chapter thirty-three
PEOPLE ARE SERVING me some serious looks.
Then again, I am a human bumblebee in my massive Belle dress in the hospital elevator. A woman grumbles under her breath when I inadvertently bop her in the face with an obnoxiously large bundle of pink gift shop balloons. Along with the balloons, I’m also juggling a Flynn Rider piñata and one of Mel’s cast-iron frying pans to break it with—like in the movie when Rapunzel hits him in the face with a pan.
The party is scheduled to start in half an hour. It’s no Disneyland, but all the brightly painted whimsical cardboard structures serve as fuel for the imagination. Pink and purple streamers drape across the entire room, doing their best to mask the ugly hospital ceiling and walls. A long rectangular table sits in the middle of the room, draped in a hot-pink tablecloth, accented by sparkly confetti and princess plates, napkins, party hats, and gaudy plastic crowns.
Staff members are already milling about, assisting with the last-minute setup of the goody bags. Even Crystal and Scott are here, dressed as Snow White and Prince Charming, respectively. They’re the designated muscle, moving furniture and doing the miscellaneous heavy lifting. Trevor is nowhere to be seen, which is honestly making my anxiety even worse.
Angie spots me right away from the “window” of Rapunzel’s tower, which was a bitch to construct out of cardboard given its height. “It’s Belle!” She’s full of energy today, wide-eyed and giggly at the sight of the piñata in my arms. “And you brought the pan.”
Payton enthusiastically approves, dressed in a Princess Anna dress. “Oh my God. You look fantastic!” Something is different about her today. Usually, she looks weary, worn, and in need of a long nap. But today, she’s bright and lively. She folds me into a hug, although my hoop skirt prevents close contact. “I didn’t expect all of this. It’s above and beyond, honestly.”
“Believe it or not, Trevor helped with the cardboard construction. I did the painting,” I respond, setting the bundle of balloons in the corner of the room. I do my best to mask the somber look on my face as I mention Trevor.
“Where is Uncle Trev?” Angie asks. She tilts her head to see how far her braided wig extends to the ground.
“He’ll be here soon. He’s always early,” Payton guarantees, turning to me. “Thank you, by the way. For everything,” she adds.
“Don’t mention it. Honestly, I love parties. I told Trevor I’ll plan her party every year . . . if this one is up to Angie’s standards,” I tease, my voice cracking at the possibility of not being in their lives a year from now. Surely it would be strange for me to continue visiting Angie if Trevor and I are no longer a thing.
“No. It’s more than just the party,” Payton assures me. “Thank you for all the visits. And for keeping Trevor sane. He’s usually a nervous wreck whenever he visits her. More nervous than Angie, even. But you calm him somehow.” She glances at her daughter, and then back to me. “I’ve never seen him like this. Ever.”
I eye her sideways, hoisting the frying pan under my arm. “What do you mean?”
“He’s been sick over you, truly,” she responds.
“Who’s been sick?” Angie asks, her dark eyes darting back and forth between us.
“Uncle Trevor. He’s in love with Tara,” Payton explains, far too casually.
I nearly choke on my own saliva. Apparently, I’m the only one caught off guard by this statement, because Angie just rolls her eyes like this is last week’s news. “Oh. I already knew that.”
I’m about to launch into an interrogation when Angie’s stare moves past my face, over my shoulder. Her expression brightens instantly.
“Ange,” a deep warning voice grumbles.
Behind me is Trevor. In his Flynn Rider costume, filling out the vest and beige pants like a fantasy come to life. Except better, somehow. The tattoos embellishing his sinewed forearms peek from underneath hastily rolled shirtsleeves. I note that the buttons on his vest are buttoned unevenly, as if he didn’t bother checking his reflection in the mirror before leaving the apartment.
Similar to cartoon Flynn Rider, he’s generally disheveled. His hair is messy, like he’s raked his hand through it one too many times. His eyes are bloodshot, in desperate need of a good night’s rest. I idly wonder if he got any sleep at all last night.
Despite his obvious fatigue, his eyes still manage to ensnare mine, and the overwhelming sight sends my body into a state of shock. I’m at risk of flatlining from his mere proximity.
I barely register when Angie scolds him, ordering him to refer to her as “Rapunzel.”
Trevor gives her a cocksure smile. “Miss Rapunzel, are you gonna let down your hair for me or what?”
Angie giggles and points in my direction. “Nah. But Belle might.”
He swallows, tentative when he spots the piñata and accompanying cast-iron skillet in my hands. “Erm, I’m not so sure. Belle may prefer to bash my face in with cookware.”
I raise my free hand to proclaim innocence. “I’m not in a violent mood, lucky for you.”
He laughs. “That’s a relief.”
I’m not sure where to go from here, but under Payton and Angie’s watchful eyes, I’m feeling hella uncomfortable and paranoid they’ll sense the rift between us. Maybe it’s best to avoid him until the party is over. “Sorry, I’ve gotta set up the piñata,” I say, gathering the sides of my dress to walk away.
Trevor’s fingers clasp my wrist before I can make my escape. “Wait.”
When I stop, he releases my wrist, running a hand over the back of his neck.
I study him, waiting.
“God, I’m really fucking bad at this.” His honey eyes meet mine, sincere and earnest.
I can’t help but laugh. “Which part?”
