Page 37 of Exes and O's

“A die-hard, emotional romantic and a guy who only believes in one kind of happy ending? That’s a recipe for disaster if I ever saw one.” She resumes her butterfly crunches.

I frown. “Why are you looking at me like I need an intervention?”

Mid-crunch, Crystal levels me with a hard stare. “Because I know how you get. You get obsessed.Dickmatized, as the great AliWong would say. You would fall in love with a tree branch if you spent enough time with it.”

“Okay, rude. I have standards,” I shoot back.

“I’m sorry. It’s just, you have a tendency to fall hard and fast... I mean, you had a crush on the mailman at Mom and Dad’s. The stock boy at Trader Joe’s. The DJ at Grandma Flo’s wedding.” Crystal is anything but a sugarcoater.

My first instinct is to go on the defensive and remind her of her own crappy exes. But to be fair, she isn’t saying anything that isn’t true.

I’ve been this way my entire life, misinterpreting kindness for affection, ready to launch into fantasy mode at any given moment (He looked in my general direction, so it must mean he wants me to be his wife. Right?). I’m like an overenthusiastic dad on a trampoline who jumps a little too far to the left and lands crotch-first on the springs.

Perhaps the most pathetic part is that I’ve been in a staring contest with my phone all day, waiting for Trevor to text me. To say something. Anything. To acknowledge what happened. When my phone screen illuminates in my hand with a notification from Instagram, I check my texts for the seventy-fifth time, confirming I have exactly zero.

I desperately need to get my priorities in order, which do not include Trevor, who is so fundamentally wrong for me, it’s almost laughable. I must keep my eye on the prize, securing my second-chance love story, definitely not getting my heart broken yet again.

“Trust me, if I was thirsting over Trevor, you’d know. I wouldn’t stop talking about him. And besides, he’s made it quite clear he’s not interested in me. He’s probably with another woman rightnow,” I say, wincing at the thought. “And I’m pretty sure he’s having a torrid affair with a married woman who’s the love of his life.”

Crystal readjusts her messy topknot. “Impossible. He’s a straight-up man-whore. Not for you. You’ve come so far since Seth and the wedding. You’re finally happy again, living on your own. I just don’t want Trevor bludgeoning all your progress to death.”

“Don’t forget, men are a burden. Seriously,” Mel adds.

They’re right. They’re both completely right, and I know it. The last thing I need is to pack up my life for the third time this year. I need stability, desperately.

“I know. You don’t have to worry. I’m focusing entirely on my exes.”

Crystal looks unconvinced. “Promise?”

“Promise,” I say with conviction, despite the strange bubble in my throat as the words come out.

chapter thirteen

TREVOR STILL ISN’Thome. It’s six, and according to his work schedule on the fridge, he was off at five. He’s certainly avoiding me. He’s probably spent the entire day plotting the least dramatic way to banish me from his apartment.

I’ve spent the afternoon cleaning like Cinderella. I even made a fresh batch of cupcakesfrom scratch, proudly displayed on the kitchen island for the taking. It’s a flimsy apology for trying to assault him with my lips, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.

Doing some book TikToks is the only thing that keeps my mind from twisting into a frenzy. I’m doing a fifteen-second book review video when Trevor’s muffled voice filters in from the hallway outside the door.

I set down my phone immediately, willing myself to loosen up. Play it cool. I can do this. I can face him like a grown-ass woman.I can bravely look him dead in the eyes after he blatantly rejected me. It’s fine. THIS IS FINE.

His deep voice carries over the jingle of his keys. Has he brought home a new conquest? I strain to listen for a second voice like the massive creep I am.

“You’re okay, though, right?” he asks.

Silence.

“Okay, good. I gotta go now, but—”

Silence.

“Yup. Love you, Angie.”

Angie. The same Angie he sent a basket of candy to. The Angie heloves?

I think about how Crystal laughed hysterically at the idea of him in a romantic relationship, and my stomach pinches harder than it should. I’m a statue, holding my breath so I can eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation when the door finally opens. There’s a dusting of snow on his beanie, which he shakes off while keeping his phone in between his ear and shoulder. He’s not ready for eye contact, laser focusing on unlacing his boots.

I wither a little inside, secretly wishing to fall into a wormhole and never return.

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