chapter three
One month later
ACCORDING TO GRANDMA Flo, the first moment you open your eyes sets the tone for the rest of the day. I liken it to an ill-advised opening scene of a novel, or a rom-com where the main character wakes up in full makeup; unstained, crisp pajamas; and perfectly intact barrel locks.
Though in reality, I routinely wake up looking like a cadaver from a grisly crime scene. Sickly, pale, and disheveled.
A blue, pre-sunrise glow peeks through the blinds, which tells me it’s one hour too early for consciousness and definitely far too late for the rhythmic squeak of the mattress and the steady drum of the headboard slamming against the wall across the hall.
It’s been one month since I moved in, and this is the third woman Trevor has brought home (not including the redhead from move-in day). One look at Trevor and it’s easy to understand his success with the ladies. Not only is he a heroic firefighter, but I’ve deduced he resembles a mildly less tortured, darker-haired version of the lead Sons of Anarchy outlaw biker, ready to whisk you away for a life of crime on his Harley-Davidson. In reality, Trevor doesn’t actually own a motorcycle. He owns a plum-colored used Toyota Corolla with like-new, spotless interior. But he does have the foreboding, tattooed-badass look going for him.
I certainly don’t resent Trevor for having a healthy sex life. In fact, after over a year of celibacy, I’m seething with jealousy. But cobwebs on my downstairs aside, sleep is a precious commodity as a shift worker. After back-to-back night shifts, I was looking forward to sleeping in today before transitioning to day shifts.
I fold my pillow over my head in a sad attempt to muffle the cries of pleasure. But somehow, they just grow louder. There’s only so much Yes, Oh God, and Fuck I can withstand before morbid curiosity sets in.
Is Trevor Metcalfe really that good in bed? Or is this woman faking it for the sake of his fragile male ego?
Must be faking it, I decide.
Without notice, my traitorous imagination gifts me a visual to accompany the audio. Trevor’s tattooed, sinewy forearms cage me in as his lustful gaze sweeps over the contours of my body. His thumb makes languished strokes on the underside of my wrist as he pins my hands above my head. The weight of his solid, muscled body puts pressure exactly where I want it. He presses the softest bite into my neck, sending a trill of electricity to the forgotten corners of my body before he—
I snap my eyes open, loosening my death grip around my blanket I didn’t know I was clutching. Where the hell did that come from? Am I that hard done by?
I refuse to be remotely turned on by the sounds of my roommate and a random woman going at it. Not today, Satan.
Despite being objectively hot, tattooed bad boys like Trevor are not normally my type. It’s the white-collar sort with front-pleated chinos, cross-country runner bods, and boy-next-door-turned-respectable-plant-daddy energy that usually make me feel some type of way. And while Trevor is an exception to this, I have no intention of crossing that line with him. After the year I’ve had, platonic, drama-free cohabitation is just what I need. Besides, given the gorgeous women he brings home, he’s certainly categorized me as nothing more than an obnoxious, sexless human.
Bleary-eyed and frustrated with the uninvited tension between my thighs, I throw on my favorite cable-knit sweaterdress from the floor and snap a cute bow over yesterday’s French braid. I even apply an extra layer of mascara, full foundation, and bronzer in preparation for my Live video session this morning with Grandma Flo.
By the time I drift into the kitchen for my morning Pop-Tart, the screaming coming from Trevor’s bedroom has thankfully dissipated, replaced by a relative calm. As I toss the singed pastry onto my plate, I catch Trevor’s hookup tiptoeing toward the front door. Aside from the wildly matted hair and general fatigue from physical exertion, her professional-grade winged eyeliner is smudge-free. The beam of light from the tiny kitchen window above the sink gives her tanned skin a luminous, postorgasmic glow.
When our eyes meet, she stops in her tracks. “Morning,” she whispers, promptly averting her gaze to her bare feet, as if bracing for judgment.
Because I’m an emotional beacon with far too many feelings, I won’t touch a man’s penis if I don’t know his middle name. But I don’t judge others for partaking in casual sex. In fact, I envy their ability to take what they need while avoiding emotional damage.
“Hi. I’m Trevor’s roommate.” I’m about to wish her well and continue on about my day, but for reasons beyond me, I thrust my plate in her direction. “Want a Pop-Tart? It’s raspberry.”
