Page 3 of Exes and O's

I’ve embraced a morsel of change, starting with a bold haircut (a long blunt bob). My bookstagram and BookTok accounts—niche corners of the internet where literature-obsessed folks bond over books—are thriving. I’ve secured my trusted inner social circle of exactly two—my sister and Mel—the respective Carrie and Samantha to my Charlotte (even though we’re all probably Miranda).

Maybe this year I’ll surprise everyone and take up a new hobby, like looming, archery, or mountain biking. Seth always resented my lack of hobbies, aside from reading. Maybe I’ll purchase a succulent, or seven, and name them after the von Trapp children fromThe Sound of Music.

I’m reinvigorated with endless possibilities by the time I reach unit 404. So much so, I open the unlocked apartment door with triple the force necessary, like a pro dancer taking center stage, making an impassioned entrance into my shiny new life.

The moment I enter, it’s clear that this new chapter is no improvement from the last. In fact, it’s worse.

Before me is a magnificently muscled, entirely naked, tattooed man bending an auburn-haired woman over the kitchen island.

Welcome home, Tara.

chapter two

THINGS GO TITSup from there. Literally.

I let out a bloodcurdling screech from the depths of my gut, tossing my throw pillows in the air. The auburn-haired woman yelps, endeavoring to cover at least half her enviably ample bosom. The tattooed man curses and dives for cover behind the butcher block island, like a World War I soldier under siege in the muddy trenches.

But it’s too late for me. I sawit.

The penis belonging to my new roommate, Trevor Metcalfe.

It’s not like I expected to cross the threshold into aSex and the City–worthy life of fabulous riches, cosmos, whirlwind romance, and girlfriends who are readily available to drop their lives at a moment’s notice whenever disaster strikes. But I was not expectingthis.

Normally, I wouldn’t entertain the prospect of moving in witha stranger. But the rent was cheap, I have student debt, and anywhere was preferable to my parents’ place, where I’d be forced to compete for attention with Hillary, Mom’s ankle-biting, narcissistic Chihuahua. Besides, Trevor is Scott’s best friend and coworker at the firehouse. I figured it was safe to trust my soon-to-be brother-in-law, but apparently you can’t trust family.

You’ll never see each other with your shift work. It’ll be the same as living alone, Scott had assured me.

The illusion of living alone seemed plausible, given that my and Trevor’s conflicting shift schedules prevented us from meeting prior to today. I rotate between day and night shift every two weeks, and apparently, so does he. So far, we’ve only exchanged a couple of texts, which consist of my request for the dimensions of my new room for my bookshelf. No small talk.

The topless woman gapes at me, justifiably peeved I interrupted her Big O. Aside from disappearing into the void, I do the next best, highly logical thing: mumble a vague yet sincere apology, cover my eyes, and sprint away in the only direction possible—down a short hallway.

“This is fine. It’s all fine,” I mutter, taking refuge through the first door on the right. I slam it shut, savoring the relative coolness of the door against my searing skin.

As a nurse, I see genitals aplenty, particularly during my stint in the ER before I transferred to the neonatal ward. But making eye contact with a live human (a mega-ripped human, to be precise) in the throes of passion a mere ten feet away is a first.

When slowing my breath becomes a herculean task, I try a technique my therapist taught me.Take in your surroundings. Note everything logically, with no judgment.

I’m in a tiny, outdated bathroom. It’s white from floor to ceiling, save for a plush navy-blue towel hanging behind the door and the matching hand towel next to the sink, both probably belonging to a man with a nice, sizable— Nope. We’re not going there. Focus, Tara.

Cracked yet clean ceramic subway tiles adorn the wall in the gleaming glass shower. For a bathroom formerly shared by Scott and Trevor, two thirtysomething men, it’s impossibly clean. I run my index finger along the rim of the smooth porcelain sink. It’s spotless. Not a stray man hair or glob of dried toothpaste to be found.

Weak and weary, I park myself on the porcelain throne. I should probably commence a new search for another place to live, but the very prospect of probing the bowels of Craigslist prompts a heaving gag. Instead, I self–eye bleach to videos of baby farm animals until my feet lose all circulation.

I know I have to go out and face the music at some point. But like a coward, I delay the inevitable by FaceTiming Mel.

She answers immediately, preening her ultra-lush lash extensions. She’s a curvy influencer, like Crystal, except instead of fitness, Mel’s specialty is fashion and beauty and all things aesthetically pleasing. Today, a shimmery purple shadow sweeps across her eyelids, accentuating her dark eyes. Her contour is also on point, showcasing her bone structure. She’s so stunning, it’s frankly offensive.

Based on the floor-to-ceiling window behind her, she’s at home in her bougie apartment in the theater district. “Where the hell are you?” she asks.

“I’m hiding in my new bathroom,” I whisper.

“Why are we whispering?” She lowers her voice conspiratorially.

“Because. I just walked in on my new roommate. Naked.”

She lets out a strangled gasp and slaps a hand over her violet-painted lips. “Naked? As in, ass out?”

“Penis out,” I correct. “Actually, he was more than naked. He was boning a girl in the kitchen,” I explain, taking it upon myself to snoop in the shower.

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