Page 20 of Exes and O's

I’m momentarily sidetracked by a man ambitiously carrying three ice cream cones through the parking lot, one of which is about to topple over at any second. “I don’t know. I keep telling myself I was too homesick and drunk to make sound decisions. It’s the only explanation.” Had this not been my first introduction back to the dating scene, I have a feeling I wouldn’t be taking this so hard. But being vulnerable and putting myself out there for the first time in forever, only to have a date crash and burn, does little to renew my hope for the future. “He assumed I asked him out for ‘closure.’ ” I put air quotes aroundclosure, half-mauled burger in my right hand, two fries in my left.

“Did you?”

“Well, yes. But he was just so... presumptuous. When I asked why he stopped talking to me, he said it was because I was too ‘clingy’ and ‘crazy.’ Can you believe he called mecrazy?” I demand. “In fact, he said, and I quote, ‘The hotter the girl, the crazier she is.’ He even tweeted about it. Hashtagged #CrazyExGirlfriend.” I slide my phone over with the screenshots of Jeff’s tweets for Trevor’s perusal.

He roots through them quickly, unimpressed. “You can rest easy knowing he only got three likes, one of which was him liking his own tweet.”

“I kind of want to respond, give him a piece of my mind,” I mutter darkly, drumming my fingers together as I consider scorching comebacks and accompanying threatening GIFs.

Trevor tentatively clears his throat after a slurp of his milkshake. “I don’t think responding is a good idea. It’ll only reinforce his opinion of you.”

“That I’m crazy?”

“Exactly.”

I wait a couple of beats and narrow my gaze at him. “Doyouthink I’m crazy?”

“I wouldn’t use the term ‘crazy.’ But...”

“But what?” I snap. Do I care whether Trevor thinks I’m hot and/or crazy?Certainly not.

“You made a hit list of exes to pursue. And you made friends with my one-night stand and called hermarriage material.” He safely sticks to thecrazyside of things, and I’m a little relieved.

“Gabbyismarriage material.”

He ignores that statement. “I mean, let’s look at the facts. You also keyed one ex’s car.”

“I can’t bear that cross my whole life, Metcalfe. I was fifteen. Give me a break. You sound like Segway Jeff.” I roll my eyes dismissively. “Also, it’s offensive and demeaning to be written off as crazy. Especially given the stigma of mental health. And maybe the real issue here is that some men can’t confront their emotions. Instead of taking responsibility for your own behavior, it’s easier to screw us, write us off as loons, and forget about us.” I huff at the injustice, stuffing another handful of fries into my mouth like a goblin.

He considers that for a moment and frowns. “Point taken. You’re right. But can you not admit thatpeople, not just women, can act a little”—he looks to the ceiling, searching for the proper term—“intense sometimes?”

I toss my burger onto the tray and lean in. “If you’re notintenseand passionate once in a while, can you even call it love?”

“Sure can. It’s called a mature, stable, adult relationship,” he says, elongating each syllable like I’m a small child.

“And you would know from personal experience?” My tone drips with sarcasm as I wait for him to tell me about Angie, the love of his life.

Instead, he fires laser beams at me as he carefully folds his empty fry container. “I’ve had two serious relationships, thank you.”

I hold out my hand, making a grabby-hands motion for his phone. “Let’s see them.”

He makes me wait a few blinks before begrudgingly relinquishing his phone. His first ex, Natalie Lowry, is stunning. She looks like a literal angel with her belly-button-length coffee-colored beach waves. “She was my high school girlfriend,” he tells me, promptly moving on to the next profile before I have the chance to press for backstory.

The second ex, Kyla Sheppard, is leggy, raven-haired, and reminds me a little of a younger Olivia Wilde. She’s mid-laugh in every one of her Instagram photos, which tells me she likes to have a good time—or at least wants to give that illusion.

“You should reach out to them.” I light up at the mere thought. “Maybe you and I could go on ex searches together.”

“No. I don’t want a girlfriend. Too much work.” He turns his phone facedown on the table, abruptly putting an end to that suggestion; stacks our trays; and dumps our trash in the bin.

What about Angie?I want to ask. But I refrain, instead grabbing my jacket to follow him outside, into the parking lot. “Is that a Jane Austen quote? You’re basically a walking example of romance.”

Trevor flashes me a flirty smile as he unlocks his car with his key fob. “Please don’t put me and romance in the same sentence.”

I pretend to laugh, when in reality, I’m more confused about him than ever.

chapter nine

IT’S BEEN Aweek, and Angie’s identity still remains an unsolved mystery. Then again, I haven’t dared to come out and ask. Trevor and I haven’t seen much of each other due to our shift schedules, aside from the odd run-in while one is coming home and the other is leaving. Besides, poking around his love life like a thirsty Hollywood tabloid reporter feels needlessly cruel.

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