Page 23 of Exes and O's

“Look, if you attempted an airport grand gesture, everyone would say it was so romantic. But it’scrazywhenIdo it.”

He regards me like I’m a walkingCautionsign. “Maybe you should approach dating more casually.”

“I can’t just hook up with someone casually.”

“Why not? It’s just sex.”

When he sayssex, my face flushes like I’m a prepubescent teen in health class, all giddy over some anatomy word likelabia. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he’s sitting an arm’s length away from me, on my bed, but looking him in the eyes feels dangerous, vulnerable, like I’m staring into a solar eclipse, a second away from burning my retinas.

“You’ve never had casual sex?” His question comes out gruff.

My silence reveals me.

“Seriously? Never?” When I don’t respond, he points at me. “I have a theory about you.”

“Please enlighten me.”

“You’re obsessed with the idea of pursuing your exes because you’re scared to meet someone new.”

I scoff. “I’m not scared to meet someone new.”

“Why do you only read books you’ve already read?” he challenges, gesturing to my bookshelf, filled with the worn and cracked spines of well-loved books.

“Slander. I read new books sometimes. But if you must know why I reread, it’s because I already know I like them. I know how they end.”

His eyes glitter with satisfaction. “See? You don’t like new things. Same with food and traveling. You also hold on to things, like literal garbage from your exes, for example.”

I ignore his weirdly accurate assessment. “It’s not garbage. They’re priceless, sentimental relics. And I can’t just have sex with randoms, okay? Not everyone can turn their feelings off at the drop of a hat.”

“It’s really notthatintimate. Just don’t allow your mind to go there.” He says it so casually, like it’s second nature.

I lean forward, mattress creaking. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

He grumbles, and I mentally scold myself for the reflex. I keep forgetting how much he hates that question.

“Is a happily ever after really so terrifying to you?”

He holds eye contact for a couple of moments before standing, putting space between us. “Yes.”

When I boldly ask, “Have you ever considered therapy?” his jaw tics.

Before I can discern whether he’s pissed, amused, or soul searching, my phone vibrates on my bedside table.

BRANDON WANG:Hey, Tara. Thanks for the message. How are you doing?

My heart thuds against my chest wall. When I gasp for dramatic effect, Trevor leans in, shoulder brushing against mine as he reads my text. He watches as my fingers fly over my keyboard.

“Why are you typing your response in your Notes app?” he whispers in my ear, as though Brandon is in earshot.

“Because if I type in the text window, he’ll see I’m typing. Ellipses are a sign of weakness,” I whisper back conspiratorially. “And what if my thumb slips and I accidently send an unfinished message? Or an unedited message filled with typos?” When I’m done drafting my response, I pass my phone to him for peer review.

Hi Brandon!! Wow it’s so nice to hear from you. I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately, wondering how you’ve been and if you’re traveling anywhere. I miss you and waswondering if you want to go for a drink, or lunch, or dinner, or brunch? I’d be down for any of the aforementioned. If you can’t, or if you’re out of the country, that’s totally cool too. But it would be great to catch up!!

Trevor’s eyes incinerate the block of text. “No. No. No.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Before I can take my phone back, he tightens his grip and stands, holding it out of reach.

“You’ve lost custody of your phone. And the fact that you don’t know what’s wrong with that text scares me a little,” he says, his tone clipped. “He will run far, far away if you send this.”

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