Page 76 of Exes and O's

Panicked, I wet my bottom lip, readying for another earthshaking kiss.

Is this really happening? Why am I wearing ugly flannel PJs, of all things?I ask myself as his hand cups my cheek with the lightest touch. His thumb does a gentle sweep over my bottom lip, sending a shiver hurtling down the back of my neck. In a startling whoosh, that same hand reaches downward, toward my waist.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, reaching for the doorknob. He pulls it shut, cruelly separating us.

For an indeterminate amount of time, I blink in the darkness, in the confines of my own bedroom. I press my palm against the door, royally dumbfounded.

What the actual fuck was that?

•••

IN THE LIGHTof day the next morning, Trevor’s shoes are arranged in a straight line and his coat is now safely back on the hanger. When I emerge from my room in my scrubs to eat my morning Pop-Tart, he’s already parked at the kitchen island eating an omelet. He greets me with a shy chin dip.

“You’re looking suspiciously healthy after a night of heavy drinking,” I say, waiting for my Pop-Tart to toast. Unlike the rest of us mere mortals, Trevor doesn’t resemble a corpse after a night out. No. He looks like an angel with his bright eyes and perfect, hydrated complexion. He could probably hike the Dolomites right now if someone asked him to.

He shrugs. “I don’t really get hangovers. You off to work?” he asks casually, as if everything is totally normal. As if that heated encounter in the hallway last night didn’t happen.

I blink, wondering if I dreamed the entire scenario. Before I head to work, we talk about a myriad of topics, like final preparations for Angie’s party, Trevor’s disappointment that Scott didn’t get drunk last night at his own bachelor party, and my unwavering position that he should be indicted on a federal offense for smothering his omelet in ketchup. We touch on literally everything except his bizarro behavior from last night.

There’s little time to overanalyze today, because work is insanely busy. We get an influx of patients, including a week-old patient with a severe case of sepsis we’re particularly worried about.

Seth catches me on a five-minute breather in the nurses’ lounge and decides it’s an opportune time to inquire about my personal life.

“Hey,” he says, sidling up beside me in front of the Keurig. The fancy coffee machine in the doctors’ lounge has long been repaired, but in an unfortunate turn of events, Seth has concluded he prefers the machine in here. “How’s the search coming along?”

“You’ve been actively keeping up with my search online,” I say, making it clear I know he’s watched every single story. “I’m sure you’re already aware.”

He ignores this fact. “Think you’ll bring one of these lucky guys to the gala?” he asks, even though he knows full well there’s only one left—Daniel.

“Yeah. I think I might.” I make a concerted effort to sound optimistic. The gala (Valentine’s Day) is now only days away. It would be nice to have someone by my side, like Daniel.

“I’m proud of you, you know? I thought this was all a little ridiculous at first. But I’m glad you have something else to focus on.” I don’t miss the condescension in his tone.

I’m tempted to strike him in the forehead with a coffee pod as a distractive measure and run away, but alas, I’m a professional. Instead, I just force a smile, take my coffee, and GTFO.

While interactions with Seth are never pleasant and often require spiritual recuperation, maybe this was the kick in the pants I needed. Far too much energy has been expended over Trevor in the past week, and for what?

With all the confusion with my roommate, I’ve nearly lost sight of my original goal of securing my storybook second-chance romance. I can’t let these strange little moments with Trevor knock me off course.

I think about all my followers and how invested they are in myrelationship journey. It’s like I’m a romance heroine they’re rooting for. The last thing I want to do is report to them that it’s all been a complete and utter failure.

I also made a vow to Crystal and Mel months ago that I’d focus on my exes, and I am not the kind of person to break a promise.

•••

WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 8

Tara Chen • 5:46 P.M.

Hi Daniel,

This is going to seem random, but we used to be best friends as kids. In case you forgot who I am (and I don’t blame you if you did, I’m forgettable), I’m the girl who used to make you embarrassingly gushy Valentine’s Day cards. The one who used to eat most of the Dunkaroo icing and leave you with the dry biscuits. You gave me a pink Furby for my sixth birthday party, and we named her Roxy.

We lost touch after middle school, which is probably for the best. I did not thrive in high school. Now we’re 30. I’ve spent a lot of time mourning our youths and I miss you. It appears you are not online anywhere except here on LinkedIn. Of course, I’ve thought about emailing you [email protected](LOL), but I assume you are no longer using that email address.

Anyway, no pressure, but I’d love to hear from you. It would make my day (no, my life!).

—Your Best Friend, Tara

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