She eyes it like it’s a rare delicacy. “You are doing the lord’s work. I’m starving.” She plucks the Pop-Tart from the plate, basking in the underrated glory of that first sugary bite.
The familiar creak of the pipes and sputtering water down the hall tells me Trevor’s taking a shower, so I don’t bother using a hushed voice. “Not surprised, from what I heard. You need to replenish your calories.”
She half chokes on her bite. “Sorry.” She pauses. “I’m Gabby, by the way.”
I don’t bother to hide my eager smile. “Tara.”
Two Pop-Tarts later, Gabby and I are besties. Turns out, she’s a badass. At the ripe age of twenty-four, she already runs an Etsy business selling handmade jewelry (I’ve ordered a dainty gold necklace). She’s also a member at the same fancy gym as Crystal. And despite my initial protest against physical activity, she’s convinced me to join her for an aerial yoga class later this week.
The moment Gabby leaves to catch her Uber, Trevor sneaks down the hallway, freshly showered. His ashy hair is damp, unsure which way it wants to fall. A pair of gray sweatpants hangs low on his hips, and of course he’s shirtless.
When he spots me parked on the stool at the island, I zero in on the intricate bird wing sweeping from his robust right shoulder and over part of his sculpted chest. He has a smattering of other tattoos on his arms and back, as well as another set of Roman numerals on his left rib. And while he makes a regular habit of waltzing around shirtless, identifying the particulars of each design is like solving a jigsaw puzzle, slowly but surely, piece by piece.
Today, I follow the sweeping wing leading to the bird’s expressive eyes. Even colorless, there’s a ferocity that screams to be noticed.
“Is she gone?” he whispers before so much as setting a toe into the open-concept kitchen and living area.
“No. I asked her to be our third roommate.” My tone is far too sarcastic for early morning, but I don’t know how else to act after hearing that (and accidently visualizing it). As he enters the kitchen, my chest erupts in ugly red blotches, heat dotting the crests of my cheeks. I think I need to lie down. “Didn’t we talk about nudity in common areas?”
“I’ll throw on a shirt if you clean up your books.” He waves a vague hand toward the stack of paperbacks in the corner under the living room window. I used them for a book-stack-challenge photo shoot two days ago and have yet to move them back to my room, despite his numerous requests. In the meantime, he’s piled them alphabetically.
Trevor has a phobia of clutter, which I’m discreetly desensitizing him to by adding a few personal touches one by one, so as not to spook him. My first add was my heart-shaped throw pillows, then the succulents, and, most recently, an admittedly revolting starry-sky canvas painted by yours truly at a wine-and-paint night. Trevor says it hurts his eyes.
“I told you the other day, I have no more room on my bookshelf. And you should be thanking me for adding character to the place. Your apartment was a cliché barren wasteland of nothingness before I moved in,” I rightly point out.
If I had to describe my new apartment in one word, it would be minimalist, and even that’s being too kind. Before I moved in, every wall and surface was bare, void of any clutter, color, or décor. To be fair, it wasn’t always this way. Apparently, Scott took lots of stuff with him when he moved in with Crystal, leaving only a limited amount of basic furniture in the form of exactly one worn leather couch and matching armchair, a flat-screen television, and a small maple dining table tucked in the corner of the equally bland off-white kitchen.
I continue on. “And if you’re going to keep having loud sex while I’m across the hall, the least you could do is let me decorate.” My expression is pointed. The man disturbed my much-needed tranquility, after all.
He smirks as he opens the fridge. “Hey, I can’t control other people’s volumes.”
“Sounded like Gabby had a good time, at least.”
He tosses a ziplock bag of frozen kale on the counter, narrowing a suspicious gaze at the crumb-filled plates on the island. “Did you give her a Pop-Tart?”
I lift a shoulder, watching as he dumps a handful of kale into the blender. “She was hungry, and you didn’t feed her.”
His eyes bulge, like I’ve just suggested he take her hand in marriage, which I’m half-tempted to do. “Why would I feed her afterward?”
I make a sour face, pinning my stare at the swirly design on my plate and definitely not the swirly design on his immaculate bod. “To thank her for the sex? You could have at least walked her out. She’s so cool. Did you know she has a scuba diving certification?”
There’s a break in the conversation as he blends his smoothie to a puree. “That’s not how a one-night stand works.”
