Mom huffs at us as she passes by with beady-eyed Hillary. “Crystal! People are eating.”
Crystal mouths a lazy Sorry and looks to Mel for support. “I love you. But the last thing I want is for you to get hurt again.” She watches me for a few more beats. “Do you mind if I consult Scott?”
I barely have time to agree before Scott’s face takes up Crystal’s phone screen. He tells her about the trauma of being kidnapped and nearly punching Trevor in the face. Crystal laughs, her face aglow at the sight of her soon-to-be husband, as if they’ve been apart for days and not mere hours. “Can you step away for a minute? I have a question for you.”
“About what?” Scott asks, taking refuge away from the guys in the gym changing room.
I press my cheek against Crystal’s so I’m visible on camera. “We need your advice. A behavioral analysis, if you will.”
“We need your help with Trevor,” Crystal clarifies, giving him a brief rundown of my situation. “Has he said anything about Tara to you?”
He raises a contemplative brow. “He talks about her sometimes at work.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Crystal waves a hand. “This is important information, babe. Care to elaborate?”
“I didn’t think it was a huge deal.” Scott frowns. “He’ll just laugh at texts she sends at work. Nothing too major.”
“He’s your friend. Could you ask him for us? Get the intel. Whatever it is that dudes do,” Crystal requests.
Scott is mildly taken aback, like we’ve just asked him to commit a crime on our behalf. “You want me to flat-out ask him if he likes Tara?”
“Yes,” we say in unison.
He leans against the hand dryer, accidentally turning it on. “Fine. But he’s gonna know something is up. We never talk about feelings,” he shouts over the fan.
My lips twist like I’ve just sucked a lemon. “Seriously? Never in your decade of friendship have you talked about feelings?”
“Unless you count our feelings toward hockey, Crocs, or fire calls, no.” When we shake our heads in derision, he gets defensive. “Hey, it’s not like I’ve never tried. He’s just not a very open guy.”
I sigh. “That’s . . . pathetic.”
Crystal scoffs in solidarity. “Gotta love toxic masculinity.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Scott rolls his eyes and leans in close to the camera, suddenly channeling FBI agent vibes. “Okay, I’ll ask him tonight when we go out once he’s liquored up. How should I play it? Casual? Or like I’m an overprotective new brother who’ll murder him if he breathes amorously in your direction?”
“I mean, I appreciate the brotherly support, but definitely not the latter,” I warn. “Just be casual and report back.”
“Deal.”
TARA: Hello?? I haven’t heard from you in like an hour. You promised a play-by-play.
SCOTT: Sorry. At club now . . . Trev ordered a beer. He’s hanging out with a girl.
TARA: A girl? Who?
SCOTT: She met him here. I think they already know each other. Her name is Kayla or something.
TARA: Is she tall? Smiles with her mouth open?
SCOTT: Yeah.
Kyla. It’s Kyla.
Trevor’s ex-girlfriend.
LIVE WITH TARAROMANCEQUEEN—THE PLAYBOY TROPE AND WHY I HATE IT
[Tara’s face is partially obscured by poor lighting. She is neck-deep in a hot tub, her hair crunchy and partially frozen, looking like a straight-up mess.]
EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT
TARA: Hello, romance book lovers, welcome back to my channel. If you’ve followed me for an ounce of time, you’ll know I’m absolute trash for most tropes. I’ll take anything: secret babies, love triangles. But for some reason, I can’t handle playboys lately. Now, I’m not against people sleeping around. You do you, boo. But I have a problem with the double standards.
The playboy hero is often rich and powerful, maybe a duke, a CEO, or the firstborn son of a crime family. As a commitment-phobic man-child, he sleeps around to cope with his overt emotional problems （due to a tragic backstory）。 He’s cruising through life, an empty robot until a doe-eyed, virgin heroine unexpectedly piques his interest. She’s only immune to his charm for a hot second before falling for his rakishly handsome looks and secret, true self that only she knows.
More often than not, these heroes are hyper-controlling, brooding, and possessive. They practically breathe fire if another man looks in her general direction, even though they’ve just slept with another woman an hour before.
Now, it’s known that heroines are held to a much higher standard than heroes. But why do we let our heroines fall for scum for the sake of the hero’s character arc? I’m all for a redemption story, but if I wouldn’t choose this guy to date my best friend, I just can’t root for him.
Thoughts?
COMMENTS:
Noooooo. Rakes are THE BEST. The payoff is always the most satisfying when they inevitably change their ways for THE ONE.
I like my playboys fictional. I have no time for them in real life!
? chapter twenty-three
LIKE THE EMOTIONALLY balanced millennial I am, coping with my problems by being petty on social media is my go-to. Unfortunately, one of the most beloved romance tropes got the brunt of my passive-aggressive callout.
I make the wise decision to delete the video entirely as I stomp down the stairs from the rooftop in Trevor’s hideous Crocs. Aside from being ten sizes too large for my feet, they’re disgustingly comfortable and convenient for hot tub sessions. The tiniest sliver of me partially understands the hype, but I’d rather commit to an exclusive diet of raw vegetables for life before I admit that.
The lights are off in our apartment, which tells me Trevor is still out on the town. I imagine he’s in his glory right now, surrounded by beautiful, large-breasted women, on track to bringing home another Instagram model of his choosing to ravage. Maybe five. Though he’ll concentrate most of his efforts on Kyla.
I seethe with jealousy at the mere thought of him with Kyla. How does one properly prepare themselves to hear the guy they like having sex with another woman across the hall?
Perhaps this was inevitable all along. Aside from moving out and taking up residence in a cardboard box on the street, what else am I supposed to do but suck it up? Maybe it’ll get easier with each successive woman.
The acoustics of my trusty Taylor Swift breakup playlist fill the apartment as I await my fate in the living room, engulfed in darkness （to match my mood）。 Like my Ex-Files box, this playlist has been with me since my breakup with Tommy in ninth grade. With each new album, I strategically add the gloomiest songs in advance of such a time as this.
I’m seven songs deep when Trevor returns, interrupting the emotional bridge of “All Too Well” （the ten-minute version, obviously）。 Bracing myself for Kyla’s inevitable high-pitched giggle, I drag myself into a seated position, taking in Trevor’s massive outline in the doorway. It appears he’s returned alone. Kyla is nowhere to be seen. I do the mental running man, followed by a couple of air punches. I’m far more elated about his temporary lone-wolf status than I should be.
“Hey,” I rasp through the darkness, hitting pause on Taylor Swift.