Page 4 of Exes and O's

The moment I open the hefty glass door, I’m hit with a zesty, far-too-sexy spiciness that’s surely a biohazard. I sniff the body wash to confirm the origins of the scent, and it immediately clears my airways.Cinnamon and cedarwood, according to the bottle. Next to the body wash is a basic two-in-one shampoo-and-conditioner combo.

Poking around a virtual stranger’s shower feels illicit, but technically this ismyshower now. I’ve already seen this man’s nether regions, so does it really matter if I know his preferred brand of toothpaste (Colgate—Max White Expert Complete)?

“Jesus, take me.” Mel clasps a hand over her chest and pretends to faint on her chaise. She quickly rights herself, fully alert and ready to sip the proverbial tea, which she likes piping hot. “Okay, tell me everything. On a scale of Danny DeVito to Henry Cavill, how attractive is he? Spare no detail.”

“I wasn’t looking at his face.” His face was but a blur on account of his naked body, which definitely leans in favor of the Cavill side of Mel’s scale. The memory will live on forever, seared onto my retinas.

“I take it you’re gonna hide in there until the end of time?”

“Yes. I think I’ll just rot in here.” I examine the glittery soapdispenser next to the sink, which doesn’t belong among the rest of the practical, low-maintenance products. It’s labeledToasted Vanilla Chai. This is a woman’s touch if I ever saw one. Maybe it belongs to the big-breasted, auburn-haired woman.

As Mel tells me about a time she accidently walked in on her brother doing the dirty, I swiftly move on to the medicine cabinet. Before opening it, I catch my hopeful reflection in the mirror and cringe. What was previously a perky ponytail this morning has sagged. I try tightening it to add volume, inadvertently making it worse. There’s zero volume to be had here. Each strand is dead slick to my scalp and severely pulled back, accentuating my shiny forehead. I really need to blot.

Giving up on myself entirely, I explore the cabinet. Inside is an opened packet of assorted color toothbrushes, a shaving set, a single razor, a bottle of shaving cream, Listerine mouthwash (Cool Mint) and a jumbo bottle of Tylenol.

As I pluck the bottle from the shelf to examine the expiration date (expired in July 2021), a floorboard creaks in the hallway, right outside the door. Panicked, I fling the Tylenol back where I found it and side-shuffle away from the sink. A few beats of silence tick by before there’s a knock.

“Tara?” Trevor’s voice is gravelly and baritone. Very audiobook worthy.

“Mel, I gotta go,” I whisper, frantically ending the call before she can respond.

“You okay in there?” he asks.

“Totally fine. More than fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Yikes. I sound like Minnie Mouse on uppers. I make a point to lower my voice. “Was she your girlfriend?”

There’s a beat of silence. “No. She’s not my girlfriend. She just left, by the way.”

“Oh,” I say, mildly disappointed. It would have been nice to have another woman around, like an unofficial roommate of sorts, especially since the majority of Crystal’s and Mel’s time is devoted to their respective long-term, committed relationships and full-time thriving social media careers—both of which I lack. While I love being a book influencer on Instagram and TikTok, it’s a hobby, not a career.

There’s another extended silence before Trevor says, “Listen, I’m sorry we had to meet like that. I didn’t think you were moving in until later today. I feel like an asshole.”

I sink to the floor behind the door, noodle legs pulled to my chest. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s your apartment, technically.”

“It’s half yours now.”

“Do you regularly have sex in communal living areas?”

“Well, not anymore.” Based on his half chuckle, I picture a charming, tilted grin that could melt the panties off any given straight woman. “I swear I’ll disinfect the whole kitchen. Thoroughly.”

“Much appreciated,” I say genuinely. It’s nice knowing the surface I eat my Pop-Tarts over will be void of bodily fluids.

A few beats go by. “So, uh, are you ever gonna come out of the bathroom?”

“That depends. Are you still naked?”

“I’m fully decent, I swear.”

I press my cheek closer to the door, craving the vibrations of his voice. “I might stay in here a little longer. It’s comfortable.” This tiny space is actually kind of soothing, reminiscent of a Scandinavian spa.

His footsteps disappear down the hall, only to return a few seconds later. “I have Cheetos. And don’t worry, I washed my hands.”

My mouth waters instantly at the tried-and-true sound of a crunching bag. Be still my heart. I reach to turn the knob, opening the door wide enough to make a grabby-hands motion through the crack. He’s still not visible, with the exception of his hand as he passes the bag like a dicey drug deal. There’s a light dusting of ashy-brown hair on his wrist and knuckles. His palm is massive, almost twice the size of mine. I catch the tail end of a detailed, dark-gray tattoo in the area below his thumb, but before I can make out the design, his hand disappears behind the door.

Starved, I descend on the bag, ripping it open like an ape. In the span of under three minutes, I’ve demolished at least a quarter. Ashamed of my blatant gluttony, I slide it back through the crack. “Sorry, I’ve had a traumatic day.”

The bag crunches. “Shit. Because of me?”

“No. My day was already a wash before you.”

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