your voice doesn’t match your face. Have a great night, Richard.” Trevor and I (and probably the rest of the patrons) watch in stunned silence as she wrenches her coat from the back of her chair and leaves. I’m tempted to applaud her for having standards, but I’ve already peeved the waitstaff enough tonight.
“Ouch.” Trevor winces from secondhand embarrassment, scrutinizing his napkin before he pats the corner of his mouth with it.
“Something wrong with your napkin?”
“I really don’t like cloth napkins,” he explains.
I lean forward, resting one elbow on the table. “Me either. I mean, I know they’re more environmentally friendly and all.”
He sets the napkin back on his lap. “Whenever I look at them, I think about all the people who’ve used it. Blown their nose in it. They’re always full of lint too. And weird scents. Like hotel towels.”
“This is a wonderful date convo,” I say, unable to stop grinning. “Very romantic.”
He lifts his shoulders. “Hey, you always want to know more about me.”
“Have you always been a germophobic neat freak?”
I expect him to grunt and ignore me, but he lowers his gaze to his empty plate. “My mom worked a lot and didn’t have time to clean. Our place was always a shitshow. We had one of those houses you’d want to wear socks in. Logan and I were too embarrassed to have friends over because of the mess.”
I almost reach to place my hand over his, but I stop myself, settling for a frown instead. “I don’t blame you. Now I feel like a dick for not wiping my crumbs off the counters. Although my crumbs are nothing compared to naked women on the kitchen island,” I tease.
He shakes his head, partially burying his face. “I thought you were gonna leave and never come back that day.”
“Trust me, I contemplated it. But I was pretty desperate for a place to live,” I admit, taking the last sip of my wine. “Was it weird to have a stranger living with you after rooming with Scott for so long?”
“No, actually. That first time we talked—”
“When you gave me Cheetos in the bathroom?”
“Yeah. I felt like I already knew you. It was like we’d been friends for years.”
Womp, womp. There’s that word again. Friends. I deflate a little. “Really? It still took you forever to open up to me.” The fact is, Trevor is a good friend. An amazing friend. While he may not see me romantically, I should be entirely grateful for his support.
He waves away my statement. “Oh, come on. I told you about Angie fairly quickly.”
“You already knew all my emotional trauma by then,” I remind him. “In all seriousness, though, I can’t imagine living with anyone else.”
“Yeah, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who takes care of you like I do.” He gives me that disarming wink again, accompanied by a light tap with his shoe under the table. “Actually, speaking of taking care of yourself, I got called out west to help with the wildfires for a few days. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
I straighten my spine against the padded chair, caught off guard. “Really? Isn’t it the rainy season in Cali right now?”
“It is. But this year is one of the driest in history. I should be gone a couple days. But it’ll be good money. Lots of overtime.” He pauses and lowers his head. “I’m trying to make sure I’ll be back for Angie’s party, though.” There’s an unmistakable somberness in his tone.
“Trev, it’s okay. We could switch it to a date you’re home for sure?”
“No. I already talked to Payton about it. We’re gonna keep it as is. You’ve done too much work to switch it all.”
I nod silently. “Angie will understand if you can’t make it. She’ll miss Flynn Rider, though.”
He lets out a labored sigh, his expression pained. “I’m going to make it. What if it’s her last birthday?”
“It won’t be,” I promise, immediately wishing I could take the words back. They’re cruel to say out loud, because there’s no way to know for sure. “I’ll be there to make sure everything goes perfectly.”
“Thank you.” Pure gratitude is written all over his face. Unexpectedly, his hand brushes my kneecap under the table. It’s the lightest touch, but the warmth of his fingers sends a flurry of sparks dancing through me.
“Everything will be okay.”
His eyes catch mine again, and I’m lost in them until my phone has the nerve to vibrate on the table, rattling the silverware.
It’s Daniel.
Hey, Tara. I am SO sorry. I’ll probably be at the office all night. Huge project. Can we postpone?
Logically, I should feel angry. Betrayed. Sad. But Trevor’s presence cushions the fall. If I know myself like I think I do, the pain will hit me later, once I’m at home. Alone. In my bed.
Trevor winces, plucking my phone from my fingers. He turns it facedown on the table. “You’re not gonna reschedule, are you?”
“I mean, I can’t fault him for working—”
“Forget about him,” he urges. “Your soul mate isn’t gonna stand you up.”
My cheeks burn at his declaration. “He’s my last ex.”
Trevor’s hard expression softens. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
I try to brush it off by smoothing my finger over the base of my wineglass. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I would.”
I have enough self-awareness to acknowledge my tendency to overanalyze, obsess, and draw grand conclusions based on completely innocuous clues. But as I note his stiff-backed posture against the chair, his hand in a fist on the tabletop, the clench of his jaw, and our weird moment in the changing room, I’m certain there’s something behind this.
I mimic his posture and his stare, holding it for a few frantic heartbeats. Bright-red fire truck warning sirens in my head be damned. I polish off the rest of my wine and go for it.
“Trev?”
“Mm-hmm?” he asks casually, oblivious to what’s coming.
I rest both forearms on the table, my hands folded. “I’m about to ask you something, and you need to be two hundred percent honest with me, okay?”
He shifts farther against the chair, his Adam’s apple dipping. “I take it it’s not about what I ate today, is it?”
“No.”
“Tara. Don’t.” His eyes plead with me, like he knows what I’m about to ask. And like a child who’s been told not to touch the button, I have no choice but to do so.
“Is there something . . .” I gesture to the space between us. “Going on here?”
His gaze shifts to the guy whose date peaced out. He’s most certainly eavesdropping on our conversation while he polishes off his spaghetti Bolognese. Trevor’s jaw clenches, and he eyes me as if silently warning me.
“Please,” I beg, lowering my quivering voice. “You’ve been acting weird lately and I’m confused. I know I’m probably just reading into things . . . but I just need a yes or no. And I swear I’ll never ask again.”
He watches me, silent, and I can see the gears turning in his head. On the plus side, he hasn’t said no. That has to count for something.
As I wait with bated breath, my senses tunnel to him. I don’t hear the classical music. The murmur of conversation around us. I don’t even register Rogan’s presence right away when he brings the bill, saving Trevor from my burning question.
I reach to snatch the debit machine, but Trevor gets it first, tapping his card before I can protest. Surely he’s paying out of pity, to soften the blow.
We’re stone silent the entire drive home in some unspoken face-off.
Who will crack first? Who dares to be the first to speak? Certainly not Trevor, who’s gripping the steering wheel so hard, I’m afraid he might rip it right off the console. The entire climb up the stairwell to our unit is much the same, with only the echo of our footsteps to quell the silence.
It isn’t until Trevor closes the door behind us that I lose it.