Page 37 of The Bad Girl List

He offers me a hand out of the truck, then leans in to get his dog. “She can get into the truck okay, but getting out is a little shaky with only one back leg.” He sets her on the ground and leads me around the back.

I’m greeted by a long wooden deck with a few Adirondack chairs. There are two sliding glass doors. One of them is cracked open to let in fresh air. Trevor pushes it wider.

“This is my place,” he says. “Have a seat and I’ll find the first aid supplies.”

I’m about to follow him inside, but something catches my eye. Next to his slider, wedged between the deck and the side of the house, is a small cluster of white wildflowers. Fluttering around the flowers are four little blue butterflies. They’re tiny, each wing no larger than a dime. With the way the late morning sun slants down on them, the wings glow with soft iridescence.

I want to stop everything, grab my sketchbook, and draw them, but just then a droplet of blood drips off the side of my arm and onto the deck. I recall that I’m here to get myself cleaned up, not to gawk at nature. I hurry through the door.

The inside of the bungalow looks like the interior of a magazine. A simple galley kitchen with dark blue cabinets and stainless steel appliances is set against the wall that backs up to the carport. A breakfast bar with pendant lighting rounds out the kitchen.

The living room has dark leather furniture, a fireplace, and a flatscreen TV against one wall. A big rug covers the floor. It’s cozy and snug. The place feels like an extension of Trevor. It even smells like his shirt, like the earth with a soft scent of spice from his bathroom products.

There’s also an underlying theme of a bachelor pad. There’s a pile of dishes in the sink and on the counter. There are empty wine bottles on the coffee table, along with a stack of plates. I even spot a pile of clothes wadded up on the far corner of the couch.

As Trevor disappears into what I can only assume is his bedroom, I tuck my hands under my chin and fold my elbows in an attempt not to drip any blood on his beautiful hardwood floors. Tequila hops inside and lays down on a dog bed in front of the fireplace.

I wander over with the intention of giving her another head scratch, but the framed photographs on the fireplace mantel catch my attention.

There are three of them. One is a family portrait in the vineyards. I spot Gramps Moretti in the middle. Tim Moretti is next to him, then Trevor, his mom, and siblings around them.

The other two pictures are of Trevor with a girl. The first is of the couple in graduation caps and gowns in front of a UC Davis sign. The second one is of Trevor and the girl in a field of bright yellow mustard flowers. They’re dressed up, perfectly posed, and beaming. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s an engagement picture.

A sick lump forms in my stomach. My mouth goes dry. Trevor has a girlfriend, possibly even a fiancée.

She’s Chinese, like me. I guess he has a type. Except whereas I only wore pencil skirts and heels under duress, the beaming girl in the photograph looks like she was born in those four-inch heels.

But wait, hadn’t I agreed to be his date for a family dinner? It was hard to remember between the Cosmos and the mortification of puking in front of him like an amateur at a sorority party. All I know for certain is that he wouldn’t have these pictures out if this girl wasn’t still important to him. Had he asked me out as a rebound date?

A floorboard creaks. Tequila’s ears flick in the direction of the bedroom doorway, and I know Trevor is behind me.

I had thought the humiliation could not get worse. I was wrong.

I am going to burn that stupid Bad Girl List. I don’t care if I have to max out my credit card or drain my 401K to make rent.

Neither of those options can be any worse than turning around to face Trevor. He’s standing frozen in the doorway, his face a mixture of emotions I can only begin to fathom.

“You have someone.” I force the words out and somehow manage not to croak like a frog. “Look, I’m really sorry about last night. Obviously I don’t hold my liquor well, and then my cousin and her Bad Girl List got under my skin, and–”

“I lost her.”

“What?”

He deposits the pile of stuff he’s holding onto a sideboard by his bedroom door. Then he crosses the room and picks up one of the framed photographs, eyes roving the picture of him and the beaming girl in the mustard field. Tequila whines and drops her head onto her forelegs.

“This is Elle,” Trevor says softly, tilting the picture so I can see it, like he’s introducing us. “She was my fiancée. She died two years ago in a car accident. Last night was the anniversary of her death.” He finally looks at me. “I wasn’t myself last night, Dom.”

Here I was worried that I had accidentally coerced Trevor into cheating with me, or that I was a rebound for some awful heartbreak. But it’s so much worse than that. He cheated on the memory of his fiancée on the anniversary of her death.

If his wrecked expression is anything to go by, it’s the worst thing he could have done. If regret had a framed photograph, it would be Trevor’s face.

“That’s why I was looking for someone to bring to Sunday dinner,” he says. “My parents are driving me crazy.”

“They want you to start dating again?” I guess.

“Yeah. Look, I’m sorry things went the way they did. I’m not the type of guy who would take advantage of a drunk girl in a parking lot. I know evidence says otherwise, but–”

“I don’t think that.” I search his face, all the pieces clicking together. That air of something that surrounded him when he walked into the bar that night. The haunted sadness I saw when I drew his eyes.

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