He lifts both palms to the ceiling as Payton shuffles Angie away to greet guests, granting us some privacy in front of the cardboard tower. “All of it. I’m trying to grand gesture you. For the second time. And I’m trying not to make an ass of myself.”
I wait for him to continue.
“I’m so sorry for ruining your night last night. That was never my intention. I had this whole perfect surprise planned out and it just . . . went to shit.”
“It’s okay, Trevor. Really. I understand.”
He clears his throat over the squeal of some of the kids who have just entered, in awe at the décor. “I never should have walked away from you. But after all the hours I listened to you talk about how amazing Daniel is . . . I thought I could never compete. Especially after seeing you two together. I know how special Valentine’s Day is to you. I guess I just thought it must mean Daniel is really special to you too. If he was exactly the kind of guy you were looking for, I didn’t want to be in the way of that.”
“For the record, you have nothing to worry about with Daniel. I love him as a friend, but it doesn’t even compare to what I feel for you. And I know it’s hard to believe after all my exes—”
“No, I was a dick for using that against you.”
“To be fair, I get it. You were kind of right. I bounced between them all so fast because the truth is, I didn’t love any of them anymore. I just convinced myself I did, mostly because I was trying to avoid my feelings for you,” I admit, moving out of the way as Angie runs past me to greet more guests.
“I know. I’m a tool for doubting that.” He gives a helpless shrug. “It’s just, I’ve seen the way you are with guys you like. Sending multi-paragraph texts. You sent me one-word answers while I was gone, and I thought you—”
“You thought I didn’t care?” I’m tempted to laugh in his face when he nods. I think about the hours I spent clutching my phone, willing him to text me. “Don’t forget, you’re the one who told me to rein my text game in. I was trying not to freak you out and send you running far away, as you would say.”
He winces. “My advice was dead wrong. I love your long-winded texts. I just never thought you’d actually take my advice.”
My corset makes digesting this new information more challenging than it should be. How do historical romance heroines keep their cool? I fidget, managing to regulate my breathing, replaying his words. I interpreted his lack of communication to mean he didn’t care. And he assumed the same.
Grandma Flo’s words echo through my head. You have a lot to learn about relationships if you think all problems can be solved with a single conversation.
He continues. “Anyway, I wanted to apologize again for my part in all of this. I know I’ve messed with your head the past few months, and I take full responsibility. And I know asking you to move slow didn’t help.”
“I’m sorry too. And for the record, I have no problem with moving slow.”
The corners of his lips tug upward, deepening into a brief smile. “I think we tossed out moving slow on Friday night, didn’t we?”
“Technically.”
His incendiary look locks me in place. “Tara, I’ve had it bad for you for months. You. Are. Everything. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I was scared because I couldn’t stop second-guessing whether you were real and whether you were going to leave too. I’ve always had issues expressing how I feel, especially after my mom passed. After everything, with my family and Angie, the thought of losing someone else I care about was too much. Shutting people out was easier. I just got so comfortable with that reality. And when you moved in . . .”
I let him continue his train of thought.
“You wanted to get to know me. You wanted to know everything about me. And for the first time, I wanted to let someone in. And when I did, it scared the shit out of me. But the time away gave me some clarity.”
“On what?”
“It made me realize I missed you so fucking much. I was so miserable without you, I got sent home early because I was basically useless out there. I needed to come home and tell you that I want all the things you want. That I’m capable of giving you everything. And I don’t want to go slow, because I can barely breathe when I think about living my life without you. I want to complain while you watch Disney movies. I want to alphabetize your books. I want to read with you at night. I want to tolerate your mess. I want . . .” He lets out a weak half laugh. “I want a family. One day. I want to do literally anything as long as it means being with you, because I am so in love with you, I don’t know what to do with myself.”
The weight of his words sends an electric thrill rocketing through me. There’s a hopeful yet vulnerable look in his eyes I’ve never seen before. For the first time, there’s no iron gate, fortress, moat, or velvet rope keeping me from him. He’s right here, in front of me, dressed like a literal prince, warm eyes beaconing me to him.
Because I’m me, my mind blanks entirely, homing in on the only coherent statement echoing in my mind. “I’m really not that messy.”
He does that face, the mock-disappointed face he always makes. “Tara, I just told you I loved you and that’s what you take out of it?”
I cover my face with my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to declarations of love like this.”
“The fact that no one has realized how amazing you are is just . . . mind-blowing.” He reaches to brush the crest of my cheek with his thumb. I want to capture this very moment. His gentle laugh, like music to my ears. The sound of Angie and her friends laughing, running around the room. Even the antiseptic hospital scent. The look in his eyes that fades everyone and everything around us to a mere blur. Like we’re the only ones who exist in this moment. “I understand if you need to take time to think about it. I just needed you to know how I feel.”
“I don’t need any time to think about it. You know I love you.” I inch forward, and finally, we’re chest to chest, nose to nose. The warm, welcome contact stirs something inside both of us, because within a fraction of a second, he’s cupping my jaw with one hand.
“What are you doing?” I ask in barely above a whisper.
“What every good romance hero does.” When I nod, he lets out a sharp breath before his lips fuse to mine, pleading for entrance.
This time, it’s not soft, sweet, or tentative. It’s deliberate. He’s silently telling me he’s mine and I’m his.
Finally.