TREVOR: Yeah, best not to ask. So are you gonna apply??
TARA: No way! I didn’t like Kurt in The Bachelorette. He’s too much of a playboy for me. I don’t think he’s reformed his rakish ways. How would I know he’s there for the right reasons?
TREVOR: Is anyone? Aside from thousands of new social media followers? It could be good for your bookstagram. And you’d make for some good TV.
TARA: I’d be the girl who loses her mind two weeks in because she’s already fallen in love and can’t handle the fact that he has 30 other girlfriends.
TREVOR: Nvm. You may not actually qualify anyways.
TARA: I’m perfectly eligible! Not that I’m applying . . .
He sends a screenshot of the eligibility small print, which specifically states Applicants must never have been convicted of a felony or ever had a restraining order entered against them.
TREVOR: If the car vandalism doesn’t count you out . . .
I send him a selfie of my demonic eyes.
Trevor responds with a shot of his faux-scared face, and it gives me life. He’s in his Boston Fire Department T-shirt, and his hair is perfectly tousled as usual. He’s at work, based on the partially obstructed body of another firefighter in the background.
TARA: FYI I was never charged. And I’ve never had a restraining order against me, thank you very much.
TREVOR: . . . Yet. Btw, I’m off at 6 today. Want me to pick you up from work? It’s New Year’s Eve and I wouldn’t want you to get mugged on the subway again.
TARA: Yes please! Text me when you’re here.
As soon as I hit Send, the stairwell door lurches open behind me.
“Cyber-stalking your exes?” Seth asks ever so casually as he passes by me. He’s one of those people who take the stairs instead of the elevator on purpose and brags about it. Even when we were together, he never bothered to hide his disappointment that I’d take the elevator instead. It got to the point where I was thankful not to be on shift with him so I could take the damn elevator in peace without him shaming me.
I pull my phone to my chest protectively. “None of your business.”
Based on the glint in Seth’s eyes and the upward turn of his thin lips, he’s definitely seen my social media. “You’re making it everyone’s business by blasting it online.” He’s not wrong. But before I can respond, he adds, “You’re actually doing it, huh? The witch-hunt?”
The fact that he’s keeping tabs on my search is an interesting development. In fact, he’s consistently one of my first story viewers. Mel thinks it means he’s still hung up on me, but I know Seth. It’s purely a control thing. “Please don’t call it a witch-hunt. And are you really that shocked I’ve moved on?”
Seth leans against the railing. “I mean, let’s be honest. You don’t let go of things easily.”
I shoot him daggers. “Excuse me for being a little upset that you canceled our wedding.”
Without eye contact, he arrogantly smooths his hand over his gelled hair. “Can I offer you a bit of advice?”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” I nearly shove an entire cookie in my mouth and avert my focus to my phone.
“Whoa, attitude. You don’t have to be so rude. I’m trying to be nice.”
Knowing Seth, he’ll argue with me all day, so I treat him to a painfully fake smile. “Sorry, but I’m good. Really. Though I appreciate the concern. Bye,” I say primly, simply to make him disappear.
My tactic works. Without another word, he continues on down the stairs, out of sight.
* * *
? ? ?
WHEN TREVOR TEXTS at the end of my shift, I’m already in the lobby, itching to get the heck out of here. I’m eager to spend my quiet New Year’s Eve plotting my strategy to reunite with the remaining exes. Daniel and Cody have been consistently leading in the polls as my most popular exes. My followers are suckers for a childhood love reunion romance.
TREVOR: Hey, come to the 6th floor.
TARA: What? Why?
There’s no sign of his car idling in the front entrance, so I double back to the elevator and press the button for floor six. Despite working in this hospital for years, I’ve never ventured to the sixth floor before.
When the elevator doors swing open, Trevor is pacing to the left of the reception desk in front of a glass case holding framed photos of tiny, colorful handprints formed like butterflies. He’s unknowingly turning the heads of everyone within a twenty-foot radius in his fitted fire department T-shirt. When he sees me, he gives me an upward chin nod. His tense stance tells me he’s in one of his withdrawn moods.
Behind him is a massive, vibrant wall mural of lush jungle greenery and a sign that reads Boston Children’s Hospital Heart Center.
Trevor watches me tepidly as I take it all in, stunned.
“What is—？” I start.
“Before you say anything, you should know—”
A tiny brunette figure zips out of a room to the right. It’s a girl, no older than eight. A baggy purple hoodie and striped pajama pants hang off her waiflike figure, further emphasizing her delicate frame. Her face is gaunt and hollow, juxtaposed by an unexpected toothy smile that somehow reminds me of Trevor’s. With a bountiful giggle, she launches herself into Trevor’s arms.
When Trevor picks her up and spins her like a wholesome nineties sitcom dad, my ovaries threaten to erupt. “Jeez, Angie. You’re getting heavier every week.”
Angie.
This is the Angie. The mystery girl he loves.
My theory was so wrong, it’s almost laughable. Angie is a child, not a woman trapped in a loveless marriage of convenience. The basket of candy makes so much more sense now. I fight to work down a massive lump in my throat as a group of chattering nurses pass by.
Playboy Trevor has a child . . . with a heart condition?
The moment my brain settles on that conclusion, Angie drops another bomb. “I gained a pound, Uncle Trev.”
Uncle.
I’m rendered mute, frozen, my mouth hanging open as I digest the newest twist. Angie is his niece. Through my shock, my stomach flips, gutted that Angie is a patient in the heart center. Why would Trevor choose to reveal his niece to me like this? In such a heavy-handed manner? It strikes me as uncharacteristic.
Angie casts a skeptical glance at me. “She your flavor of the month?” she asks bluntly.
I let out an embarrassingly loud hoot. You know you’re a playboy when your kid niece takes a jab at your lifestyle. This girl speaks her truth, and I’m here for it. “I’m not his flavor of anything.”
“She’s my roommate,” Trevor explains, giving her a gentle pat on the head. “And don’t listen to everything your mom says about me.”
I give an awkward jazz-hand wave. “I’m Tara. It’s really nice to meet you, Angie.”
“My real name is Angela, but everyone calls me Angie.” She extends her small hand in a surprisingly strong and purposeful shake.
“I’m Tara. Everyone calls me Tara.” I realize my joke fell flat on its face when she side-eyes me to Trevor before turning around.
Trevor laughs at my expense as we follow her into her room. It’s meant for two patients, although the bed nearest the door is vacant. Angie has a prime spot next to the window, though it has a rather unfortunate view of the parking lot.