Aside from the hum of the jets and the faint sound of traffic horns in the distance, it’s surprisingly tranquil. It reminds me of that time I went to a high-class spa with Mom and Crystal on Mother’s Day. I was nearly kicked out twice by an employee whose sole job was to walk around and shush people. Silence and I have never been more than distant acquaintances.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this top secret hot tub,” I say.
Trevor squints at me through the mist, as though abruptly reminded of my presence. “Figured Scotty told you. And you never asked me about the amenities.”
“Because I didn’t think there were any. The building doesn’t even have a working elevator.”
“Well, now you know.” When he closes his eyes again, I’m transfixed by the little bubbles of vapor on his unfairly thick lashes.
“This sucks balls,” I whine, unable to stop dwelling on the night. I sink neck-deep in the tub, cozying against a jet. “Brandon was eighty percent there. I didn’t have a ton of expectations for Jeff. But I had a good feeling about Brandon. I kind of expected things to fall into place.”
“Hate to break it to you, but Brandon wasn’t eighty percent,” he tells me gruffly.
“He was.” I stare upward to the inky black sky. “He and I get along so well. Always did. Back in college we spent hours together and never ran out of things to talk about. We’re aligned on everything when it comes to morals and—”
“Fifty. Maximum,” Trevor cuts in. “He didn’t want the same things as you, period. What were you gonna do? Travel with him for months, hating your life, only to realize he doesn’t want to settle down? It woulda been a big waste of time. You could be compatible as chocolate and peanut butter, but what does it matter if you don’t want the same things?”
I do like chocolate and peanut butter. But that’s neither here nor there. Why must Trevor make me confront harsh truths? Brandon and I didn’t want the same things. Sure, he and I could have been happy together in a snapshot in time. But a full life with him would mean giving up everything I value and leaving my family and friends behind. I’m always willing to compromise for love, but uprooting my entire life for travel and zero commitment doesn’t seem worth it.
Troubled by the realization, I elect to change the subject entirely. “Do you bring all your ladies up here?”
Trevor appears preoccupied with his mountain of bubbles, pushing them left to right. I take his lack of verbal response as a yes.
“I’ve heard hot tub sex sucks,” I say, mostly to rattle him.
This gets his attention. “I beg to differ.” His voice comes out low and strained, which does something to my insides.
I dry-swallow the lump in my throat. Am I turned on right now? I readjust myself in my seat, away from the blast of the jet. It’s the jets. It must be the jets. It means nothing. Anyone who shares a tiny apartment with a dangerously attractive man is going to get hot and bothered every so often. It’s basic science.
“It’s like the shower,” I say. “It’s a hot fantasy, but in reality, it’s too much friction. And there’s a high risk of urinary tract infection. Especially in here. Who knows how many weirdos from this building have used it.”
A slight smile plays across his lips, but he doesn’t respond. I’ve officially made it awkward. Perhaps it’s too early to talk about sex with Trevor. We’ve only known each other for two months.
“Did you know my social media followers are obsessed with you?”
He freezes. “What?”
“You haven’t followed me yet?” I sigh, disappointed. “That time you came into my room, I was still on Live. You were in the video for a split second, and my followers liked what they saw.”
“I see. I don’t know whether to be flattered or weirded out,” he says, unimpressed with himself. It strikes me that Trevor exudes a unique brand of confidence. He carries himself with a self-assured gait, yet he doesn’t seem to know how to take a compliment. His humor is a little self-deprecating, just like mine.
Before I can respond, the rooftop door creaks open. A short, stubby man with a wispy white comb-over comes sauntering around the corner, impossibly tiny towel curled around his neck.
Trevor gives me a classic Jim from The Office look. The wide-eyed one he does into the camera when Michael Scott says or does something obscene.
“Evening.” The man nods politely as he swings a ghostly white leg into the water, testing the temperature.
I retract my original statement. This hot tub is not suitable for more than two.
When the man’s toenail inadvertently brushes my leg under the water, I stealthily shift closer to Trevor. The man doesn’t appear bothered by the close quarters. He comfortably rests both arms behind him on the edge of the hot tub, taking up more than his fair share of space.
“Gerald, from fifth,” he announces, his eyes half-closed.
“Tara and Trevor from fourth,” I respond, actively avoiding Trevor’s tight-lipped smile, because I’ll burst out laughing if I do.
It isn’t long before Gerald is barely even lucid, his head tipped back, seemingly in a state of bliss. I have no choice but to pick up where I left off, as if he’s not here. I flick water in Trevor’s direction. “Trev, tell me your life story.”
He screws up his face. It appears he’d rather do anything else. “I’m really not that interesting.”
I let out an audible growl and drag my fingertips over the water, flicking it in his direction again. “You’re so mysterious. I’m beginning to think you’re a 007 secret sleeper agent.”
He cuts me a sly grin, amused by my conspiracy theories. He gears up to splash me back, but refrains. Gerald has perked up and appears keen to listen in. “If I were a spy, I wouldn’t be living in our shitty apartment. And I most definitely wouldn’t live with a roommate who never stops talking. You’d blow my cover for sure.”
“You’re deflecting. Steering the subject away from you. That’s classic spy shit. Why are you so mysterious over the most basic things?” I urge, circling back to my original question. “You even get cagey when I ask what you ate for dinner.”
“Because I’m not that interesting. I doubt you care what I ate for dinner last night.”
“I care,” I assure him.
He shrugs lazily. “All right. You’ll regret saying that when I text you every single thing I eat and drink.” My fingers tingle at the prospect of exclusive access to his daily life, however insignificant. “Anyway, what else do you want to know? My favorite color?”
“Nah. Something I don’t know.” Like Angie’s identity.
“I never told you my favorite color.”
“It’s dark green. You have multiple dark-green T-shirts.”
He doesn’t argue that point. Instead, he plays with the bubbles for a few moments, shaking his head in amused disbelief. “What else do you know about me?”
“You’re really making me do all the work here, aren’t you?” I sigh. “Okay, fine. I know you’re good at finding deals at the grocery store.” When I first moved in, he insisted I accompany him on a Costco trip, where he examined the flyer for deals for a solid ten minutes before so much as pushing the cart down the first aisle. When I grabbed a bag of prewashed and prechopped lettuce, he nearly had a heart attack and went on a tangent about how much more “yield” I get for my money if I buy a full romaine head. His penny-pinching ways remind me of Dad, who wears his clothes until they’re so worn with holes that Mom has to purge them in secret.