Page 51 of Exes and O's

My personal favorite high school sweetheart of literature is Peter Kavinsky fromTo All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. Peter K is the ultimate, and you can’t tell me otherwise. He’s the adorable puppy-faced boy next door who’s nice to everyone. Your parents. Your grandma. The loner kid in school. He’s cute, innocent enough, although I do suspect he may crush Lara Jean’s heart in college...

Anyways, backstory. I fell for Cody in tenth-grade science class when he enthusiastically offered to partner with a kid named Bruce, who no one wanted to sit within a three-seat radius of because he had BO. Cody and I had nearly every class together, which gave me ample opportunity to talk to him.

Things really ramped up during a science field trip in Vermont, where we spent hours walking through the woods learning the difference between coniferous and deciduous trees. We snuck away into the bushes and shared our first kiss. As karma would have it, we both got poison ivy rashes later that day.

I’m about to see him for the first time since our breakup before college. Wish me luck!

•••

I’M STANDING INa bush, and I’m not proud of it.

For the past half hour, Mel and I have been creeping across thestreet from an outrageously priced Victorian house for sale in the upscale neighborhood of Back Bay. Thanks to my daily social media stalk of Cody Venner’s Realtor website, I discovered he’s hosting an open house today for one of his listings.

After my R-rated dream about Trevor, and after coming to the stark realization that I only have two exes left and three more weeks until the gala, I doubled down on my second-chance-romance quest. Anything to distract myself from the fact that my attraction for Trevor may or may not be blooming into an all-out crush.

For the past week, we’ve been verging on dangerous territory. On evenings we’re both off work, we sit side by side on the couch, binging TV or reading. Each night, we stay up a little later, knowing full well that breaking sleep patterns is a death wish for shift workers. His mere presence smooths all my swirling thoughts. Every time he smiles or laughs (or, God forbid, both), I lose all circulation in my limbs. With every accidental touch or brush of skin when we’re on the couch or in our tiny kitchen, I’m spellbound to the point of doing just about anything he asks of me.

Two nights ago, I was on my tiptoes, trying to grab a bag of chips from the top of the fridge. Before I knew it, Trevor’s entire chest was pressed against the width of my back as he reached over me to assist. When I spun around, startled, our eyes snagged for a few beats longer than normal before he handed me the chips, ruffling my hair like an annoying older brother—an act that harshly reminded me of our nonsexual-roommate status.

Finding Cody’s open house listing was like discovering a single diamond in a steaming pile of horseshit. I launched out of bed this morning and put in some serious work painting my face using Mel’sPink Peachy Glam makeup tutorial. Mel and I even prepared an elaborate backstory—that she mysteriously came into a large sum of money and is embarking on a new quest to flip houses with her own bare hands.

Is it desperate to randomly crash my ex’s open house after not speaking to him for over a decade? One hundred percent. Am I shameless enough to risk the humiliation anyway? Beyond.

Just thinking about Cody Venner feels like slipping on a favorite tried-and-true sweater. Among a hundred other sweaters, you gravitate toward this one for every occasion, anticipating the bliss of that fuzzy, plush fabric against your skin. The freshly laundered yet familiar scent of home. Just the right amount of wear and tear for optimal comfort and movement.

“He was the perfect boyfriend,” I’d explained to Trevor on my way out the door to meet Mel. “He was ambitious, great with my parents, involved in every club and sport. I didn’t see it coming when he broke up with me before college. He was going to Penn State, and I was staying here in Boston. He didn’t think we could do long-distance—”

Trevor shook his head. “Nah. Cody broke up with you because he wanted the freedom to fuck other girls.”

“You don’t even know Cody,” I’d snapped, offended on Cody’s behalf while simultaneously burdened by the memory of crying for multiple days straight in my bedroom after our breakup, combing through my box full of three years’ worth of handwritten notes and drawings he’d sent me during class. There were moments I was convinced my lungs were collapsing, that my chest was caving in on me. That I quite literally couldn’t live without him. Aside from Seth, Cody was by far my worst breakup.

Trevor doubled down. “I don’t have to know him. I know the way men think.”

Whether or not Cody intended to sow his wild oats in college is neither here nor there. Holding a decade-old mistake over his head would be shortsighted, particularly if our connection was as strong as I remember.

I’ve even perfected how I’ll look when we lay eyes on each other. I’ll do my brows-to-hairline shocked expression and whimper, “Cody Venner, is that really you?” in a transatlantic, old-school, black-and-white-movie accent.

But now that I’m here, I’m paralyzed with fear. What if Cody thinks I’m nuts for showing up? What if he laughs in my face? What if he full-out rejects me, like all my other exes? Or worse, what if he doesn’t even remember me?

I’ll stay in this bush forever, I think to myself as Mel tries to coax me out with the promise of snacks. It smells divine in here, like a Christmas tree farm. It’s thick enough to shield me from the unforgiving wind. I’m finally convinced to emerge when she dangles the prospect of borrowing her shoes whenever I want.

After three steps, I think better of it and scamper back into the bushes like a skittish rodent. “Nope. Can’t do it. This was a bad idea.”

Mel yanks on my coat sleeve. “Look, I didn’t spend hours perfecting my sexy prospective-house-flipper look for nothing. As long as you stick to the script, everything will be fine. Remember, you’re just here for a second opinion on my house-flipping business. It’s all but a strange coincidence that he just so happens to be the selling agent.” She charges across the street at an alarmingly fast pace for someone in three-inch heel boots that she deems “house-flipper chic.” She definitely watches too much HGTV.

Before I even take a step, I close my eyes and suck in a dramatic breath.

Relax. You’ve got this. This could be your second-chance romance. The very one you’ve been waiting for. He could be in that very house and you’re wasting precious time, you nitwit!

My mental scolding works, because I strut forth likeMiss CongenialitySandra Bullock post-makeover, pre–twisted ankle. Hair blowing. Hips sashaying side to side to the beat of “She’s a Lady.” If only I had aviators to whip off with fierce attitude, revealing my soulful brown eyes. I imagine my gaze somehow ensnaring Cody from a distance, weakening him to his knees until he dissolves like an iceberg in the middle of the Sahara.

A foghorn pierces my ears, rudely interrupting my fantasy. A bright-yellow school bus lurches to a stop a few feet from me, brakes squealing. My sad little life flashes before my eyes. The elderly bus driver shakes his head, fury-motioning for me to get the hell out of the middle of the street.

Mel pulls me onto the sidewalk and brushes the nonexistent dirt off my coat, as if I’ve fallen on the ground or something. “Oh my God. You almost got crushed.”

“See? It’s an omen. A sign that this is a terrible idea,” I whine.

She tugs me toward the decaying porch’s peeling navy-blue stairs. “Come on. You’re fine.”

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