Page 69 of Exes and O's

The click of my seat belt quells the dense silence. “I couldn’t do it.”

He gives me a sideways glance. “Really? We came all the way here and you’re chickening out now?”

If I’m being honest, my mind is not in this conversation. It’s stuck on loop. On the events of literally a few minutes prior. “You kissed me.” My statement comes out harsher than I meant it to.

“I did,” he says, as if he can’t believe it himself.

It takes a lot to leave me speechless. And he’s succeeded. “Why?” I finally dare to ask.

As if he can sense I’m descending into an internal spiral, he presses his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. It was a shitty thing to do. I wasn’t thinking. You asked me to hide you and I thought people would look away and...” His explanation is entirely logical. He’s told me this before, how PDA makes him cringe and turn away. “Please don’t read into this,” he begs.

The kiss wasn’t real. No feelings. Or rainbows. Or butterflies. Realistically, I should be grateful he had the wherewithal to try to conceal my stalking. He was being a good friend, helping me in dire straits, right? Why am I so disappointed?

“I’m not reading into it.”I might be.

“Are you sure?” he asks slowly, like he’s expecting me to confess my obsession with him right here, right now.

I hate that he sees me in such a pathetic light. “Relax. I’m not. I may be in the market for a soul mate, but even I’m not naive enough to think it would be you.”

He watches me for a moment, his expression stony. “Good.”

“And your kiss leaves a lot to be desired,” I add for good measure. I fold my arms and glare out the passenger window. It’s a lie, of course. It’s the best kiss I’ve ever had. But he can’t know that, lest his ego explode.

His stare burns through my profile, like he’s waiting for me to crack and admit his exceptional talent. “Excuse you. I’m a great kisser.”

“I’ve had better,” I say, suddenly very focused on the lint from my cable-knit sticking to my jeans.

“You’re lying. In fact, my skills have been corroborated by highly reliable sources.”

I shrug. “Sorry, Metcalfe. It is what it is. Maybe you’re just out of practice.”

When I don’t relent, he sighs and squints at the windshield like he’s trying to solve a riddle. “Anyways. We can’t do that. Ever again.”

chapter twenty-two

WE DON’T TALKabout the Kiss.

We don’t talk about it on the treacherously snowy drive home. We don’t talk about it as we hoof it up the stairs. We don’t talk about it while Trevor makes us a nutritious grilled chicken dinner. And we definitely don’t talk about it while we watchThe Bachelor, him seated safely in the armchair instead of his usual spot on the couch.

Even days later, Trevor still takes painstaking efforts to avoid looking me in the eyes, like I’m a human solar eclipse. He’s also extra broody and grump-tastic, with his clipped one-syllable responses and general skulking about the apartment.

Meanwhile, I’m still struggling to understand what the hell happened in that lobby. Have I really had a lifetime of rusted Honda Civic–equivalent kisses? Because comparatively, Trevor’skiss was like being behind the buttery leather wheel of Mel’s Tesla. Is it humanly possible to kiss someone likethat—the fervent, suppressed passion of our breath colliding, him claiming me entirely—with zero authentic emotion spurring it on?

It’s taken every morsel of self-restraint I have (which isn’t much) not to crumble like a rainbow chip cookie and demand a detailed explanation. But I don’t. What if the answer is simpler than I want it to be? Maybe it’s exactly as he said: an unexpectedly effective way to avoid attention. And if that’s the case, where the hell do I go from here?

It doesn’t help that my followers have doubled down on the room-ance thing. Now that they’ve seen Trevor’s annoyingly handsome, perfect face on video twice, it’s game over. In fact, no one really cares about my exes at all. And I’m left to wonder (in a Carrie Bradshaw voice), do I really care about them, either?

Did I really go to Daniel’s work with the intent to stage a run-in? If so, why did the reality of seeing him turn me into a fleeing gazelle at the sight of a lion at the watering hole? In fact, has this entire endeavor become so all-consuming because I truly want to find love with my exes, or am I merely basking in Trevor’s assistance?

Luckily, I have Crystal’s bridal shower to distract me from emotional ruin. We spent the morning pampering her and ourselves at the spa with manis, pedis, and facials. Now we’re at our childhood home for the shower. Originally, Aunt Lisa, the eldest sister on Dad’s side of the family, offered to host. But ever since she hosted a Lunar New Year celebration last week, which allegedly resulted in a permanent radish stain in her brand-new carpet, she refuses to entertain more than five adults in her home at a time.

Mom is a ball of anxiety when Mel, Crystal, and I arrive, clutching a trembling Hillary over her boob. Hillary is one fierce abomination of a creature today in her white cashmere sweater, snarling at every woman who dares get within a two-foot radius of Mom.

“Just put her upstairs,” I tell her, reaching to grab her myself. Hillary practically foams at the mouth when my hand grazes her pointed left ear. Mom turns, shielding her like I’m the Wicked Witch of the West.

“We just have to make sure we keep her away from the women,” Mom says casually, like it’s totally normal for a dog to be a misogynist. She flashes Mel a fake smile over my shoulder before heading upstairs to administer Hillary’s daily dose of joint inflammation medication.

The kitchen is at capacity with Dad’s side of the family. Grandma Mei stands at the island, meticulously arranging the food, clad in both a leopard-print blouse and a leopard-print apron. She’s always been extra. Vibrant prints, random pops of fluorescent, the brighter the better. With her turquoise eye shadow and mauve lip, she’s straight off theCrazy Rich Asiansmovie set, sans rich.

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