Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(58)

I stand and extend my hand in a friendly shake. “Oh, um, no, actually. I am a nurse, but not on this floor. I’m Trevor’s friend . . . and roommate.”

She lights up. “Oh! Taryn, right?” Before I can tell her my name is Tara, not Taryn, she pulls me into her bony embrace. “He told me you were helping with her party. And about the money you were raising on your social media. Seriously, I can’t thank you enough. You have no idea how much we appreciate this. Really.”

“I love planning parties. I have a lot of ideas,” I say, smiling at Angie.

Payton looks solemn for a moment, waving me into the hallway. I follow her out. “Honestly, sometimes I feel like a shit mom. I mean, what kind of mom can’t even plan her own kid’s birthday party?” she whispers.

“A mom who has her priorities straight,” I offer. I know from Trevor that she’s working two jobs to pay for Angie’s treatment. She probably doesn’t even have time to sleep, let alone plan a birthday party.

She blows her overgrown bangs from her face. “Trevor told me you were going the extra mile. We really appreciate it, especially with her dad out of the picture.” She says it so nonchalantly, like it’s just a straight fact. Nothing to be weird about.

“Where is her dad?” I ask.

Her heavy eyes narrow, like she’s confused. “Trevor didn’t tell you about Logan?”

“No. He’s not exactly an open book.”

She nods in knowing agreement. “Logan left two years ago. Hasn’t even come back since Angie got sick again. He’s working out in Louisiana on the oil rigs.”

I frown. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

She shrugs. “He wasn’t all that involved when he was in Boston anyways. It’s not much different. Though Trevor was raging mad when he left. Went all the way down South to try to get him to come back. They got in a pretty bad fight over it.”

My heart aches. No wonder Trevor gets all tense when I ask about Logan.

Payton senses the drop in my mood and gives me a reassuring smile. “It’s all good, though. We’re just thankful Trevor’s been there for us. Ever since the beginning. With all the medical appointments . . . God, he’s even helped us financially. He’s a good guy,” she says, like she’s trying to convince me for some reason.

As much as I would love to deny that fact for my own self-preservation, she’s entirely right. Sure, Trevor isn’t your standard cinnamon-roll nice guy. He’s grumpy. Blunt. Rough around the edges. I’ve held on to those facts, trying to convince myself those qualities automatically count him out. That he’s somehow not good, for me at least.

But continuing to deny it is becoming an impossibility, especially after everything he’s done for me the past few months. All the dating advice. The company. Ensuring I’ve eaten on any given day. The most endearing part about it all is that he isn’t one of those smug people who waltzes around being a do-gooder to make themselves feel better (cough Seth cough). He doesn’t do things for glory or status. He’s never once bragged about his job or how many lives he’s saved.

He’s pure, authentic, and good.

How maddeningly inconvenient.



* * *



? ? ?

“WHAT THE HELL is that supposed to be?” Scott points his tube of school glue in the vague direction of Trevor’s oddly shaped cardboard structure.

“It’s a horse, dick-wad.” From his cross-legged position on the floor, Trevor casts an envious scowl at Scott’s surprisingly well-executed outline of Cinderella. The three of us are at Crystal and Scott’s, constructing life-size cardboard cutouts for Angie’s Disney party. Crystal is on party store duty, picking up plates, cups, balloons, and goody bag items.

Ever since my lunch with Angie four days ago, where I confirmed the vision and direction for her party in less than two weeks, I’ve been in full Disney planning mode. I even booked the lounge in the hospital to host the festivities. The lounge’s décor is a vague attempt at cheer with its canary-yellow walls, but a couple Disney-themed plates and hats won’t change the fact that she’s celebrating her birthday in a hospital. Life-size cutouts of her favorite Disney princesses may be extra, but I’m determined to give her an escape from reality, if only for an afternoon.

Scott squints at Trevor’s creation, tilting his head as if a different perspective will help its cause. “Looks like a sad, mangled giraffe, man.”

“It kind of does.” I nod in agreement. “Maybe next time, thicken the neck a bit?”

“I still don’t get why we got stuck with craft duty.” Disgruntled, Trevor tosses the cardboard figure into the growing trash pile.

“Because grown men who wear Crocs can’t be trusted to make good decisions at a party store,” I retort, shooting daggers at their feet. Ever since I called him out for the army-green atrocity, Trevor has been wearing them around the apartment and at work like a second, terror-inducing skin.

Turns out, Scott recently purchased his own pair. Wearing Crocs is this bizarre joke that all the crew at the firehouse have adopted like a badge of honor during their off time. I’m currently developing a plot to steal them in the cloak of darkness (Grinch-style) and burn them at the stake. I’ll drop them into the fire, one by one, using barbecue tongs to avoid direct contact. They’ll emit witchy squeals and maybe even refuse to burn as I douse the flames with gasoline.