“Why not? What better pool to choose from than already vetted men? Of course, leave out the duds,” she advises. “But I remember you dated some fine fellows.”
She’s not wrong. Some of my exes are total catches. They’re all somewhat similar. Generally kind, soft-spoken, good-natured, and trustworthy. The men most women friend-zone, ignoring their potential and understated sex appeal until it’s too late. “You know what, Grandma? This could be a good place to start my search.”
She leans in with yet another slightly disturbing double wink. “I’ll tell you one thing. Men only get better with age. Trust me, second time’s a charm. Maybe you can even find one on time for that Valentine’s Day gala of yours.”
By the time we end our Live Session, there’s an avalanche of comments on our video, most of which are encouraging me to pursue my exes and get a date for Valentine’s Day. In fact, it’s garnered twice as many views as my usual videos.
Maybe Grandma Flo has a point. All the romance books and movies insist true love happens passively. Love, as we’re told, is not something you actively seek out. The best love stories just magically fall into the laps of those who don’t expect or want them.
But what if I don’t want to sit around and wait for potential suitors like a demure flower who’s just come of age? What if I want to take matters into my own hands? To prove romance-book-worthy love still exists?
Inspired, I grab my phone. It’s time to do what I do best.
Internet stalk.
? chapter five
WHICH EX SHOULD I reach out to first? My high school sweetheart? My college boyfriends? Don’t forget to let me know in the comments. You can also vote in the poll—”
My video is interrupted by a figure taking up nearly the entire width of my bedroom doorway behind me on camera.
“It’s only six in the morning and you’re already plotting something sinister,” Trevor remarks in a hoarse, early-morning voice. He’s in a plain white T-shirt, which has no business contouring his every muscle the way it does.
I swiftly turn my attention back to the camera, but not before shooting him a stern look over my shoulder. “Sorry. That was my roommate. Anyway, as I was saying, you can vote in the poll in my stories. Bye, everyone!” I wave, hitting End.
Trevor is appalled by the state of my room, horror-movie eyes darting from the half-emptied box in my doorway to my bed, where the remainder of its contents are scattered. He gulps when he spots the item behind me. “What the . . .”
“Behold. My hit list.” I gesture to my masterpiece like it’s a sparkling Cadillac on The Price Is Right.
Rescuing my old college corkboard from the depths of my storage space, I created an FBI-style link chart of my ex-boyfriends.
TARA’S EX-BOYFRIENDS
Daniel （childhood love）
Tommy （ninth-grade boyfriend）
Jacques （Student Senate boy）
Cody （high school sweetheart）
Jeff （frosh week fling）
Zion （campus bookstore cutie）
Brandon （world traveler—the one who got away）
Linus （Brandon rebound）
Mark （book club intellectual）
Seth （ex-fiancé）
Not to brag, but I’m basically Carrie Mathison from Homeland, uncovering treasure troves of pertinent information on each of my targets, including but not limited to: high school athletic and academic achievements, grandparents’ obituaries, etc. Next to each name is an accompanying photo from social media, as well as contact details, including handles, email addresses, phone numbers, workplaces.
The only ex I wasn’t able to find anything on is ex number one, Daniel Nakamura （humanity’s shining example of all that is good in the world）， who is a ghost online.
“Should I be scared?” Trevor asks, perusing my list.
“Not unless you’re my ex.”
He doesn’t look so sure. “So these are all your lucky ex-boyfriends?”
“During our Live Session yesterday, Grandma Flo inspired me to embark on a second-chance romance quest.” I follow up with a detailed explanation of what a second-chance romance entails, as well as Grandma Flo’s love story and how it relates to my new plan. “And bonus, if my ex-boyfriend search goes as planned, maybe I won’t have to be alone on Valentine’s Day or at the gala. Maybe I’ll have a plus-one.”
Trevor rewards me with a dead-eyed stare. He’s probably regretting wasting the last five minutes of his life. “You want to date your exes because you don’t want to resort to Tinder? And because your grandma married her childhood boyfriend?”
“That’s a gross oversimplification.” I pause, biting my thumbnail. “But basically, yes. Grandma Flo says men only get better with age. Sure, some of these guys were boneheads years ago, but what if they’ve turned into amazing people?”
Even more than that, this quest for a second-chance-romance hero fills me with something I haven’t felt since the early days with Seth: butterflies. Ridiculous as it may be, thinking about my exes is nostalgic. It’s that innocent, childlike anticipation of seeing your crush in the morning at school. That delicious flutter in the base of your stomach when they give you a passing glance in the hallway.
Both Crystal and Mel were hesitant about this plan, righteously reminding me that career fulfillment alone should be enough to make me happy. But unlike their respective influencer careers, I’m not die-hard passionate about nursing, even though I enjoy it. I’ve always been a bit of an anomaly, finding purpose not through what I do but through my relationships with friends and family. But when everyone is absorbed with their own lives, where does that leave me at the end of the day? Alone in my twin bed, listening to my roommate’s sex-capades?
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m sick of being single. And if my time as a singleton has taught me anything, it’s that just because I don’t need someone in my life doesn’t mean I don’t want one.
Realistically, I should be lauded for my willingness to take on a whole separate human’s personal traumas in addition to my own. That’s strength.
Trevor turns his attention back to the box at his feet. “What does all this junk have to do with your exes?”
While poking around in my storage space last night, I found a large box appropriately labeled The Ex-Files.
I explain to Trevor how this box has been with me since middle school. To be fair, it started as a shoe box （decorated with magazine cutouts of my celebrity crushes）。 Over the years, it got bigger, with physical artifacts from each successive relationship. Love notes, movie ticket stubs from first dates, articles of clothing, you name it.
Trevor bends over and fishes out a true-to-size royal-purple penis wax candle, appropriately named the Pecker Flame. He examines with caution, and I note how it fills his large, callused palm with commendable girth. He can most definitely handle a hose, I think to myself before blinking that errant thought to the abandoned cellar of my mind.
His brows pinch together, completing his confused face. “Please tell me this isn’t a mold of your ex’s . . .”
I wince when he tosses it back into the box as if it’s a used dildo. “God, no! It’s just a candle. I got it as a gag gift from my college roommate on the night I met ex number six, Zion.”