chapter twenty-nine
TREVOR RUNS TOWARD me through a lush, green, tranquil field. The sleeves of his white Flynn Rider dress shirt billow in the breeze with each strong yet graceful slow-motion stride. Sunlight bathes his skin in liquid gold.
He’s half a football field length away and it might as well be a continent. The sun doesn’t extend to my half of the field, which is cold, slate-gray, and shrouded in miserable decay. A cruel cloud hangs directly above me, ominous, inky, and full, threatening to burst at any moment to drench me in an icy sheet of rain.
Desperate to sprint into the warm safety of Trevor’s arms, I ready myself for the first stride. But my limbs refuse to budge. I’m stuck. Immobile. I can barely even exhale a breath.
The more I struggle, the more pressure builds against my ribs. Something black, shiny, and thick has coiled itself around my entire body, squeezing tighter and tighter, intent on sucking the life out of me. Strangely, it smells like a mixture of sweet and soothing, like my White Strawberry Herbal Essences shampoo.
It’s my own hair. I’m being strangled to death by my own Rapunzel-like hair.
A gray, frizzy-haired Mother Gothel–like figure with Seth’s shark face transplanted over the top looms behind me, running its bony, shriveled hands over my shoulders. Her villainous eyes glint, delighting in my distress, jagged yellow fingernails scraping my skin.
“Let me go. I think he likes me,” I rasp, my throat as dry as the Sahara, staring longingly at sunlit Trevor. He’s still running, but somehow, he’s not getting any closer.
Mother Gothel releases a witchy cackle into the shell of my ear. “Likes you? Please, Tara, that’s demented!”
• • •
MY CHEERFUL, CHIRPING bird alarm snaps me to a welcome consciousness. Yellow strands of light poke through the slats in my blinds, confirming I am indeed safe in my bed, not in a sketchy field.
That enthralling cinnamon scent—Trevor’s scent—grounds me with the comfort of home. Like a drug addict, I attempt to flop onto my side toward the source, craving more, but I’m still stuck.
Unlike in my dream, my limbs are not bound by my own hair, which is both relieving and disappointing. Having lusciously thick, long, glossy shampoo-commercial-worthy hair a la Mel’s wouldn’t be too shabby, so long as it doesn’t try to strangle me to death.
In reality, it’s my sheets that have cocooned me like an Egyptian mummy in an ancient tomb. They’re pulled tight all around me, military-style. The other pillow is smoothed and plumped. For the first time in years, my bed is made . . . with me in it.
This is a surefire sign that Trevor Metcalfe was here. That last night wasn’t another one of my elaborate, R-rated dreams.
My alarm is still going off. Bleary-eyed, I struggle to free myself from the tightly wound sheets to hit Stop.
It’s eight thirty. Trevor’s flight was at six forty-five.
I lug myself out of bed and tiptoe across the hall to check his bedroom. Just as I suspected, his bed is made. Everything is in its place. Except for him, of course.
He’s gone. He left without saying goodbye.
I return to bed, smoothing my hand over the empty space where he fell asleep next to me, replaying everything he said to me yesterday about how he wanted to try. How he was going to give this relationship his all. How I agreed to take things slow with him, emotionally at least.
I wish I could magically summon him back to talk through it all again in more detail. To confirm it was all real. I wish I could summon the feeling of the pads of his fingers hypnotizing me with small circular strokes. The tingle of my skin as his lips danced over me in an intricate, private show. The feeling of being more in sync with another human being than I ever thought possible.
I fall back asleep, my heart filled with hope but also fear.
DANIEL: Please call me. I’m so sorry about Friday night.
This is Daniel’s third apology.
I haven’t responded yet.
As Mel leads us through the mall in search of a dress for the gala in two days, Crystal lectures me on the art of forgiveness. “I know you hold a mean grudge. But Daniel’s only human. He’s obviously really sorry.”
“But he lit-ral-ly forgot about me. Who forgets about dinner with their long-lost childhood best friend?” I’m still feeling some type of way about being stood up at Mamma Maria’s. And frankly, does it even matter anymore, now that I have Trevor?
“He’s your very last ex, right?” Mel asks bluntly, reminding me of that sad fact as we veer to the side, avoiding a trio of adorable elderly women doing some gentle mall walking in matching velour tracksuits.
