The chaos of mini putters and bar patrons blurs around me as I struggle to recover from his truth bomb. There’s nothing I can do but let out a strained laugh, which sounds reminiscent of an injured whale stranded on the beach.
Another one bites the dust.
Daniel （childhood love）
Tommy （ninth-grade boyfriend）
Jacques （Student Senate boy）
Cody （high school sweetheart）
Jeff （frosh week fling）
Zion （campus bookstore cutie）
Brandon （world traveler—the one that got away）
Linus （Brandon rebound）
Mark （book club intellectual）
Seth （ex-fiancé）
? chapter eleven
IT WAS SO close. He was so close to being perfect.” I pace frantically in the empty space between the living room and the kitchen, replaying the night with Brandon. In the end, we parted ways amicably. He forcefully insisted on paying the bill out of pure pity before leaving me with a lackluster kiss to the forehead.
Trevor cringes at me from the stool at the island. “Stop pacing. You’re making me dizzy. And I think the best course of action here is to put the teddy bear away and go to bed.” Why is he so responsible?
My pacing quickens, as well as my grip on the stuffed teddy bear Brandon bought for me so many Valentine’s Days ago. “Nah. I’d prefer to overanalyze and pinpoint the moment it all went up in flames. For future reference. So I don’t keep messing things up.”
A hint of a smile plays across his lips. “I have been known to put out a flame or two. Anything I can do to help?”
I’m touched by the offer, but at this point, I’ve already dug my own grave halfway to the earth’s core. “Not unless you can turn back time.”
He stands from the stool. “I may have something.”
“Do you have some sort of secret time-traveling wardrobe?” I ask hopefully, following him into the hallway.
“Obviously. Doesn’t everyone?”
I’m puzzled when he stops outside my bedroom door and points to the mess of clothes on the floor. “If you’re about to try to convince me that cleaning is therapeutic, I might punch—”
“Be quiet and put your bathing suit on,” he orders before disappearing into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
“My bathing suit?” I call.
“Yup.”
I blink, dumbfounded. “Is this some weird sexual ploy? Are you trying to hook up with me right now?”
He makes a tsk sound, like the idea is absurd. “God, no.”
I’m too busy freaking the hell out about wearing a swimsuit in front of another human being, let alone a ridiculously attractive human being with the body of a god. Insecurities aside, my curiosity has spiked, so I swallow my pride and throw on my trusty floral one-piece and fluffy bathrobe.
Trevor is waiting at the front door when I emerge, clad in navy-blue swim trunks, a black T-shirt, and . . . army-green Crocs.
It takes all my willpower to resist laughing and pointing like a child, and he can tell, based on his death glare. He’s silently daring me to comment, and of course, I do.
“I didn’t take you for a puttering-around-in-Crocs kinda guy,” I say, following him out the door.
He grunts, leading me up the stairwell. “They’re practical.”
“I would advise you not to wear those in public. Especially in front of women, if you want to get laid,” I say, failing to muffle my snort-laughter.
“Does it look like I need help getting laid?” he asks over his shoulder.
I swallow. Definitely not.
Not three minutes later, Trevor and I are wrapped in flimsy towels, teeth chattering, freezing our asses off on the roof. This rooftop is nothing like one of those fancy high-rises with a lush garden and pergola draped with twinkle lights. It’s sparse, with an ancient covered barbecue and some rickety, cobweb-infested lawn chairs. Luckily, the building is too low to take the brunt of the harsh wind.
I’m shivering so violently, I don’t even stop to admire the picturesque view of the dilapidated four-story directly to our left. Confused and wildly annoyed, I’m about to flee back inside when Trevor nudges me to the right. Behind a massive rusted square structure housing an exhaust fan is something unexpected.
A hot tub.
It’s randomly placed. Kind of like the hot tubs that magically appear at opportune moments on The Bachelor. Surrounded by a plastic deck area and a bench, the hot tub itself is tiny. I’d guess it seats a maximum capacity of four people, and even that’s pushing it. I lean over to inspect. It’s ancient, but void of gross hairs and questionable debris. And if neurotic Trevor seems to think it’s appropriate for use, it must be so.
“Hot tub time machine. It’s a great place to overanalyze,” Trevor announces, tossing his towel on the bench before pulling the cover off the hot tub. With every twist and stride, he emits a certain brand of dangerous energy in his wide, dominating, UFC-like stance. I imagine a toxic rock anthem partially drowned out by thunderous applause from a bloodthirsty live audience.
“Har-har, you are so clever,” I say, holding my robe closed.
Trevor lowers himself chest-deep in the water, his eyes closed as the misty vapor coils upward, disappearing into the brisk air around him.
I hesitate to follow. Sure, I’m desperate to escape the frigid winter air in favor of the comfort of a warm bath, but the idea of sharing a pint-size hot tub with Trevor feels . . . intimate. Then again, we’re merely platonic, opposite-sex roommates, right?
My lustful gaze traces the lines of his broad shoulders above the surface of the frothy water, roped with the dense, effortless muscle of a man who spends his days busting doors down. The uncalled-for image of him in full fire gear, emerging from a collapsing building engulfed in flame, hurtles through my mind. A young woman’s limp body is draped across his arms like it’s no big deal. Just a normal day in the life of Trevor Metcalfe.
“Get in before you freeze.” His order snaps me back to reality.
Reflexively, my fingers clamp over the lapel of my robe, pulling it tighter, just teetering on the balls of my feet. He’s surely judging me like I’m a socially inept weirdo who doesn’t understand the mechanics of using a hot tub.
The very act of dropping my robe in front of him feels dangerous, a little illicit. I don’t know if it’s the mixture of trauma and alcohol from earlier, but it’s kind of thrilling. Some forgotten, seductive side of me—my alter ego, if you will—takes over entirely. I’m basically a Miss USA contestant during the bikini round, strutting my hot bod down the runway in five-inch heels. The moment the lights hit me, I wow the judges with a sassy yet classy pose before removing my sarong （robe） with an expert flick of the wrist.
Unfortunately for Trevor, he missed the entire thing. By the time I dramatically drape my robe over the back of the chair, he’s already closed his eyes, confirming that I’m a nonsexual being to him. I could be entirely nude, nipples out and about, and he probably couldn’t be bothered to steal a glance. Or maybe he’s so in love with Angie, he can’t bear to set his eyes upon another woman’s body.
Marginally comforted by this conclusion, I submerge myself as the jets start in a rumble of foamy bubbles. The heat envelops my body, contrasting the harsh chill.