I also made a vow to Crystal and Mel months ago that I’d focus on my exes, and I am not the kind of person to break a promise.
* * *
? ? ?
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 8
Tara Chen???5:46 P.M.
Hi Daniel,
This is going to seem random, but we used to be best friends as kids. In case you forgot who I am （and I don’t blame you if you did, I’m forgettable）， I’m the girl who used to make you embarrassingly gushy Valentine’s Day cards. The one who used to eat most of the Dunkaroo icing and leave you with the dry biscuits. You gave me a pink Furby for my sixth birthday party, and we named her Roxy.
We lost touch after middle school, which is probably for the best. I did not thrive in high school. Now we’re 30. I’ve spent a lot of time mourning our youths and I miss you. It appears you are not online anywhere except here on LinkedIn. Of course, I’ve thought about emailing you at [email protected] （LOL）， but I assume you are no longer using that email address.
Anyway, no pressure, but I’d love to hear from you. It would make my day （no, my life!）。
—Your Best Friend, Tara
* * *
? ? ?
“THIS IS PROBABLY a massive waste of time,” I grumble to myself as I hit Send on my subway commute home. I make a pact with myself that if he ignores my LinkedIn DM, I’ll take it as a sign to give up on love entirely and purchase a rescue dog who won’t break my heart.
Luckily, I have a brand-new audiobook to distract me while I await a response. This one is another second-chance reunion romance, about Shelley, a New York City socialite who goes back to her down-home roots after a scandal. Upon return, she discovers her ex-boyfriend, Kent, a muscly cattle rancher, has been running her late father’s farm.
When I return to the apartment, I hit Play while I prepare a sophisticated dinner of chicken nuggets and curly fries. The narrator’s buttery smooth voice drowns out the noise of my excessive thoughts.
While I’m waiting for the oven to preheat, Trevor emerges from his bedroom and quietly begins rooting around the kitchen for his own food. The sultry, late-night-radio-show voice of my audiobook fills the dead air between us.
“Shelley gripped the base of his cock, feeling its pulse against her palm . . .”
He clears his throat behind me, chucking a head of broccoli onto his cutting board. “Whoa. What are you listening to?”
The bold voice plows forward with gusto, entirely shameless. “Kent let out a low, hungry growl as his eyes feasted upon her glistening . . . ”
“My audiobook,” I say, my tone clipped as I arrange my nuggets on the pan in the shape of a heart.
He snickers and mutters something I can’t hear.
No fail, listening to sex scenes via audiobook is painfully awkward, even solo. Double the awkward when someone else is in the room. I go to hit Pause and shriek.
I have a LinkedIn notification. It’s a DM response. From Daniel.
If this were a movie, an upbeat pop song would fade in. Something with a heavy piano. Maybe “A Thousand Miles” by Vanessa Carlton or “Brighter Than the Sun” by Colbie Caillat. Regardless, it’s the sound of everything in my life finally coming together. The weight of my failed engagement with Seth, moving two times, my exes, and the emotional turmoil that is Trevor have seemingly dissolved now that I’ve finally made contact with Daniel.
Trevor’s too busy chopping his broccoli to notice my reaction to my phone. Either that or he doesn’t care.
I slink away to the privacy of my own room to read it.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 8
Daniel Nakamura???7:13 P.M.
Hi Tara,
Are you kidding me? Of course I remember you. In case you forgot, I don’t like many people. You were one of the few. If you can believe it, I too was very uncool in high school. It might have been nice if we could have been uncool together, don’t you think?
You’re definitely right—I do not use my old email address anymore. Though Dragon Ball Z is still KEWL. I thought about writing you as well, but I figured you weren’t still at [email protected].
I plucked my first gray hair the other day. How did we get so old? Let’s catch up for dinner soon? Things are really busy with work, but I could make myself available this Friday or Saturday night, if you’re free?
—Your Best Friend, Daniel
Ps. I am so glad to hear from you.
You and me both, Daniel.
? chapter twenty-five
I LOOK RIDICULOUS.” TREVOR pouts at his reflection in the full-body-length gilded mirror, tugging at the fabric of his costume like it’s a monstrosity.
We’re at a costume rental store trying on our respective Disney getups, one of the last remaining birthday party planning tasks. Despite his admitted enjoyment of Tangled, Trevor is not enthused.
I pull the vest to center on his chest with a hard tug, taking a mental picture for safekeeping on days I need an instant mood boost. “Shut up. It looks amazing. Instant panty-dropper.”
Like the dashing and effortlessly charismatic Flynn Rider from Tangled, Trevor liberally fills out his impossibly tight pair of camel-colored pants. I’m tempted to bounce a coin off his ass. Like the monster he is, he somehow manages to pull off the ornate green vest better than cartoon Flynn.
He grunts, fussing with the front clasp. “This is a panty-dropper? Maybe in medieval times.”
“Stop messing with it,” I order, swatting his hand away. “And FYI, the vest is basically the historical version of a Henley. It’s a staple in the romance hero wardrobe.”
“What’s a Henley?”
I glare at him. “You did not just ask me what a Henley is.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Further proof you are not romance hero material,” I conclude, more for my own benefit, lest I slip up and continue to forget that glaring, indisputable fact.
Shockingly, he doesn’t debate it. He goes quiet for a moment before conceding, “I still don’t know what a Henley is.”
“It’s one of those cotton pullover shirts. Round collar with the little buttons? Scotty wears them all the time,” I explain, softening my tone.
He checks himself out again in the mirror. “I could rock those.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. They require a certain kind of swagger.” Truthfully, I’m both startled and affronted by the mental visual of his tattooed biceps, corded forearms, and broad chest doing overtime under an unbuttoned Henley. He’s going about his day, doing the normal things romance heroes do. Rolling up his sleeves. Leaning on various supportive structures, arms crossed to accentuate said biceps. Being an overall walking thirst trap. I’d follow him straight into a pyramid scheme in this getup.
“Swagger. Pft.” He waves my blatant lie away, unbothered, probably because he knows he looks flawless in just about anything （and nothing at all）。 He eyes his Disney costume in the mirror once more and whines like a small child. “Can I please lose the tights at least?”
Depriving the world of his ass in those pants would be an international war crime. “First, those are not tights. And you can’t get any worse than me. I’m basically a gigantic bumblebee.” I gesture to my ill-fitting yellow Belle gown. If I needed any proof that yellow does nothing for me, it’s right here and now in the mirror.