As expected, the Sunday pre–Valentine’s Day at the mall is all-out anarchy, packed with bumbling fools last-minute gift hunting for their special someone. Today’s crowds are even worse than the Boston subway at rush hour and the grannies at the grocery store combined. Mel even sustained a broken acrylic nail battling for the last baby-blue cashmere sweater. RIP nail.
“He is the last one,” I say, barely masking my neutrality. Neither Crystal nor Mel knows what happened with Trevor, mostly because mic dropping this plot twist that we’re suddenly together now via our iPhone group chat just didn’t seem appropriate. I’m waiting for the opportune moment to spring it on them today.
As we enter a cute formalwear boutique, Mel gestures to a mannequin in the window posing broken doll–style in a seventies neon-yellow feather cocktail dress. “Is that too much for your gala?”
“Honestly, I don’t know if I want to go. Maybe I’ll just fake sick,” I tell Crystal and Mel, rooting around a rack full of gorgeous yet out-of-budget dresses. Further confirmation I should sit this event out.
The existential dread of going to the gala alone without Trevor hits me like a wrecking ball. I miss him. Terribly. And it’s only been a day since he left.
It doesn’t help that we’ve barely texted, aside from a quick message when his plane landed. My entire being has been itching to ask him how he’s doing, how the fires are, what he’s been thinking about, and if he still feels the same way about me as he did on Friday night. I’m desperate to unpack our brief conversation from before we had sex. Sure, we agreed we were giving this a shot. But we never discussed the logistics of how our relationship would change, whether we were an “official” couple now.
Last night, I even woke up at the devil’s hour, opened my Notes app, and started typing a half-baked declaration of love so at least he’d know where I stood. When I realized my text was nearly a full screen length long, I remembered what Trevor told me that night when I was texting Brandon.
He will run far, far away if you send this.
The last thing I need is to scare him off with my obsessive self, only days before Valentine’s Day. There’s also the fact that he specifically told me he needed to take things slow. I promised him we would, not just for him but for me too. I want to do things differently this time. I don’t want to cannonball headfirst like in my past relationships, all of which crashed and burned. I want to be measured, sure of myself, not desperate like I usually am.
“But it’s Valentine’s Day. You shouldn’t be alone with your thoughts. Do we really want a repeat of last year?” Crystal gives me a pointed stare. I spent last Valentine’s Day crying on Crystal’s couch while she petted my hair like a destitute stray in a Sarah McLachlan animal welfare commercial.
I press my hand over my heart. “I solemnly swear I won’t require emotional support this year.” I turn to Mel, who’s examining a gold sequin number that costs one month’s rent. “This is your first Valentine’s Day alone in years. Want company? I can supply the wine, excellent company, and cuddles,” I offer eagerly.
“Sorry, Tara,” Mel says sympathetically, like she feels sorry for me. “It’s tempting. Really. But I already committed to a Live makeup tutorial with one of my influencer friends.” She points me toward the dressing room area. She’s selected an armload of overpriced gowns for me to try on.
“You sure? I could even hang out in the background and watch. I won’t get in the way,” I suggest, desperate.
“Maybe you wouldn’t have to be alone on Valentine’s Day if you text Daniel back,” Crystal reminds me.
Mel holds a black cocktail dress in front of me, one eye closed. She frowns, like I’m a disgraceful contestant on America’s Next Top Model. “I don’t think I like black on you. Too gothic,” she mutters. “Anyway, I disagree. Don’t call Daniel. He deserves to suffer a little after making you sit alone at the restaurant like a loser.”
Yeah, until Trevor showed up and proceeded to change life as I know it.
Mel drops a heaping pile of gowns on the bench in the dressing room, oblivious to my internal freak-out over whether now is a good time to come clean. On second thought, the chaos of the dressing room hardly seems like a suitable place to drop this bomb. “I’ll be back with more options. I don’t know if I like square necklines on you. It shortens your torso.”
Crystal comes in as Mel darts out of the dressing room on a mission. She stuffs a ball of cherry-red fabric through the crack in the door. “Try this one. It’s very you.”
The next half hour consists of me sweating, changing in and out of various dresses, most of which are either too expensive or do nothing for my figure.
