Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(25)
“Because . . . she’s a world traveler, just like Brandon.” As the son of diplomat parents, Brandon is well traveled. He speaks five languages. He’s spent winters skiing in the Swiss Alps, summers riding camels through deserts in Morocco. You name it, he’s done it all, three times.
Even though I take after Dad with my “gift of gab,” as Mom likes to call it, what if Brandon dubs me an uncultured swine? What if things take a turn for the horribly awkward, like they did with Segway Jeff? What if he’s nothing like I remember? What if I panic and ask for his hand in marriage?
As the horrifying possibilities besiege me, so does a potential solution. “Metcalfe?”
“Yes?” Trevor asks, slow and tentative, as if dreading my response.
“I really do need to ask you a question.”
* * *
? ? ?
GRANDMA FLO WAS absolutely right. Men get better with age. At least, Brandon Wang certainly has.
His face was etched by the gods. How else can you explain his perfectly proportioned features? The enchanting dark-chocolate eyes I want to stare into longer than appropriate? Or the naturally blemish-and pore-free skin that looks airbrushed in person? If that wasn’t unfair enough, he also has the sun-kissed tan of someone who’s spent many a day experiencing the world. He certainly hasn’t been rotting on the couch scrolling through Netflix’s romance section, pretending he hasn’t already watched every film five times (not that I’d know from personal experience).
We’re seated in a turquoise booth, struggling to hear each other over the fifties tunes blasting over the sound system. He’s practically glowing like in his current profile photo (a flattering shot of his sunburned self, grinning in front of an ornate temple in Thailand).
Brandon leans in like he’s going to tell me a secret. “Can you believe it’s been over ten years since we first met?”
My insides blossom with nostalgia. “God, no. It feels like just yesterday we were pulling all-nighters, hitting up the twenty-four-hour grocery store for those giant tubs of Neapolitan ice cream.”
He mocks a retch. “That stuff was revolting. Especially the strawberry. I can’t believe we ate like that. Nowadays, my body can’t take it.”
“It’s all downhill after thirty, Bran. Or so I’ve heard,” I say. I roll up the sleeves of my cardigan as the waiter with a Mr. Monopoly mustache drops a heaping plate of loaded nachos in front of us.
Polite as ever, Brandon waits for me to pull my first cheesy nacho from the top of the pile before methodically selecting his. As expected, he chooses a relatively plain one, which he smothers in sour cream. “Oh, definitely. I used to be able to fall asleep anywhere. I can’t get a lick of shut-eye on planes anymore. Or any old pullout cot at a hostel. I’m a princess now,” he says through a crunchy bite, massaging his neck for emphasis.
A grin spreads across my face upon recollection of the many instances when he fell asleep in the library, mid–study session. “You’re basically a geriatric. Are you sure you can handle a round of mini putt without throwing out your back?” I joke.
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I can hack it. Hope you practiced your swing.” He cracks his knuckles, making a show of competitive spirit before peering at the nearest putting hole to our right. It’s a Star Wars–themed hole with rotating lightsabers ready to block incoming balls.
Putters bar is admittedly an appropriate date spot, with the retro black-and-white-checkered floor and charming neon signage. It’s located in a huge warehouse consisting of three massive mini-golf courses alongside two designated food and drink areas. Unlike a typical Astroturf course, each hole is a callback to a famous movie or television show. Behind the Star Wars hole, there’s a partially obscured Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz at the end of a yellow brick road.
As I strain to see the other holes from my vantage point, I catch Trevor’s eye. After much groveling and empty promises to be his personal chef for a week, he agreed to leave the supreme comfort of his bed to accompany me. Of course, he’s subtly seated one booth down. To Brandon and any other patron, he’s just a random dude. Little does anyone know, he’s my moral support, at the ready to ensure I don’t say anything I regret.
But the longer I talk to Brandon, the more I realize I didn’t require backup after all. Turns out, my memory isn’t totally unreliable. Brandon is as delightful and outgoing as he always was—practically a walking eharmony ad. He asks all the right questions, makes just the perfect amount of eye contact, nods at all the appropriate times. And every time he smiles, my heart does ten consecutive somersaults. I want a custom-embroidered pillow with his face on it. That got admittedly creepy, real fast. Why am I like this?
Like the precious creature he is, he’s letting me scrounge all the cheesiest nachos for myself. It’s reminiscent of long nights in the campus library studying for finals. Brandon and I would combine snacks. He’d bring sweet, and I’d bring salty. Candy bags from the corner store were his go-to, and he always saved the fruity ones for me, knowing I didn’t like the other kinds.
As we plow through the nachos, Brandon tells me he’s still traveling the world, all while doing freelance website design remotely. Despite the success of his business, he still craves the “authentic” travel experience, preferring to stay in hostels. He obliges me with some hostel horror stories, including mentions of cockroaches and bedbug infestations. His dream is to live in a tiny hut over the water in a tropical paradise, without a cell phone or footwear. I try to envision that life for myself, to no avail.