“Do you mind if I invite her over this weekend? We’re best friends now,” I gloat, mesmerized as he pours his healthy concoction into a tall glass. “I think you’d like her, if you got to know her. She’s wifey material.” I give him what I already know is a nauseating wink, mostly to get a reaction out of him.
He maintains his death glare as he tips his head back, guzzling. “I’m not looking for wifey material, Chen.” He sets the empty glass on the counter and marches down the hall, but not before casting one last glower at the Pop-Tart crumbs on the plates.
I follow him to his room, leaning on the doorframe like a swoony romance hero. A glimpse into Trevor’s room is a rare opportunity, given that he usually keeps his door closed. The moment my big toe crosses the threshold, I’m giddy, tempted to snort that spicy signature scent like Leo, Wolf of Wall Street–style.
With an effortless tug, he pulls the fitted steel-gray sheet from his mattress, tossing it into the laundry basket nestled in his intensely organized, color-coded closet.
Meanwhile, I’ve declared a state of emergency in my room. Books are strewn haphazardly on my nightstand and every available surface. At least seven throw pillows have taken up permanent real estate on the floor. Trevor must think I’m a disaster.
I fold my arms over my chest, unable to take him seriously. “Can I ask you a question?”
“No,” he grumbles, his eyes fixed on his phone. I catch a brief half smile as he scans a text and quickly fires off a response. I idly wonder if he’s texting Gabby, or someone new already.
“Please.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But don’t ask me if you can ask questions.”
“I feel like I have to ask, because you don’t seem to like questions.”
“Sorry. I’m not a morning person.” He definitely is not. Over the past month, I’ve discovered he’s practically mute until midday. If I strike up a conversation before nine in the morning, it usually doesn’t go much further than a few garbled mumbles. He gestures toward me, sighing, like he’s given up. “What’s your question?”
“What’s it like to be the dumper?” I ask point-blank.
“What’s a dumper?”
“In every relationship, there’s the dumper and the dumpee—the one who gets their heart broken. Take me, for example. I’m always the dumpee. Never the dumper,” I explain, omitting the detail that I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of being dumped ten separate times, by ten separate men. “But I assume you’re most often the dumper.”
He grunts, fussing over his pillow. “You can only be a dumper if there’s a relationship to dump. I don’t do relationships.”
“Let me guess: you don’t believe in happily ever afters because of your mysterious, turbulent past?”
Based on my extensive knowledge of rakes and playboys in romance novels, I’d say it’s a fair deduction. Though truthfully, even after rooming together for a month, I don’t know much about him, aside from the fact that he’s a firefighter, he drinks green smoothies, he has a lot of sex, and he’s averse to clutter and mess.
His jaw flexes as he chucks the pillow onto the bed. It lands crooked, and he doesn’t even bother to fix it. I’ve definitely hit a nerve.
I bite my lip, suppressing my morbid curiosity. “Sorry. That was too far. Crystal says I have an annoying tendency to box people into romance tropes and stereotypes.”
He sits on the edge of the bed and watches me curiously. “And which romance stereotype are you?”
I stroke my chin, pretending to contemplate, even though I already know the answer. “I’m too broke to be a divorcée starting over with an inherited fixer-upper in the European countryside. I’m probably the clumsy sidekick who cracks blunt jokes at all the wrong times. The disheveled one who provides emotional support to the more desirable and levelheaded heroine.” When I say it out loud to Trevor, my life does fit perfectly into a rom-com trope (hold the rom).
He slow-blinks. “You really think you’re a sidekick?”
I drop my shoulders, resigned to my fate. “We can’t all be main characters, Metcalfe. Some of us are nameless background people who are just . . . there.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I would like to get out of sidekick territory, though. Try something new. Actually, I just made a Tinder. Wanna judge my profile?” I toss my phone toward him. It lands with a soft thud on the mattress.
Since my meet-cute-turned-mugging on move-in day, my DMs have been flooded with people serving up the cold, hard truth: online dating is my only option. In a moment of weakness, I caved and downloaded all the apps.
“Would you swipe right on me if I were a stranger?” I ask.
Trevor huffs a one-syllable laugh, which I interpret as a definite no. Ouch. “ ‘Seeking husband potential only. No test drives’? Is that actually your bio?”
