Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(14)
Trevor takes a startled step away from me. “You keyed his car?”
“I’m not proud of it. But I was fifteen years old,” I point out. “I went full Carrie Underwood. It was a nice car too. Red with a sunroof. Dad nearly flipped his lid when the cops showed up at our doorstep. I felt awful. Spent my whole summer working to pay for the damage.”
His mouth shapes into a full grimace. “Poor Tommy.”
“Lest we forget what Tommy did to deserve it.” Spikes of heat pierce my neck. “He kissed another girl at the semiformal. The night we planned to lose our virginities to each other. Then he called me crazy when I got mad at him over it. The gaslighter. So I felt compelled to show him what crazy really is.” I’m about to rant about the stigma of calling people “crazy” willy-nilly, but Trevor is still grimacing, tilting his head back and forth, seemingly unconvinced my actions were justifiable.
“Anyways, I gotta get to work. I’m meeting Jeff, number five, on my lunch break.” I slid into his DMs this morning after he posted a twenty-part, eloquently written tweet about ocean pollution.
Trevor peers at Jeff’s photo on my ex list. He’s sipping a Corona on a beach in white sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt. “White sunglasses straight from the Douchebag 101 starter kit. If that’s not a red flag, I dunno what is,” he remarks, pausing to check his phone, which just dinged in his pocket.
He smiles again as he reads the message, only it’s a wider smile than the one I caught when he was texting yesterday. People don’t casually text and smile for no reason. Maybe there’s hope for his black heart after all. I’m tempted to ask for the identity of the woman who wields the power to make Trevor Metcalfe smile like a little boy, but I refrain.
While I wait for him to finish his text, I pull out that exact pair of white Oakleys from the depths of the box like a magician. Trevor barks a laugh when he lifts his eyes. I put the glasses on for dramatic flair. “Oh, come on. It’s early-2000s chic. You don’t think they suit me?”
He shields me from view with his hand. “No. Very disturbing.”
“You’re really killing my vibe, Metcalfe.” I head past him toward the doorway.
I wait in the hallway as he follows me out of my room. We’re face-to-face. My forehead technically only reaches his chin, reminding me I’m vertically challenged thanks to the Chens, my dad’s side of the family. I study the rise and fall of his chest for a long beat before meeting his gaze.
The orange tint of Jeff’s sunglasses sets Trevor’s eyes alight, like tiny flecks of gold. My breath hitches when he gently pulls the glasses off my face, warm fingertips grazing my cheekbones. Even without the protective shield of the lenses, his eyes still sparkle like a pot of riches.
He clears his throat and takes half a step back. “It’s just . . . They’re exes for a reason. Aren’t they?”
I think about Trevor’s words for the first half of my day shift. People love to say exes are exes for a reason, so they don’t have to dwell on the past. But personally, I’ve always thought second-chance love stories were the most satisfying of them all.
? chapter six
JEFF IS OFFICIALLY twenty minutes late,” I announce to my followers. “Will keep you all updated.” I let out a forlorn sigh and wave goodbye to the camera.
To make matters worse, my jasmine tea is no longer hot. At least the café is cute. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves span the wall, complete with a dinky yet charming sliding ladder straight out of Beauty and the Beast. Recalling Jeff’s vegan diet, I selected it purposely for its free-trade, non-GMO, and organic menu, printed on beige paper allegedly made from wheat straw.
While I wait, Harmon, the barista, tells me about some literary fiction written by a deceased white dude that “changed her life.” My eyes gloss over at the description, but I maintain an eager smile, assuring her that it’s HIGH on my TBR (to-be-read) pile.
When Harmon goes back to serving customers, I check my phone. Comments have flooded in on my video from early this morning.
Who is WHITE T SHIRT GUY and where can I find him?
Is that your new roommate???
Screw the exes. Date the roommate!!
ROOM-ANCE
I wheeze at the thought of dating Trevor I-don’t-subscribe-to-love Metcalfe, of all people. But before I can properly entertain the ridiculous idea, a flash of neon out the window catches my eye. The neon turns out to be a helmet, worn by a lanky man in a baggy T-shirt, sleeveless fleece vest, and khakis whizzing down the sidewalk on a Segway. Without notice, he halts his Segway directly in front of the shop, peering at the sign above.
The moment his helmet comes off, the recognition sets in. The vibrant, sunny sky-blue eyes. The long, curly, surfer-dude hair I used to love running my fingers through. The dimpled chin. And his strong nose, which always seemed a little too large for his face.
When he spots me gawking at him like a zoo animal through the window, he gives me a small wave. I work down a swallow of my tea when he wrenches the glass door open with the force of a man who gives zero fucks.
The café patrons turn to stare when the bell smashes against the glass door. He swaggers toward me, long arms outstretched for an embrace. “Tara. You look rad.”
The helmet tucked under his arms crushes my ribs as he goes for a full-body hug. His body is an iceberg, probably because he’s been cruising around the frigid streets of Boston bare-armed. It crosses my mind that maybe he can’t afford a warm coat, or maybe he was ill prepared for the cold weather. He holds our hug for a beat too long before I duck out of his arms.