Page 26 of Exes and O's

OMG he is HOT. Doesn’t he look like Daniel Dae Kim?

My date advice is to ditch Brandon and date your roommate. This is what we deserve!!

•••

“CAN I ASKyou a question?” I ask.

Trevor shoots me a one-eyed warning glare, evidently and understandably peeved that I’ve barged into his room without notice. When I flick the light switch, he covers his eyes like a vampire who’s deathly allergic to the sun. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“I did you a favor. You’re gonna mess up your schedule if you sleep any longer.” He’s been sleeping off his night shift, and I’ve been impatiently waiting for him to wake up for hours.

I’m due to meet Brandon in T-minus forty-five minutes, and I need a pep talk.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he asks through splayed fingers.

Miffed, I run my finger over the high waistband of my wrinkled, wide-leg linen pants. “My date outfit, thank you very much.”

While plotting my ensemble on the subway ride home from work, I had a momentary freak-out and made a pit stop at Gabby’s, Trevor’s hookup and my new friend, to pillage her closet. As it turns out, she owns tons of handmade pieces collected from all over the globe, all of which have some elaborate story. These pants were hand-sewn by a ninety-year-old woman in the Tibetan mountains who has nearly lost her sight.

Trevor rests against the headboard and tilts his head, studying me from every angle like I’m an abstract museum painting. “No.”

I scoff, my hands on my hips. “This is traveler chic. They’re Gabby’s, actually.”

“Why are you wearing Gabby’s clothes for your date?”

“Because... she’s a world traveler, just like Brandon.” As the son of diplomat parents, Brandon is well traveled. He speaks five languages. He’s spent winters skiing in the Swiss Alps, summers riding camels through deserts in Morocco. You name it, he’s done it all, three times.

Even though I take after Dad with my “gift of gab,” as Mom likes to call it, what if Brandon dubs me an uncultured swine? What if things take a turn for the horribly awkward, like they didwith Segway Jeff? What if he’s nothing like I remember? What if I panic and ask for his hand in marriage?

As the horrifying possibilities besiege me, so does a potential solution. “Metcalfe?”

“Yes?” Trevor asks, slow and tentative, as if dreading my response.

“I really do need to ask you a question.”

•••

GRANDMA FLO WASabsolutely right. Men get better with age. At least, Brandon Wang certainly has.

His face was etched by the gods. How else can you explain his perfectly proportioned features? The enchanting dark-chocolate eyes I want to stare into longer than appropriate? Or the naturally blemish- and pore-free skin that looks airbrushed in person? If that wasn’t unfair enough, he also has the sun-kissed tan of someone who’s spent many a day experiencing the world. He certainly hasn’t been rotting on the couch scrolling through Netflix’s romance section, pretending he hasn’t already watched every film five times (not that I’d know from personal experience).

We’re seated in a turquoise booth, struggling to hear each other over the fifties tunes blasting over the sound system. He’s practically glowing like in his current profile photo (a flattering shot of his sunburned self, grinning in front of an ornate temple in Thailand).

Brandon leans in like he’s going to tell me a secret. “Can you believe it’s been over ten years since we first met?”

My insides blossom with nostalgia. “God, no. It feels like justyesterday we were pulling all-nighters, hitting up the twenty-four-hour grocery store for those giant tubs of Neapolitan ice cream.”

He mocks a retch. “That stuff was revolting. Especially the strawberry. I can’t believe we ate like that. Nowadays, my body can’t take it.”

“It’s all downhill after thirty, Bran. Or so I’ve heard,” I say. I roll up the sleeves of my cardigan as the waiter with a Mr. Monopoly mustache drops a heaping plate of loaded nachos in front of us.

Polite as ever, Brandon waits for me to pull my first cheesy nacho from the top of the pile before methodically selecting his. As expected, he chooses a relatively plain one, which he smothers in sour cream. “Oh, definitely. I used to be able to fall asleep anywhere. I can’t get a lick of shut-eye on planes anymore. Or any old pullout cot at a hostel. I’m a princess now,” he says through a crunchy bite, massaging his neck for emphasis.

A grin spreads across my face upon recollection of the many instances when he fell asleep in the library, mid–study session. “You’re basically a geriatric. Are you sure you can handle a round of mini putt without throwing out your back?” I joke.

“Oh, don’t worry about me. I can hack it. Hope you practiced your swing.” He cracks his knuckles, making a show of competitive spirit before peering at the nearest putting hole to our right. It’s aStar Wars–themed hole with rotating lightsabers ready to block incoming balls.

Putters bar is admittedly an appropriate date spot, with the retro black-and-white-checkered floor and charming neon signage. It’s located in a huge warehouse consisting of three massive mini-golf courses alongside two designated food and drink areas.Unlike a typical Astroturf course, each hole is a callback to a famous movie or television show. Behind theStar Warshole, there’s a partially obscured Dorothy from theWizard of Ozat the end of a yellow brick road.

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