I fold my arms over my chest. “When you’ve had your heart crushed to smithereens as many times as I have, you don’t mess around. This bio weeds out the duds who just want to assault me with dick pics.”
Mel spent a solid hour brainstorming prospective bios for me, the majority of which I turned down immediately, including:
I’ll share my Netflix account;
Cooks Kraft dinner without consulting directions on box;
Looking for more than one type of happy ending; and
Early-onset dad bods welcome.
“Damn, who’s the girl in the photo with you?” Trevor ogles my profile photo, a candid shot of Mel and me cheesing for the camera at a lush, sunlit vineyard last summer. He zooms in on Mel, interest piqued.
A tired growl escapes me. “Mel. She’s my fashion influencer friend. The one you met the other day,” I remind him. They met briefly when she came to pick me up for a mall outing. He gave her his best flirty eyes, practically impregnating her on the spot, turning her cheeks to Red Delicious apples.
Trevor continues to dissect the photo, zooming in and out like an FBI agent. “I’m not sure this is your best photo. Besides, no one will know which one you are.”
“Excuse you.” I yank my phone out of his grip. “This is my one good photo. I use it for everything.”
Unlike Mel, who is Insta-famous for her flawless makeup and lusciously thick black hair I want to transplant onto my own scalp, I’m chronically unphotogenic. Even if I look bomb in person, I look like a serial killer in any given still photo. In fact, in high school, a webcam picture of me with vacant, Night Stalker eyes became a viral meme called Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. Yes, that is my one claim to fame. And yes, people have recognized me in public on exactly three occasions. This is why I exclusively take photos of books.
This Tinder photo of Mel and me just so happens to be the one photo of a thousand where I don’t look like I dabble in random acts of cannibalism. Dare I say, I resemble an even-keeled individual with average emotional range and sufficient social skills.
“Any luck on Tinder?” Trevor asks, changing the subject from my apparently unideal profile photo. He stands to grab a T-shirt from his closet, slipping it over his head.
“No. It’s kind of depressing, actually.”
For proof, I show him the first profile that comes up. It’s a thirty-four-year-old named Ted with a teardrop tattoo. I reckon he’s killed before. Next is a guy in a corduroy newsboy cap, which could be acceptable if I were into the gaunt-faced, troubled, and egotistical academic types.
“You’re being picky. Look at this one.” He points to the third guy, Dax, who is rocking a skinny polka-dot tie. He’s above average in looks, with tired yet gentle eyes, a little nerdy, innocent. And will probably shatter my brittle heart to pieces all the same. “His bio says he likes chicken nuggets and quantum physics. You practically live off chicken nuggets. This could be your soul mate.”
“I don’t think my soul mate is on Tinder. And he looks like his mom still cuts his nuggets for him into tiny bite-size pieces.”
“If you say so.”
I show him the next guy. “And then there’s this one. With the dog.”
“What’s wrong with the dog?”
“He doesn’t look like a dog guy to me, which tells me he’s a manipulative sociopath who stole someone’s dog to masquerade as his own.”
Trevor lets out a soft sigh and heads into the hallway. “Well, I’d love to stand here and make sweeping, very specific judgments about internet strangers, but I’m heading out for errands. Need anything at the grocery store? Fruits or vegetables, perhaps?” he asks teasingly.
I follow him to the entryway. “Hey, I eat a perfectly balanced, healthy diet. And you certainly haven’t been complaining about my cupcakes.” I’ve gotten into the habit of baking Betty Crocker cupcakes from the box every weekend out of pure boredom (and gluttony). Each batch has been devoured quickly, thanks to Trevor.
He levels me with a knowing look. “Name one fruit or vegetable you like.”
I rack my brain. My entire life, I’ve been a notoriously picky eater. Dad used to make me sit at the table for hours until I finished my dinner. I’d hold out until he’d cave and make me something I liked, like nuggets. Even two weeks ago, Crystal and Scott tried to make me eat a piece of cooked asparagus and I almost cried because of the texture.
“I like pickles,” I announce.
“Pickles?” A smile flirts at the corner of his lips for a fraction of a second as he slips his arm into his jacket. “Fine. I’ll buy you a jar.”
“Oh, okay, but make sure they’re dill pickles. I don’t like sweet—”
A knock at the door interrupts me. Trevor pulls it open to reveal Grandma Flo.