Page 57 of Exes and O's

Crystal used to swear by casual sex, claiming Tinder hookups were therapeutic. I never believed her, but maybe I’ve been overly stubborn. Based on the sounds I’ve heard coming from Trevor’s room, perhaps it’s high time I find out what I’m missing.

“You know what? I’m gonna do it,” I say, abruptly launching from the water.

Trevor blinks. “What? Have toast tomorrow instead of a Pop-Tart?”

“No. I’m gonna have a one-night stand!”

chapter eighteen

TREVOR BALKS ATthe mere suggestion, his laugh echoing into the cold night air in a plume of vapor. “I was just kidding about the breakfast metaphor.”

“No. You make a good point.” I retrieve my towel with the renewed energy of a bad bitch on a mission. “I don’t switch it up enough. I’ve never had a one-night stand before. I’ve never even touched the penis of a dude whose middle name I don’t know. But I hear it’s liberating.”

He follows me out of the hot tub. “It is... But you don’t like new things. You said yourself you hate the idea of casual sex.”

“I mean, I’ve never actually tried it. How can I proclaim to dislike something I’ve never tried?”

“But what about your exes? You still have Daniel. What if he’s the One?”

“Daniel is a long-term play. I’m still trying to find a way totrack him down,” I say with a dismissive eye roll. As of yet, Daniel is entirely unsearchable online (not even a deceased grandparent’s obituary to be found). I’ve actually contemplated draining my meager savings to hire a private investigator. “I need something more immediate.”

“I guess—”

“We’re going on the prowl tonight. You’re my wingman.” The badass, empowering beginning of “WAP” plays in my mind as I toss my towel over my shoulders like a cape.

He groans, shivering as he pats himself dry with his own towel. “As in going out? Why don’t you just use a hookup app like a normal human?”

“Because. I tried it and it wasn’t for me.”

“Do I even get a say in this?” Trevor asks.

“No,” I call over my shoulder as I head inside. “But it’ll be worth your while. I’ll do all the cleaning for the next two weeks.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he groans.

Turns out, plotting your wardrobe and makeup choices is ten times harder when you plan to end the night getting hot and heavy with a stranger instead of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. The half hour spent in the shower carefully shaving and exfoliating better be worth it.

By the time I finally emerge from my room, club-ready, Trevor is still lying on the couch where I left him, his eyes closed like he’s dreading impending doom but is willing to give in. At the creak of the floor under my footsteps, he cracks a lid.

Mouth agape, he gives me a judgy once-over, taking in my trusty little black dress—the only college-era dress that still looks remotely flattering. It’s short, many fingers above the knees, witha daringly low scoop back that prevents me from wearing a real bra. His eyes linger over my bare legs, to which I generously applied a vanilla shimmer cream.

“You look... uh, nice,” he says, his tone obligatory as he fights to summon the words, like someone complimenting their granny’s new living room lamp. This only serves to underscore the importance of this mission: to stop having errant sexual thoughts about Trevor. And, of course, sexual liberation and all that jazz.

“Thanks,” I say dryly, chucking my duffel bag onto the floor. I get on hands and knees to search the bowels of the front closet for my black heels. Of course they’re hiding in the very bottom.

“What’s with the duffel bag?”

I stand, trusty heels in hand. “It’s an overnight bag. Brought some makeup and a change of clothes.”

“Why would you bring a change of clothes to the club?”

“Just in case. What if my hookup wants to hang out tomorrow?”

He runs both hands down his stubble in exasperation. “Tara, this is a bad idea. You do not, under any circumstances, hang out the next day. That defeats the entire purpose of a one-night stand.”

I scrunch my face in silent protest.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

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