My mood lifts when I try on Crystal’s pick, the red one-shoulder dress with the sexy thigh-high slit up the leg. Admittedly, it’s kind of perfect, accentuating my waist and elongating my middle with the over-the-shoulder bejeweled strap. According to Mel, the harshest critic, the rich tone brings out the olive hue of my skin. She even threatens to shun me if I don’t buy it. The best part? It’s on sale for half price and won’t require alterations.
I snap a few mirror selfies, examining the dress from every angle, my mouth open like the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants girls in their magic jeans, astonished by the flawless fit. I can almost envision myself at the gala in full glam. This dress screams love. It screams Valentine’s Day.
By the time we return to Mel’s condo with take-out sushi, I’m jittery, my knee bouncing uncontrollably under the glass coffee table. My body is physically rejecting keeping my Trevor secret for so long.
Crystal notices straightaway. “Why aren’t you eating your sushi?” she asks, dipping a spicy crab roll into her soy sauce.
I struggle to swallow a pitiful mouthful of seaweed salad, tossing my disposable wooden chopsticks on my plate. It’s time to come clean.
I spare no detail about the entire evening, from nearly getting kicked out of Mamma Maria’s to Trevor showing up, saving my ass and my breadsticks. I explain how, in a moment of weakness, I demanded to know Trevor’s feelings, which directly led to an explosion of emotions, followed by a passionate hookup.
When I conclude my story, a thick silence falls over Mel’s open living area. Crystal looks like she’s about to choke on her roll. Across the coffee table, Mel’s mouth is crooked and partially open—her trademark face when the logic doesn’t add up because her Botox prevents severe forehead lines.
“No freakin’ way. You slept with Trevor?” Mel finally clarifies, breaking the stretch of silence. She pretends to fan herself. “Was it life-changing? I bet it was. I need details.”
I bury my face in my hands. “It was.”
Through my splayed fingers, Crystal pins me with a hard, judgmental stare. “Wait, you mean you two are actually a thing? How is that even possible?”
“No wonder you’ve been so blasé about Daniel. You’ve fallen for Trevor. Hard. Literally,” Mel declares, eyeing me with righteous suspicion.
“Yup,” I admit.
“Have you talked since he left for California?” Mel asks, struggling to use her chopsticks despite Dad’s fifteen-minute lesson at Crystal’s bridal shower. She quickly gives up and eats her sticky rice with a fork.
I lift my phone from the coffee table to find nothing, as I predicted. “He texted once to tell me he arrived safely.”
Crystal’s expression is one of ultimate doubt. “Wait, that’s it? You’re together and he’s barely even texting you?”
Her question is like a gut punch. I straighten my spine, suddenly feeling even more insecure than I already was. “Is that weird? Should we be texting?”
“I would think so. Scott texts me constantly when he’s gone.”
“Okay, but Scott and Trevor are two different people,” Mel reminds us, although I barely register her words given the alarm bells going off in my head.
Heat prickles my body as I straighten my spine. “Shit. This is a bad sign, isn’t it? Do you think he’s freaking out and regretting everything?”
Mel makes a face as if to say, Don’t ask me. “Why don’t you ask him to FaceTime? Ask him straight up if you’re still on the same page?” I don’t know how Mel’s question can be both so logical and so hive inducing. “Or send him the smokin’-hot mirror selfie in the red dress you took in the changing room. See how he reacts.”
Crystal’s eyes go wide like Frisbees. “Mel, I love you, but are you okay? That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. A mirror selfie will send the wrong message for sure.”
“Wrong message? Is she a nun? She’s hot and wants to show off her bod to her man.” Mel scoffs and gives her a kick under the table. “Personally, I think it’s genius. If he sends some sort of sex-related response, we’ll know he just wants your ass. If he says something lame, he’s changed his mind and decided to friend-zone you. And if he offers a sincere compliment, we can probably guess things are still good.”
“You do have a point.” In my looming sushi coma, I’m easily suggestible. I grab my phone and impulsively open my text window with Trevor. My fingers flex, hovering over the option to attach the photo.
Before I can make a decision either way, Crystal shrieks, “No!” In a blink, she’s ripped my phone from my hands before I have the chance to firm my grip. She stuffs it down her sports bra for good measure.
