“Is it the screaming kids?” I ask, tearing the wrapping off my Quarter Pounder like a frenzied child on Christmas morning.
“No. I don’t mind kids, actually.” As I chew that first, glorious bite, he waves a hand around at the floor, full of slushy, brown napkins. “It’s a postapocalyptic nightmare in here.” He zeroes in on a glob of hardened sweet-and-sour dipping sauce I missed at the corner of the table. I promptly scrub it away before he has a breakdown.
“My parents had their first date in a McDonald’s,” I tell him. When he squints at me in suspicion, I make sure to add, “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to date you.” It feels necessary to point that out. When I got home from work today, I noticed a basket of expensive-looking candies sitting on Trevor’s bed, visible from the hallway. Trust, I tried to bury my curiosity and go on with my day, but I’m not known for exercising self-control. I tiptoed my nosy ass into his room to peek at the card, which read To Angie, from Trevor, with a smiley face.
The romantic gift struck me as odd at first, considering he’s never mentioned anyone named Angie before and he’s averse to relationships. It was only a couple days ago that he bristled at the idea of a wifey. Then again, maybe he doesn’t want to settle for just anyone. Maybe he’s already in love with a special someone.
Every good playboy hero carries a secret torch for one woman his entire life but refuses to do anything about it until the eleventh hour （probably when she’s halfway down the aisle at her wedding to another man）。 Trevor certainly fits the mold. Dangerous, sulky, always brooding in the corner. This makes so much sense.
Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait for him to bring it up unless I reveal I snooped through his personal belongings like a complete stalker.
Trevor doesn’t respond to my assurance that I’m not trying to date him. He’s too busy assessing the inside contents of his Big Mac, probably daydreaming about Angie. With the precision of a heart surgeon, he removes the pickles and sets them in the lid of his burger container. When he notices me ogling them like a starved hyena, he asks, “Want them?”
“Um, hell yes.” Without hesitation, I pluck them from the container and pop them in my mouth, one after the other.
“So, did you give Jeff his Oakleys back today?” he prods, reconstructing his burger.
“Nope. It was too much of a shitshow. I completely forgot by the time it was all said and done.” I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to gather my thoughts, which seem to fall back into place the more food I gracefully shovel down my throat. “He drove a Segway, if that tells you anything.”
Trevor’s lips twist in amusement. “It tells me more than it should. Go on . . .”
“Okay, first, he was late. I sat in the café alone for half an hour like a pathetic loser.” I immediately self-soothe with a handful of fries.
“You’re not a loser. People eat alone all the time.”
“I would never eat alone in public.”
“Why not?”
I plunge my fry into my ketchup. “There used to be this old couple who came to my grandparents’ Asian fusion restaurant every Friday night for years. Zhang and Wen. My grandma Chen even reserved a special table for them. Knew their orders and everything. One Friday, they didn’t show up. Then, over a year later, Zhang showed up alone. Wen had died of pneumonia. He told my grandma how hard it was to come back, but that he knew Wen would want him to. To this day, he still comes for dinner alone, every Friday. He still orders her meal, even though he doesn’t eat it.”
Trevor’s face contorts and he sets down his burger, which he was eating methodically, edges first. “Jesus. That’s terrible.”
“And now you see why I don’t like the idea of eating alone.”
“Point taken. So, what happened with your date? Obviously he showed up. On his Segway,” he adds gleefully, sipping his chocolate milkshake.
Trevor’s face turns an increasingly vibrant shade of red as I rattle off the entire story, including how Jeff didn’t wear a coat and how he wants to be a beekeeper. “That sounds made-up. I don’t get it—you said all your exes were great guys worth reconciling with. Was this dude not weird in college too?”
I’m momentarily sidetracked by a man ambitiously carrying three ice cream cones through the parking lot, one of which is about to topple over at any second. “I don’t know. I keep telling myself I was too homesick and drunk to make sound decisions. It’s the only explanation.” Had this not been my first introduction back to the dating scene, I have a feeling I wouldn’t be taking this so hard. But being vulnerable and putting myself out there for the first time in forever, only to have a date crash and burn, does little to renew my hope for the future. “He assumed I asked him out for ‘closure.’？” I put air quotes around closure, half-mauled burger in my right hand, two fries in my left.
“Did you?”
“Well, yes. But he was just so . . . presumptuous. When I asked why he stopped talking to me, he said it was because I was too ‘clingy’ and ‘crazy.’ Can you believe he called me crazy?” I demand. “In fact, he said, and I quote, ‘The hotter the girl, the crazier she is.’ He even tweeted about it. Hashtagged #CrazyExGirlfriend.” I slide my phone over with the screenshots of Jeff’s tweets for Trevor’s perusal.
He roots through them quickly, unimpressed. “You can rest easy knowing he only got three likes, one of which was him liking his own tweet.”
“I kind of want to respond, give him a piece of my mind,” I mutter darkly, drumming my fingers together as I consider scorching comebacks and accompanying threatening GIFs.
Trevor tentatively clears his throat after a slurp of his milkshake. “I don’t think responding is a good idea. It’ll only reinforce his opinion of you.”
“That I’m crazy?”
“Exactly.”
I wait a couple of beats and narrow my gaze at him. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“I wouldn’t use the term ‘crazy.’ But . . .”
“But what?” I snap. Do I care whether Trevor thinks I’m hot and/or crazy? Certainly not.
“You made a hit list of exes to pursue. And you made friends with my one-night stand and called her marriage material.” He safely sticks to the crazy side of things, and I’m a little relieved.
“Gabby is marriage material.”
He ignores that statement. “I mean, let’s look at the facts. You also keyed one ex’s car.”
“I can’t bear that cross my whole life, Metcalfe. I was fifteen. Give me a break. You sound like Segway Jeff.” I roll my eyes dismissively. “Also, it’s offensive and demeaning to be written off as crazy. Especially given the stigma of mental health. And maybe the real issue here is that some men can’t confront their emotions. Instead of taking responsibility for your own behavior, it’s easier to screw us, write us off as loons, and forget about us.” I huff at the injustice, stuffing another handful of fries into my mouth like a goblin.
He considers that for a moment and frowns. “Point taken. You’re right. But can you not admit that people, not just women, can act a little”—he looks to the ceiling, searching for the proper term—“intense sometimes?”