I think about Trevor’s words for the first half of my day shift. People love to say exes are exes for a reason, so they don’t have to dwell on the past. But personally, I’ve always thought second-chance love stories were the most satisfying of them all.
? chapter six
JEFF IS OFFICIALLY twenty minutes late,” I announce to my followers. “Will keep you all updated.” I let out a forlorn sigh and wave goodbye to the camera.
To make matters worse, my jasmine tea is no longer hot. At least the café is cute. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves span the wall, complete with a dinky yet charming sliding ladder straight out of Beauty and the Beast. Recalling Jeff’s vegan diet, I selected it purposely for its free-trade, non-GMO, and organic menu, printed on beige paper allegedly made from wheat straw.
While I wait, Harmon, the barista, tells me about some literary fiction written by a deceased white dude that “changed her life.” My eyes gloss over at the description, but I maintain an eager smile, assuring her that it’s HIGH on my TBR （to-be-read） pile.
When Harmon goes back to serving customers, I check my phone. Comments have flooded in on my video from early this morning.
Who is WHITE T SHIRT GUY and where can I find him?
Is that your new roommate???
Screw the exes. Date the roommate!!
ROOM-ANCE
I wheeze at the thought of dating Trevor I-don’t-subscribe-to-love Metcalfe, of all people. But before I can properly entertain the ridiculous idea, a flash of neon out the window catches my eye. The neon turns out to be a helmet, worn by a lanky man in a baggy T-shirt, sleeveless fleece vest, and khakis whizzing down the sidewalk on a Segway. Without notice, he halts his Segway directly in front of the shop, peering at the sign above.
The moment his helmet comes off, the recognition sets in. The vibrant, sunny sky-blue eyes. The long, curly, surfer-dude hair I used to love running my fingers through. The dimpled chin. And his strong nose, which always seemed a little too large for his face.
When he spots me gawking at him like a zoo animal through the window, he gives me a small wave. I work down a swallow of my tea when he wrenches the glass door open with the force of a man who gives zero fucks.
The café patrons turn to stare when the bell smashes against the glass door. He swaggers toward me, long arms outstretched for an embrace. “Tara. You look rad.”
The helmet tucked under his arms crushes my ribs as he goes for a full-body hug. His body is an iceberg, probably because he’s been cruising around the frigid streets of Boston bare-armed. It crosses my mind that maybe he can’t afford a warm coat, or maybe he was ill prepared for the cold weather. He holds our hug for a beat too long before I duck out of his arms.
“Long time no see.” I force a smile, taking my seat. “Thanks for meeting on such short notice.”
“No prob,” he says.
I delay my response, expecting him to acknowledge that he’s over half an hour late. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he tugs the chair back, allowing the legs to scrape across the tiled floor, garnering a wince from me and everyone within our vicinity. He drums his knuckles on the wooden tabletop and just smiles at me, closed-mouthed, like he’s expecting me to speak.
“You didn’t wear a coat? Aren’t you cold?” I gesture out the window. “It’s November.”
As he plunks the helmet onto the floor at his feet, I note the layer of hair covering his arms is literally white from frost. “Nah, bro,” he says, like old-school Justin Bieber casually appropriating Black culture. “My body is a furnace.”
I cringe, casting a distressed glance at the time on my phone.
“So, you’re a nurse now, right? Thought I read that on Facebook,” he says as I chug the rest of my now room-temperature tea.
“Yep. I work in the NICU at the children’s hospital,” I explain. “I love it. It’s nice to work with patients who don’t complain.”
My attempt at humor falls flat. Instead, Jeff’s expression turns grave. “I had a buddy whose cousin’s friend’s baby died after a nurse gave it the wrong dose of medication.”
I sit back in my chair, quietly disturbed. “Oh, wow. That’s terrible—”
“That’s why I refuse to go to hospitals,” he cuts in. “I only practice holistic wellness.”
I start stress-tearing my napkin into thin strips, unable to muster the strength to defend the scientific advantages of modern medicine. The memory of dating this man is like a delayed, distorted film. While I recall snippets of being with him lazing in the courtyard, the memories fail to bring me any sense of longing or comfort.
His Hollister-model looks, pot addiction, bare-minimum personality, and staunch hatred for anything mainstream may have charmed my eighteen-year-old self, but at thirty, I just feel a bizarre maternal urge to give him my coat and some life advice.
“So, Jeff, last time we saw each other you were taking Environmental Science. What did you end up doing?” I ask.
“Dropped out junior year. Got a sick inheritance after my granddad passed. Gave me some time to figure things out.”
“Oh? Where are you currently working?”
“Nowhere. I’m really not cut out for the nine-to-five. Thinking of starting a nonprofit. Or getting into the beekeeping business.” No health insurance is my only takeaway from that statement.
“Beekeeping?” I’m not confident in my ability to feign interest in bugs, however crucial they are to sustaining the ecosystem. The universe officially has it out for me. This is just swell.
He nods. “Yup.”
Now that he’s sitting in front of me, giving me one-word answers, I do recall complaining about his poor conversation skills. He’s basically a human boomerang, bringing every topic back to himself sooner or later, which I blamed for the demise of our relationship. I began to suspect he was losing interest when he started responding to my multi-paragraph texts with Kk. I never knew whether he wanted to keep talking or if he wanted me to disappear from his life entirely. And based on the fact that he eventually stopped texting me altogether, I’d say it was the latter.
When Jeff stares longingly out the window at his Segway, like it’s his long-lost love or firstborn child, I start crushing the strips of napkin into tight balls, fantasizing about tossing myself into the nearest ditch.
We attempt some stilted conversation about the science of composting, a topic I know absolutely nothing about. When that trails off, I reach for my coat, explaining that I have to get back to work for the bimonthly all-staff meeting.
“So, I’m curious. Before we go, why did you reach out, anyway? For closure?” he asks.
“Closure?” My laughter comes out shaky as I reach for my coat. “Why would you think that?”
“You were pretty into me in college,” he declares with no shortage of confidence.
My cheeks flush. “I mean, I guess it would be nice to know why we stopped talking.”
“Listen, I’m gonna be honest.” A grave pause. “You were great. We had a lot of fun together. But you were . . . a little . . .”
“A little what?”
He bites his lip, hesitant. “Clingy. A bit of a stage-five clinger.”
“Stage-five clinger?” I lean back in my chair, clasping a weak hand over my chest like I’m in grade school, obediently pledging allegiance to the flag. Did this man really just call me clingy? The gall. The gumption.