“But he lit-ral-ly forgot about me. Who forgets about dinner with their long-lost childhood best friend?” I’m still feeling some type of way about being stood up at Mamma Maria’s. And frankly, does it even matter anymore, now that I have Trevor?
“He’s your very last ex, right?” Mel asks bluntly, reminding me of that sad fact as we veer to the side, avoiding a trio of adorable elderly women doing some gentle mall walking in matching velour tracksuits.
As expected, the Sunday pre–Valentine’s Day at the mall is all-out anarchy, packed with bumbling fools last-minute gift hunting for their special someone. Today’s crowds are even worse than the Boston subway at rush hour and the grannies at the grocery store combined. Mel even sustained a broken acrylic nail battling for the last baby-blue cashmere sweater. RIP nail.
“He is the last one,” I say, barely masking my neutrality. Neither Crystal nor Mel knows what happened with Trevor, mostly because mic dropping this plot twist that we’re suddenly together now via our iPhone group chat just didn’t seem appropriate. I’m waiting for the opportune moment to spring it on them today.
As we enter a cute formalwear boutique, Mel gestures to a mannequin in the window posing broken doll–style in a seventies neon-yellow feather cocktail dress. “Is that too much for your gala?”
“Honestly, I don’t know if I want to go. Maybe I’ll just fake sick,” I tell Crystal and Mel, rooting around a rack full of gorgeous yet out-of-budget dresses. Further confirmation I should sit this event out.
The existential dread of going to the gala alone without Trevor hits me like a wrecking ball. I miss him. Terribly. And it’s only been a day since he left.
It doesn’t help that we’ve barely texted, aside from a quick message when his plane landed. My entire being has been itching to ask him how he’s doing, how the fires are, what he’s been thinking about, and if he still feels the same way about me as he did on Friday night. I’m desperate to unpack our brief conversation from before we had sex. Sure, we agreed we were giving this a shot. But we never discussed the logistics of how our relationship would change, whether we were an “official” couple now.
Last night, I even woke up at the devil’s hour, opened my Notes app, and started typing a half-baked declaration of love so at least he’d know where I stood. When I realized my text was nearly a full screen length long, I remembered what Trevor told me that night when I was texting Brandon.
He will run far, far away if you send this.
The last thing I need is to scare him off with my obsessive self, only days before Valentine’s Day. There’s also the fact that he specifically told me he needed to take things slow. I promised him we would, not just for him but for me too. I want to do things differently this time. I don’t want to cannonball headfirst like in my past relationships, all of which crashed and burned. I want to be measured, sure of myself, not desperate like I usually am.
“But it’s Valentine’s Day. You shouldn’t be alone with your thoughts. Do we really want a repeat of last year?” Crystal gives me a pointed stare. I spent last Valentine’s Day crying on Crystal’s couch while she petted my hair like a destitute stray in a Sarah McLachlan animal welfare commercial.
I press my hand over my heart. “I solemnly swear I won’t require emotional support this year.” I turn to Mel, who’s examining a gold sequin number that costs one month’s rent. “This is your first Valentine’s Day alone in years. Want company? I can supply the wine, excellent company, and cuddles,” I offer eagerly.
“Sorry, Tara,” Mel says sympathetically, like she feels sorry for me. “It’s tempting. Really. But I already committed to a Live makeup tutorial with one of my influencer friends.” She points me toward the dressing room area. She’s selected an armload of overpriced gowns for me to try on.
“You sure? I could even hang out in the background and watch. I won’t get in the way,” I suggest, desperate.
“Maybe you wouldn’t have to be alone on Valentine’s Day if you text Daniel back,” Crystal reminds me.
Mel holds a black cocktail dress in front of me, one eye closed. She frowns, like I’m a disgraceful contestant on America’s Next Top Model. “I don’t think I like black on you. Too gothic,” she mutters. “Anyway, I disagree. Don’t call Daniel. He deserves to suffer a little after making you sit alone at the restaurant like a loser.”
Yeah, until Trevor showed up and proceeded to change life as I know it.
Mel drops a heaping pile of gowns on the bench in the dressing room, oblivious to my internal freak-out over whether now is a good time to come clean. On second thought, the chaos of the dressing room hardly seems like a suitable place to drop this bomb. “I’ll be back with more options. I don’t know if I like square necklines on you. It shortens your torso.”
Crystal comes in as Mel darts out of the dressing room on a mission. She stuffs a ball of cherry-red fabric through the crack in the door. “Try this one. It’s very you.”
The next half hour consists of me sweating, changing in and out of various dresses, most of which are either too expensive or do nothing for my figure.
My mood lifts when I try on Crystal’s pick, the red one-shoulder dress with the sexy thigh-high slit up the leg. Admittedly, it’s kind of perfect, accentuating my waist and elongating my middle with the over-the-shoulder bejeweled strap. According to Mel, the harshest critic, the rich tone brings out the olive hue of my skin. She even threatens to shun me if I don’t buy it. The best part? It’s on sale for half price and won’t require alterations.
I snap a few mirror selfies, examining the dress from every angle, my mouth open like the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants girls in their magic jeans, astonished by the flawless fit. I can almost envision myself at the gala in full glam. This dress screams love. It screams Valentine’s Day.
By the time we return to Mel’s condo with take-out sushi, I’m jittery, my knee bouncing uncontrollably under the glass coffee table. My body is physically rejecting keeping my Trevor secret for so long.
Crystal notices straightaway. “Why aren’t you eating your sushi?” she asks, dipping a spicy crab roll into her soy sauce.
I struggle to swallow a pitiful mouthful of seaweed salad, tossing my disposable wooden chopsticks on my plate. It’s time to come clean.
I spare no detail about the entire evening, from nearly getting kicked out of Mamma Maria’s to Trevor showing up, saving my ass and my breadsticks. I explain how, in a moment of weakness, I demanded to know Trevor’s feelings, which directly led to an explosion of emotions, followed by a passionate hookup.
When I conclude my story, a thick silence falls over Mel’s open living area. Crystal looks like she’s about to choke on her roll. Across the coffee table, Mel’s mouth is crooked and partially open—her trademark face when the logic doesn’t add up because her Botox prevents severe forehead lines.
“No freakin’ way. You slept with Trevor?” Mel finally clarifies, breaking the stretch of silence. She pretends to fan herself. “Was it life-changing? I bet it was. I need details.”