I cock a brow. “Really, Crys? I’m not afraid to go in there.” I make a pretend advance, and Crystal leans away from me, her hand clamped over her chest.
“Come on. Think about this. I’m not sure any of this is a good idea.”
“Texting him?” I ask.
“No. Like, all of this. I mean, from what you said, he never gave you any specific commitment other than an I’ll try. Are you really willing to accept that?” When my eyes start to well, she’s quick to add, “I love you, Tara, and I want you to be happy. But I also want what’s best for you. I just don’t want you with another guy you have to fix. Someone who needs so much maintenance. Especially someone you’re rooming with.”
“But have you seen him? Let the girl live!” Mel makes a surprise attack from across the table and stuffs her hand down Crystal’s shirt. She ends up dipping the elbow of her silk blouse in the tiny plastic container of soy sauce, which nearly dribbles on her plush cream area rug.
I reach across the table to assist Mel before she stains anything else. Crystal sees this as an attack and rolls away into the fetal position on the floor. It all goes downhill from there. Mel dives over her, and I launch myself on top of both of them with a bloodcurdling battle cry.
The three of us are screaming like children fighting over the last slice of pizza at a birthday party. Someone has scraped my neck with their fingernail (probably Mel), and somehow Crystal’s messy bun has come out and Mel’s blouse is wrinkled and disheveled. We’re seconds away from an all-out catfight.
Given Crystal’s superhuman strength, it takes both Mel and me to pry my phone from her hands. I even resort to tickling her on the ribs to give Mel a window of opportunity to swipe it. By the time Crystal finally relents, we’re flat on our backs laughing hysterically on Mel’s floor, our chests heaving like we’ve just completed a gruesome spin class.
“Okay, on second thought, let’s rethink this,” Mel says breathily. “A random photo of yourself may be a little weird. I think your best bet is a straight-up conversation when he gets back to make sure you’re still aligned. In person. It’s too important a conversation to have through text.”
“You’re probably right.” With what little strength I have left, I reach for my phone to exit the text window.
And that’s when I see it.
Somehow, through our tussle, we have collectively managed to hit Send on the mirror selfie.
Not once.
Not twice.
But three times.
No. No. No.
Fuck my life.
Mouth agape, I show Crystal and Mel what we’ve done.
Mel looks identical to The Scream, the famous painting from the 1800s with the gaunt, skull-like man with both hands on either side of his head, his eyes wide like he’s just seen death itself.
Crystal is so disturbed, she launches to her feet and starts speed walking around the living area, her hands to her temples, mumbling, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” which does little to quell my nausea.
Near deceased, I collapse onto Mel’s stylish yet uncomfortable couch, an arm over my eyes to block out my reality. It’s time to defect to the fringes of society. I’ll live out the rest of my days in rugged nature, using twigs, stones, and poisonous berries for currency.
Then again, my animal friends wouldn’t be an adequate substitute for human company. No. I think I’ll stay here in this very spot for all of eternity. It’s only a matter of time before the buzzards descend to feast on my innards. “I don’t suppose you can unsend a text?”
“I don’t think so,” Crystal says, cringing. “But I’ll Google it to make sure.”
“It’s okay. It’s fine. No big deal. You like him. He likes you. It’s totally normal to send him photos of yourself,” Mel assures.
“But that’s the thing! I don’t know anything that’s going on in his head,” I shriek. After all, what if Crystal has a point? Is everything he said to me on Friday at odds with his behavior since he’s been gone? Actions do speak louder than words.
“Wait!” Mel rockets up to a kneeling position, her eyes glinting. “Tell him you meant to send it to me or Crystal.”
As per Mel’s sage advice, I craft a new text, which reads, Sorry, I meant to send that to someone else.
My stomach dips, roller-coaster style, when the little ellipses appear in our text screen. Just knowing he’s seen the photos makes my body react in a way it shouldn’t. The dots are there for a solid minute at least. I know because I’ve gone ghostly pale from holding my breath. As soon as the dots appear, they disappear.
By the time Crystal drops me off at my empty apartment, Trevor still hasn’t responded to my THREE selfies.
This can’t be a good sign.