Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(18)
“Trust isn’t something you have to learn. It’s something you earn,” I say, my tone firm, fists clenched in my lap. “And I think we both know your behavior at the end didn’t exactly scream devoted fiancé.”
“That’s what happens when you pull the leash too tight.” He tosses the stress ball onto the desk, clearly done with this conversation.
I stand, letting out a jaded sigh. Why did I ever expect to have a productive conversation with Seth? “I think our versions of the truth are two very different things, Seth.”
He lifts his mug high for a slurpy sip and shrugs, like he can’t be bothered. “Guess so. Good luck with the witch-hunt either way.”
? chapter eight
MCDONALD’S IS PACKED tonight, full of loitering teenagers and distressed moms screaming at their children to sit down and eat their damned Happy Meals. I take in the familiar comfort of greasy fast food that permeates the air, eliciting a loud rumble from my empty stomach.
Trevor brought me straight here after discovering my lifeless body star-fishing on the living room floor. When I denied his offer of an ultra-healthy homecooked meal, he practically dragged me to his car.
“You need to eat. I need you alive to cover half the rent. Come on, I’ll bring you wherever you want to go,” he’d promised. As an unapologetic glutton, I wasn’t about to deny the prospect of being chauffeured to eat wherever I wanted. Admittedly, his spicy scent was also an energy booster. Two hits and I was up on my own two feet.
Trevor stands in line for our orders while I secure a table near the window. As I wait, I come up with so many things I wish I’d said to Seth. He railroaded me in that conversation at work today, like he always manages to do. Meanwhile, I’m left to come up with sick burns and vicious insults long after the fact, when no one cares anymore except me. Story of my life.
I’m also disappointed in my college self for completely misreading my entire relationship with Jeff. My stomach turns when I think about how I skipped around campus, fancy-free like the human version of a heart-eyes emoji, ignoring the signals entirely. Had I known he considered me to be a total nutjob, I never would have wasted my time on him.
For the first time in my life, I’m starting to understand why romance heroines dramatically swear off men. Maybe I should do the same. Love would surely fall into my lap the moment I did so.
Trevor arrives with our food stacked on one tray. The moment he spots the sprinkled salt and a dab of ketchup smeared across the table, he backs away, shaking his head. It might as well be fresh blood from an open, oozing wound. “No.”
I haphazardly wipe the mess away with my napkin. “Come on. Sit. It’s perfectly clean now,” I assure him, gesturing to the open seat across from me.
He looks into the dirty booth and shakes his head, his eyes flickering to the comparatively clean booth on my side.
I pat the space next to me and scoot over.
With zero enthusiasm, he slides in beside me like the diva he is, knee bouncing under the table. The warmth of his thigh grazing mine sends a zing down my spine. I’m now hyperaware we look like one of those cute couples who sit on the same side of the table at restaurants because they can’t keep their hands off each other.
“Is it the screaming kids?” I ask, tearing the wrapping off my Quarter Pounder like a frenzied child on Christmas morning.
“No. I don’t mind kids, actually.” As I chew that first, glorious bite, he waves a hand around at the floor, full of slushy, brown napkins. “It’s a postapocalyptic nightmare in here.” He zeroes in on a glob of hardened sweet-and-sour dipping sauce I missed at the corner of the table. I promptly scrub it away before he has a breakdown.
“My parents had their first date in a McDonald’s,” I tell him. When he squints at me in suspicion, I make sure to add, “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to date you.” It feels necessary to point that out. When I got home from work today, I noticed a basket of expensive-looking candies sitting on Trevor’s bed, visible from the hallway. Trust, I tried to bury my curiosity and go on with my day, but I’m not known for exercising self-control. I tiptoed my nosy ass into his room to peek at the card, which read To Angie, from Trevor, with a smiley face.
The romantic gift struck me as odd at first, considering he’s never mentioned anyone named Angie before and he’s averse to relationships. It was only a couple days ago that he bristled at the idea of a wifey. Then again, maybe he doesn’t want to settle for just anyone. Maybe he’s already in love with a special someone.
Every good playboy hero carries a secret torch for one woman his entire life but refuses to do anything about it until the eleventh hour (probably when she’s halfway down the aisle at her wedding to another man). Trevor certainly fits the mold. Dangerous, sulky, always brooding in the corner. This makes so much sense.
Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait for him to bring it up unless I reveal I snooped through his personal belongings like a complete stalker.
Trevor doesn’t respond to my assurance that I’m not trying to date him. He’s too busy assessing the inside contents of his Big Mac, probably daydreaming about Angie. With the precision of a heart surgeon, he removes the pickles and sets them in the lid of his burger container. When he notices me ogling them like a starved hyena, he asks, “Want them?”