He maintains his death glare as he tips his head back, guzzling. “I’m not looking for wifey material, Chen.” He sets the empty glass on the counter and marches down the hall, but not before casting one last glower at the Pop-Tart crumbs on the plates.
I follow him to his room, leaning on the doorframe like a swoony romance hero. A glimpse into Trevor’s room is a rare opportunity, given that he usually keeps his door closed. The moment my big toe crosses the threshold, I’m giddy, tempted to snort that spicy signature scent like Leo, Wolf of Wall Street–style.
With an effortless tug, he pulls the fitted steel-gray sheet from his mattress, tossing it into the laundry basket nestled in his intensely organized, color-coded closet.
Meanwhile, I’ve declared a state of emergency in my room. Books are strewn haphazardly on my nightstand and every available surface. At least seven throw pillows have taken up permanent real estate on the floor. Trevor must think I’m a disaster.
I fold my arms over my chest, unable to take him seriously. “Can I ask you a question?”
“No,” he grumbles, his eyes fixed on his phone. I catch a brief half smile as he scans a text and quickly fires off a response. I idly wonder if he’s texting Gabby, or someone new already.
“Please.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But don’t ask me if you can ask questions.”
“I feel like I have to ask, because you don’t seem to like questions.”
“Sorry. I’m not a morning person.” He definitely is not. Over the past month, I’ve discovered he’s practically mute until midday. If I strike up a conversation before nine in the morning, it usually doesn’t go much further than a few garbled mumbles. He gestures toward me, sighing, like he’s given up. “What’s your question?”
“What’s it like to be the dumper?” I ask point-blank.
“What’s a dumper?”
“In every relationship, there’s the dumper and the dumpee—the one who gets their heart broken. Take me, for example. I’m always the dumpee. Never the dumper,” I explain, omitting the detail that I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of being dumped ten separate times, by ten separate men. “But I assume you’re most often the dumper.”
He grunts, fussing over his pillow. “You can only be a dumper if there’s a relationship to dump. I don’t do relationships.”
“Let me guess: you don’t believe in happily ever afters because of your mysterious, turbulent past?”
Based on my extensive knowledge of rakes and playboys in romance novels, I’d say it’s a fair deduction. Though truthfully, even after rooming together for a month, I don’t know much about him, aside from the fact that he’s a firefighter, he drinks green smoothies, he has a lot of sex, and he’s averse to clutter and mess.
His jaw flexes as he chucks the pillow onto the bed. It lands crooked, and he doesn’t even bother to fix it. I’ve definitely hit a nerve.
I bite my lip, suppressing my morbid curiosity. “Sorry. That was too far. Crystal says I have an annoying tendency to box people into romance tropes and stereotypes.”
He sits on the edge of the bed and watches me curiously. “And which romance stereotype are you?”
I stroke my chin, pretending to contemplate, even though I already know the answer. “I’m too broke to be a divorcée starting over with an inherited fixer-upper in the European countryside. I’m probably the clumsy sidekick who cracks blunt jokes at all the wrong times. The disheveled one who provides emotional support to the more desirable and levelheaded heroine.” When I say it out loud to Trevor, my life does fit perfectly into a rom-com trope （hold the rom）。
He slow-blinks. “You really think you’re a sidekick?”
I drop my shoulders, resigned to my fate. “We can’t all be main characters, Metcalfe. Some of us are nameless background people who are just . . . there.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“I would like to get out of sidekick territory, though. Try something new. Actually, I just made a Tinder. Wanna judge my profile?” I toss my phone toward him. It lands with a soft thud on the mattress.
Since my meet-cute-turned-mugging on move-in day, my DMs have been flooded with people serving up the cold, hard truth: online dating is my only option. In a moment of weakness, I caved and downloaded all the apps.
“Would you swipe right on me if I were a stranger?” I ask.
Trevor huffs a one-syllable laugh, which I interpret as a definite no. Ouch. “？‘Seeking husband potential only. No test drives’？ Is that actually your bio?”
I fold my arms over my chest. “When you’ve had your heart crushed to smithereens as many times as I have, you don’t mess around. This bio weeds out the duds who just want to assault me with dick pics.”
Mel spent a solid hour brainstorming prospective bios for me, the majority of which I turned down immediately, including:
I’ll share my Netflix account;
Cooks Kraft dinner without consulting directions on box;
Looking for more than one type of happy ending; and
Early-onset dad bods welcome.
“Damn, who’s the girl in the photo with you?” Trevor ogles my profile photo, a candid shot of Mel and me cheesing for the camera at a lush, sunlit vineyard last summer. He zooms in on Mel, interest piqued.
A tired growl escapes me. “Mel. She’s my fashion influencer friend. The one you met the other day,” I remind him. They met briefly when she came to pick me up for a mall outing. He gave her his best flirty eyes, practically impregnating her on the spot, turning her cheeks to Red Delicious apples.
Trevor continues to dissect the photo, zooming in and out like an FBI agent. “I’m not sure this is your best photo. Besides, no one will know which one you are.”
“Excuse you.” I yank my phone out of his grip. “This is my one good photo. I use it for everything.”
Unlike Mel, who is Insta-famous for her flawless makeup and lusciously thick black hair I want to transplant onto my own scalp, I’m chronically unphotogenic. Even if I look bomb in person, I look like a serial killer in any given still photo. In fact, in high school, a webcam picture of me with vacant, Night Stalker eyes became a viral meme called Crazy Ex-Girlfriend. Yes, that is my one claim to fame. And yes, people have recognized me in public on exactly three occasions. This is why I exclusively take photos of books.
This Tinder photo of Mel and me just so happens to be the one photo of a thousand where I don’t look like I dabble in random acts of cannibalism. Dare I say, I resemble an even-keeled individual with average emotional range and sufficient social skills.
“Any luck on Tinder?” Trevor asks, changing the subject from my apparently unideal profile photo. He stands to grab a T-shirt from his closet, slipping it over his head.
“No. It’s kind of depressing, actually.”
For proof, I show him the first profile that comes up. It’s a thirty-four-year-old named Ted with a teardrop tattoo. I reckon he’s killed before. Next is a guy in a corduroy newsboy cap, which could be acceptable if I were into the gaunt-faced, troubled, and egotistical academic types.
“You’re being picky. Look at this one.” He points to the third guy, Dax, who is rocking a skinny polka-dot tie. He’s above average in looks, with tired yet gentle eyes, a little nerdy, innocent. And will probably shatter my brittle heart to pieces all the same. “His bio says he likes chicken nuggets and quantum physics. You practically live off chicken nuggets. This could be your soul mate.”