Exes and O's (The Influencer #2)

by Amy Lea

“God, you feel . . . I never knew it could be this good,” he whispers against my lips, giving my bottom lip the softest bite as I rock against him, increasing my speed.

I curl my nails into his neck, his hard back, his shoulders. Everywhere I can reach.

When it’s all over, I’m not even sure I have control over my own body.

The way he looks to the ceiling, pretending to be hopelessly annoyed with me when I know he isn’t.

“You have to leave in a few hours,” I whisper, collapsing over his chest. “I don’t want you to.”

“Will you wake me up before you go?” I plead. “I don’t want to wake up alone.”

I burrow into his neck, taking in his scent, fighting to stay awake in the darkness, wishing I could slow down time. Maybe stop it altogether.

“Let me go. I think he likes me,” I rasp, my throat as dry as the Sahara, staring longingly at sunlit Trevor.

Mother Gothel releases a witchy cackle into the shell of my ear. “Likes you? Please, Tara, that’s demented!”

For the first time in years, my bed is made . . . with me in it. This is a surefire sign that Trevor Metcalfe was here. That last night wasn’t another one of my elaborate, R-rated dreams.

He’s gone. He left without saying goodbye.

I return to bed, smoothing my hand over the empty space where he fell asleep next to me, replaying everything he said to me yesterday about how he wanted to try. How he was going to give this relationship his all. How I agreed to take things slow with him, emotionally at least.

I fall back asleep, my heart filled with hope but also fear.

Neither Crystal nor Mel knows what happened with Trevor, mostly because mic dropping this plot twist that we’re suddenly together now via our iPhone group chat just didn’t seem appropriate.

I miss him. Terribly. And it’s only been a day since he left.

My entire being has been itching to ask him how he’s doing, how the fires are, what he’s been thinking about, and if he still feels the same way about me as he did on Friday night.

Sure, we agreed we were giving this a shot. But we never discussed the logistics of how our relationship would change, whether we were an “official” couple now.

When I realized my text was nearly a full screen length long, I remembered what Trevor told me that night when I was texting Brandon. He will run far, far away if you send this.

The last thing I need is to scare him off with my obsessive self, only days before Valentine’s Day. There’s also the fact that he specifically told me he needed to take things slow.

I press my hand over my heart. “I solemnly swear I won’t require emotional support this year.”

Mel holds a black cocktail dress in front of me, one eye closed. She frowns, like I’m a disgraceful contestant on America’s Next Top Model

Don’t call Daniel. He deserves to suffer a little after making you sit alone at the restaurant like a loser.” Yeah, until Trevor showed up and proceeded to change life as I know it.

This dress screams love. It screams Valentine’s Day.

By the time we return to Mel’s condo with take-out sushi, I’m jittery, my knee bouncing uncontrollably under the glass coffee table. My body is physically rejecting keeping my Trevor secret for so long.

I explain how, in a moment of weakness, I demanded to know Trevor’s feelings, which directly led to an explosion of emotions, followed by a passionate hookup.

“Wait, you mean you two are actually a thing? How is that even possible?”

Crystal’s expression is one of ultimate doubt. “Wait, that’s it? You’re together and he’s barely even texting you?”

Her question is like a gut punch. I straighten my spine, suddenly feeling even more insecure than I already was.

“Is that weird? Should we b...

“Okay, but Scott and Trevor are two different people,” Mel reminds us, although I barely register her words given the alarm bells going off in my head.

“Shit. This is a bad sign, isn’t it? Do you think he’s freaking out and regretting everything?”

In my looming sushi coma, I’m easily suggestible.

Somehow, through our tussle, we have collectively managed to hit Send on the mirror selfie. Not once. Not twice. But three times.

“It’s okay. It’s fine. No big deal. You like him. He likes you. It’s totally normal to send him photos of yourself,” Mel assures. “But that’s the thing! I don’t know anything that’s going on in his head,” I shriek.

After all, what if Crystal has a point? Is everything he said to me on Friday at odds with his behavior since he’s been gone?

“Seth, this is my ex, Daniel. Daniel, this is my other . . . um, ex, Seth.”

He still hasn’t responded to the selfies I sent him, which only confirms Crystal’s doubt.

“You’d do that thing where you talk a mile a minute, twirling the ends of your hair. You get a little flustered. And you get that glassy, starry-eyed look,” he tells me, his eyes glinting with certainty like he’s solved a riddle.

Out of nowhere, a shiver electrifies my spine. Goosebumps scatter down my arms, as if I’m standing directly under the chilly blast of a vent. A velvety, audiobook-worthy voice upends everything in my orbit, stopping me in my tracks.

“You look”—he gestures toward me, jaw slack—“absolutely beautiful.”

The corners of my lips threaten to curve into a shy smile, until I recall his blatant lack of communication over the past three days.

“I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go.” He spares me a brief, heavy-hearted look, cautious about looking me directly in the eyes.

“Does it matter? You’re here with Daniel.” Trevor is jealous. He cares.

“Tara, I’ve listened to you talk about how much you miss that guy—ten different guys—for months. How was I supposed to know you weren’t just settling for me as a last resort, until Daniel pulled through?”

“That guy is exactly everything you’ve been looking for. Why would you settle for me?”

“You’re the one who barely texted me. I’ve seen the texts you sent to your exes. Compared to what you sent me, it seemed like you didn’t want to talk at all.

“I tried not to bother you because you said you wanted to go slow. I didn’t want you to think I was being clingy.”

“I sent you Valentine’s Day flowers, for Christ’s sake.” I freeze. “What? You sent me flowers?” “Roses,” he says. “You didn’t get them?”

I want to scream into the void until he comes back. I want to tell him how badly I missed him. That I’m desperately in love with him. No one else.

If I had a dollar for every time Seth whined that my books were tainting my expectations of real relationships, I’d be a baller.