“He has. But he was never blatantly sexual like this. I don’t know what to say back. I don’t do nudes.”
Trevor continues down the aisle in front of me, scrutinizing their book-filing system. The lack of alphabetical order in this thrift shop is troubling him. “Sorry, Chen. I got nothing.”
“Really? I’m shocked you don’t have a stockpile of nudes.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve never asked a woman for a nude in my life. And dirty texts aren’t my style.” He turns to face me again, his eyes smoldering.
“Hm. I thought you’d be the type who’s into sexting and dirty talk and all that.” My neck erupts with prickles at the memory of my illicit car dream.
He averts his stare entirely, deflecting. Yup. He’s totally a dirty talker. “You’re the one who reads hundreds of sex books a year. Why don’t you pull a line from one of those?” He gestures to the two worn bodice rippers in my basket.
“Dirty talk in romance novels doesn’t translate to real life. I can’t tell him I want to ride his throbbing member with a straight face,” I point out.
An elderly woman pushing a full cart near us clutches her bosom and speeds off in the opposite direction.
I wait for Trevor to chide me for uttering the term throbbing member in a public place, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a distressed groan, his eyes closed. “That was a mental image I didn’t need. This is so weird.”
Something inside of me dies a little as he charges ahead of me. Splendid. I repulse him.
I spend some time regrouping before I follow him into the mystery/thriller section. “Sorry for disturbing you. But I have one last question. Is it appropriate to suggest an alternative location? I don’t want to have virtual shower sex.”
I nearly smash into his chest when he turns around. “I still don’t understand your grudge against the shower.”
“I told you, I don’t do water sex. Talk to me about sex between the stacks in a library. Or anywhere with books.” The moment the words come out of my mouth, I regret them.
He recognizes my slipup, because he clears his throat awkwardly and leans back against a book display, toppling multiple books onto their sides. “Books, huh?” He clumsily rights the books, not bothering to alphabetize them.
I’m very much aware of how small these aisles are. The books are closing in on me, pages threatening to swallow me whole. Trevor’s sizzling stare manages to penetrate. I’m paranoid he can read my mind, which is a flurry of blatantly sexual thoughts. I’m contemplating peeling off my pink cable-knit for some air when Cody texts again.
CODY: Boo, don’t forget to pick up the kids at my mom’s today on your way home.
I reread the text at least three times before I show it to Trevor, who stares at it, confused. “Who the hell is Boo? Is he trying to role-play with me or something?”
He opens and closes his mouth, pressing his lips together, like he’s unsure whether to offer his opinion. “I . . . have a feeling that text wasn’t meant for you.”
Another text comes in.
CODY: Woops. Meant to send that to someone else.
TARA: Who? Your wife?
Little dots appear instantly, and then disappear. Proverbial crickets.
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）
* * *
? ? ?
“DON’T BEAT YOURSELF up over him, Tara. He’s a dog.” Trevor’s face is partially obstructed by the billow of steam.
After I struck Cody’s name off the list, leaving me with only Daniel as my last hope two weeks before the gala, Trevor urged me to relax in the hot tub before making any rash decisions, like calling Cody’s wife to tell him her husband is a cheater.
Unwinding from life stress in the hot tub has become somewhat of a ritual. I’ve come to look forward to these moments. I’m not sure whether it’s the fresh air or the lack of distraction （aside from the times Gerald joins us）， but Trevor tends to open up more than usual up here.
A few days ago, he confided in me about another rough day at work. He and the crew were the first on the scene of a fatal car accident that left the driver marred beyond recognition. Brutal as his description was, it’s nice to have someone to talk to about even the worst aspects of the job, like blood, gore, and bodily fluids. As first responders and medical professionals, we’re not supposed to talk in such detail. It makes people squirm, understandably so. But as I’ve come to learn, speaking the words out loud releases them from my head. Talking about it is therapeutic in a way, especially with someone who understands.
The only downer to Trevor’s and my hot tub hangouts is that they do little to stop my illicit dreams. I’ve had at least two more since the car dream. And somehow, they’ve gotten steamier. One even involved the hot tub itself, which is proving to be more awkward than I’d anticipated it would be.
I sink into the warm water until the bubbles hit my chin. “His poor wife and kids. Cody wasn’t the cheating type in high school. He was dedicated to me, basically a human golden retriever. He’s changed so much . . . Then again, I guess that’s men for you.”
Trevor pokes my shin under the water with his toe. “Don’t lump all of us in with him. Not every guy is a cheater.”
“Enough of you are. And then us women are called crazy for being paranoid about it. Seth was like that,” I note bitterly. “He and Ingrid were friends while he and I were together, actually. They were always texting in those last three months. When I’d look at their conversations, they were overtly flirty. When I called him out, he acted like a victim, like I was some monster for not trusting him. And then they were dating right after we broke up. This is why men deserve less,” I grumble, glaring into the night.
“Think of it this way: you dodged yet another bullet,” Trevor concludes. “And now you don’t have to worry about sexting.”
“True. But I won’t lie, it was kind of exciting.” I bite my lip, shifting away from the blast of the jet, which isn’t helping the perma-tension between my legs. “Don’t laugh at me, okay? But I haven’t had sex in over a year.” And I’m having very inconvenient sex dreams about you.
He clears his throat, resting his elbows back on the edge of the tub. “Really? An entire year?”
“Yup. Actually, more like a year and a half. Seth and I weren’t having sex regularly in the last few months.”
He winces in sympathy. “That’s rough.”
“We’d been together for three years,” I say defensively. “At the one-year mark, things tend to just go downhill.”
“How so?” he asks curiously.
I swallow, all too aware I’m discussing my pitiful sex life with my roommate, of all people. “Well, actually that’s not accurate. It was never all that amazing to begin with. He just liked to dive right in there. No warm-up. Never really cared to ask what I liked.”