“I’ll take the twelve-ounce steak, medium rare, veggies on the side.” Trevor pauses, regarding me. “I assume you want my baked potato?”
“Um, hell to the yes. Twice baked, please. If you’re not having it, I mean,” I add.
Trevor smiles and folds up his menu. “What are you having, sweetheart?” For the second time tonight, a term of endearment rolls off his tongue so naturally, I’d assume we really were a real-life married couple with plans for a bright future with two kids, a yellow Lab, and maybe a beta fish I’ll inevitably forget to feed.
Oh dear. I’m in too deep. I require a bright-orange life raft and a couple of flares, stat.
I snap my focus back to Rogan, who’s bouncing on his toes, probably itching to report back to his colleagues. “Uh, I’ll take the fettuccini alfredo?”
“She’ll take a glass of merlot too, please.” Trevor gently collects my menu and hands it to Rogan. When he runs off to his minions, Trevor gives me a dazzling, mischievous grin over the glass candelabra, which is too large for a two-person table. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? Pasta is the worst date food.”
I hold his stare. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you? I don’t play by bullshit rules.”
He chuckles. “That’s my girl. You look great tonight, by the way. That dress is just . . .” He waves a hand at my tight blue dress with a plunging neckline.
I didn’t realize the extent of Trevor’s acting abilities. He deserves an award for pretending to be a supportive, sweet boyfriend. I shoulder check, expecting one of the waitstaff to be standing behind me, observing his performance. There is no one there. “Can I ask what the heck you’re doing here?”
Trevor shrugs, like giving up his night and busting out fancy attire from the depths of his closet didn’t put him out in the slightest. “You told me you can’t stand the thought of eating alone, right? That depressing story about the guy at your grandparents’ restaurant. But I figured you’d need some moral support. I wanted to be here for you. Just in case. I know I’m no Dwight K. Schrute, but . . .”
A flame lights up my insides, filling me with a liquid warmth so comforting, I don’t know what to do with my body. In fact, I don’t realize I’m smiling until the moisture threatens to pool over my lash line. This is the single most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.
“Hey, you okay?” Trevor asks, reading my expression. He even nudges the bread basket toward me. Why must he be so damn thoughtful?
I suck in a deep breath, willing back the floodgates as the blur of Rogan brings our drinks. “Yeah. I really am. Thank you for coming. I’m sure you had better things to do with your night.”
“Like what?”
I give him a knowing look while shamelessly dipping a breadstick in the tiny tray of whipped butter. That is definitely not something I’d be doing in front of Daniel. “Like having some hot sex with an Insta model?”
He smirks. “I’m eating an expensive meal with an Insta model. That’s gotta count for something.”
I make a pft sound at his flattery, swirling my wine. “I’m no Insta model. I don’t photograph well, remember?”
“Right. The Satan eyes,” he says through a snort. “You really missed your opportunity. When your meme went viral in high school, you shoulda trademarked that shit. Started a Crazy Ex-Girlfriend mass following or something.”
I drum my fingers together. “You make an excellent point. I could have been a charismatic cult leader of all crazy girls everywhere.”
As Trevor and I contemplate all the ways I could have monetized that meme and reclaimed the term, our food arrives. To the waitstaff’s horror, Trevor and I eat slowly, not out of spite, but because we can’t stop talking about random things, like what we’d do in the event of an apocalypse （him: head for fresh water; me: curl up in a ball and succumb to inevitable death） or what we’d choose to eat for our last meal on death row （him: this steak; me: a bag of Cheetos）。
A couple emitting some serious first-date vibes is seated at the table next to us as I devour my pasta before it gets cold. “This is exactly why I refuse to date online,” I whisper as the man awkwardly remarks that the woman looks totally different in person than in her profile photo.
We eavesdrop as the woman asks the man whether that’s a “good thing or a bad thing” and proceeds to grow visibly annoyed and understandably offended when he changes the subject.
Trevor gives me his Jim from The Office look, his chest rising and falling with silent laughter. “Yeah. That guy might as well just give up now.”
“I think she’s about to leave,” I mouth.
“Sorry, I was just being honest. You don’t look like your photos,” the man says, his palms up.
Miffed, the woman tosses her cloth napkin on the table with a no-nonsense grumble. “Well, your voice doesn’t match your face. Have a great night, Richard.” Trevor and I （and probably the rest of the patrons） watch in stunned silence as she wrenches her coat from the back of her chair and leaves. I’m tempted to applaud her for having standards, but I’ve already peeved the waitstaff enough tonight.
“Ouch.” Trevor winces from secondhand embarrassment, scrutinizing his napkin before he pats the corner of his mouth with it.
“Something wrong with your napkin?”
“I really don’t like cloth napkins,” he explains.
I lean forward, resting one elbow on the table. “Me either. I mean, I know they’re more environmentally friendly and all.”
He sets the napkin back on his lap. “Whenever I look at them, I think about all the people who’ve used it. Blown their nose in it. They’re always full of lint too. And weird scents. Like hotel towels.”
“This is a wonderful date convo,” I say, unable to stop grinning. “Very romantic.”
He lifts his shoulders. “Hey, you always want to know more about me.”
“Have you always been a germophobic neat freak?”
I expect him to grunt and ignore me, but he lowers his gaze to his empty plate. “My mom worked a lot and didn’t have time to clean. Our place was always a shitshow. We had one of those houses you’d want to wear socks in. Logan and I were too embarrassed to have friends over because of the mess.”
I almost reach to place my hand over his, but I stop myself, settling for a frown instead. “I don’t blame you. Now I feel like a dick for not wiping my crumbs off the counters. Although my crumbs are nothing compared to naked women on the kitchen island,” I tease.
He shakes his head, partially burying his face. “I thought you were gonna leave and never come back that day.”
“Trust me, I contemplated it. But I was pretty desperate for a place to live,” I admit, taking the last sip of my wine. “Was it weird to have a stranger living with you after rooming with Scott for so long?”
“No, actually. That first time we talked—”
“When you gave me Cheetos in the bathroom?”
“Yeah. I felt like I already knew you. It was like we’d been friends for years.”
Womp, womp. There’s that word again. Friends. I deflate a little. “Really? It still took you forever to open up to me.” The fact is, Trevor is a good friend. An amazing friend. While he may not see me romantically, I should be entirely grateful for his support.