Page 8 of Exes and O's

I’ll share my Netflix account;

Cooks Kraft dinner without consulting directions on box;

Looking for more than one type of happy ending; and

Early-onset dad bods welcome.

“Damn, who’s the girl in the photo with you?” Trevor ogles my profile photo, a candid shot of Mel and me cheesing for the camera at a lush, sunlit vineyard last summer. He zooms in on Mel, interest piqued.

A tired growl escapes me. “Mel. She’s my fashion influencer friend. The one you met the other day,” I remind him. They met briefly when she came to pick me up for a mall outing. He gave her his best flirty eyes, practically impregnating her on the spot, turning her cheeks to Red Delicious apples.

Trevor continues to dissect the photo, zooming in and out like an FBI agent. “I’m not sure this isyourbest photo. Besides, no one will know which one you are.”

“Excuse you.” I yank my phone out of his grip. “This is my one good photo. I use it for everything.”

Unlike Mel, who is Insta-famous for her flawless makeup and lusciously thick black hair I want to transplant onto my own scalp, I’m chronically unphotogenic. Even if I look bomb in person, I look like a serial killer in any given still photo. In fact, in high school, a webcam picture of me with vacant, Night Stalker eyes became a viral meme calledCrazy Ex-Girlfriend. Yes, that is my one claim to fame. And yes, people have recognized me in public on exactly three occasions. This is why I exclusively take photos of books.

This Tinder photo of Mel and me just so happens to be the one photo of a thousand where I don’t look like I dabble in random acts of cannibalism. Dare I say, I resemble an even-keeled individual with average emotional range and sufficient social skills.

“Any luck on Tinder?” Trevor asks, changing the subject from my apparently unideal profile photo. He stands to grab a T-shirt from his closet, slipping it over his head.

“No. It’s kind of depressing, actually.”

For proof, I show him the first profile that comes up. It’s a thirty-four-year-old named Ted with a teardrop tattoo. I reckon he’s killed before. Next is a guy in a corduroy newsboy cap, which could be acceptable if I were into the gaunt-faced, troubled, and egotistical academic types.

“You’re being picky. Look at this one.” He points to the third guy, Dax, who is rocking a skinny polka-dot tie. He’s above average in looks, with tired yet gentle eyes, a little nerdy, innocent. And will probably shatter my brittle heart to pieces all the same. “His bio says he likes chicken nuggets and quantum physics. You practically live off chicken nuggets. This could be your soul mate.”

“I don’t think my soul mate is on Tinder. And he looks like his mom still cuts his nuggets for him into tiny bite-size pieces.”

“If you say so.”

I show him the next guy. “And then there’s this one. With the dog.”

“What’s wrong with the dog?”

“He doesn’t look like a dog guy to me, which tells me he’s a manipulative sociopath who stole someone’s dog to masquerade as his own.”

Trevor lets out a soft sigh and heads into the hallway. “Well, I’d love to stand here and make sweeping, very specific judgments about internet strangers, but I’m heading out for errands. Need anything at the grocery store? Fruits or vegetables, perhaps?” he asks teasingly.

I follow him to the entryway. “Hey, I eat a perfectly balanced, healthy diet. And you certainly haven’t been complaining about my cupcakes.” I’ve gotten into the habit of baking Betty Crocker cupcakes from the box every weekend out of pure boredom (and gluttony). Each batch has been devoured quickly, thanks to Trevor.

He levels me with a knowing look. “Name one fruit or vegetable you like.”

I rack my brain. My entire life, I’ve been a notoriously picky eater. Dad used to make me sit at the table for hours until I finished my dinner. I’d hold out until he’d cave and make me something I liked, like nuggets. Even two weeks ago, Crystal and Scott tried to make me eat a piece of cooked asparagus and I almost cried because of the texture.

“I like pickles,” I announce.

“Pickles?” A smile flirts at the corner of his lips for a fractionof a second as he slips his arm into his jacket. “Fine. I’ll buy you a jar.”

“Oh, okay, but make sure they’re dill pickles. I don’t like sweet—”

A knock at the door interrupts me. Trevor pulls it open to reveal Grandma Flo.

chapter four

GRANDMA FLO IShere for our Live video session a solid forty-five minutes early to “prepare.”

As she slips off her extra-grip orthopedic winter boots, I take one of her grocery bags. This one is full of yarn and a box of digestive biscuits. “Grandma, this is my roommate, Trevor.”

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