Josh and Hazel’s Guide to Not Dating by Christina Lauren

SIX

JOSH

Two days, two flights, more drama than a drunken night in a freshman dorm, and here I am: back home again. So of course my door won’t open.

Jiggling the key free, I kneel down until I’m level with the lock. I replaced both of the doorknobs when I refinished the front and back porches only a year ago, and can’t think of a single reason why the front door would be jammed.

Unless, I think, leaning in to get a closer look, someone tried to pry it open.

Hazel.

I straighten, looking down at my watch as I debate what to do. This day has been nothing but a nightmare, and even though I know I should go to my sister’s place and sleep on the couch, the only thing I want right now is to take my clothes off and climb into my own bed. It’s after two a.m., which means Hazel is most likely inside and asleep in the guest room, so there’s no harm in letting myself in and explaining it all in the morning, right?

With this decided, I reach for my bag and turn down the stairs, headed toward the backyard.

The light from the street doesn’t make it to this side of the house: it’s damp, and shaded by trees even in daylight. Right now, it’s pitch black. I pull my phone from my pocket, shining the flashlight along the ground until I reach the gate. I haven’t been back this way for a few weeks; the hinge protests as I swing it open, and my footsteps squelch in the wet grass as I make my way up the back stairs and to the door. Thankfully, this lock seems fine. I unlock it quickly and silently, only to trip on something as soon as I step inside. A shoe—one of at least six random pairs piled haphazardly in the corner and spilling out onto the rug. Exhausted and too tired to care, I kick them out of the way.

A shower will have to wait.

I’m shuffling toward my bedroom when a flash of movement catches in the light of my phone. I swing it around to see a bag of chips on the counter, a trail of crumbs leading to an empty pizza box, and a sink full of dirty dishes. Inside my chest, something itches to clean it all up now, but I’m distracted when I hear a gasp behind me. Turning, I throw my arms up just in time.

“Shi—” is all I get out before there’s a searing bolt of pain and everything goes black.

..........

When I come to, it’s to find Hazel standing over me. She looks like something out of a cartoon: crazy wide eyes and an umbrella brandished threateningly over her head. She’s dressed only in a tank top and the smallest pair of shorts I’ve ever seen. If I didn’t want to murder her right now I might actually take a moment to appreciate the view.

“Did you hit me with an umbrella?”

“No. Yes.” She drops it immediately. “Why are you sneaking in your own back door?”

The pain in my head intensifies at the volume of her voice. “Because someone broke the front lock and my key wouldn’t work.”

“Oh.” She bites down on her bottom lip. “It’s not broken, exactly. I locked myself out and tried to pick it with a bobby pin. Technically it’s the bobby pin that broke. Not the lock.”

She rests a hand on each hip and looks down at me. The problem with this is that it pushes her chest out and even in this light I can tell that I should turn up the thermostat. Hazel is definitely not wearing a bra.

“I thought you were a murderer.” She points to her dog, who is half lying on me, licking my face. “Winnie started growling and then I heard someone banging around the side of the house. You’re lucky I didn’t smash your brains all over your Clean Room–level kitchen floor.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe if I keep them closed long enough I’ll open them again and realize none of today even happened. No luck. “Right now it looks like a family of raccoons has been living here.”

Hazel has the decency to look at least a little guilty before she waves me off, walking to the refrigerator to open the freezer drawer. I shift my eyes away just before she bends over.

“I was going to clean it up,” she says, bag of frozen peas in hand. “Why are you home?” She kneels down, handing them to me. “Things didn’t go well?”

“An understatement.” I sit up and place the ice-cold peas against my forehead, where I can tell there’s already a lump. In some ways, this is a fitting end to the trip from hell. Day one, Tabby admitted she’s been sleeping with someone else. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the beach, staring out at the ocean and not feeling surprised, exactly, but working to give genuine thought to her insistence that we could work it out. But on day two, she admitted they started sleeping together before she moved to L.A., that she moved to be closer to him, and that he’d helped her get a job. The cherry on top was when she told me she hoped she could keep seeing us both.

Day two also happens to have been today.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s all starting to sink in that Tabitha and I are over. I stare straight ahead, eyes locked on that single freckle on Hazel’s shoulder. What does it mean that I’m more interested in asking when she first noticed that freckle than explaining what happened with Tabby? Is it shock? Exhaustion? Hunger? I drag my eyes back to her face.

“I’m okay.” I look down at my socks. They’re gray with tiny pineapples and cups of Dole Whip on them—a gift from Tabby on one of my first visits down there after the move. She’d taken me to Disneyland and I remember standing in line thinking, I’m going to marry this woman one day. What an idiot.

Two years we were together—with her in L.A. for half of it—and all I feel now is duped and pathetic.

Hazel sits down next to me on the dark floor. “I take it you ended things?”

“Yeah.” I adjust the peas and look over at her. “Turns out, she is a treasonous skank.”

Hazel makes a grumpy face.

“And has been since before she moved.”

To this, Hazel adds a feral growl. “Wait.

Seriously?” “Seriously. She’s been sleeping with him since before she left. She moved to be closer to him.”

“What a dick.”

“You know,” I say, “the worst thing isn’t even that I’m going to miss her. It’s how stupid I feel. How blindsided. This other guy knew all about me, but I had no idea.” I look at her, and—because I know she’ll understand why this kills me—tell her, “His name is Darby.”

“She’s been having sex with a dude named Darby?”

Anger twists hotly inside me. “Exactly.”

She lets out a bursting cackle. “Tabby and Darby. That’s too dumb, even for Disney.”

A single sharp laugh escapes. “But why wouldn’t she tell me about him? Why drag me on?”

“She probably wanted to keep you because you’re the blueprint for Perfect.” A pause. “You know, except for the Aliens thing.”

Her hair is a disaster on top of her head. Her eyes are puffy from exhaustion. But still, she’s smiling at me like I’ve been gone for months. Does Hazel Bradford ever stop smiling?

“You’re trying to make me feel better,” I accuse.

“Of course I am. You’re not the asshole here.”

“That’s right, you are, because you broke my face.”

“Your face is fine.” She pushes up to stand and holds out a hand. I let her help me up, and she pats my chest. “But how’s your heart?”

“It’ll recover.”

She nods, and leans down to pet a sleepy Winnie. “Don’t ever sneak into a house when a woman is there alone, or you’ll risk getting an umbrella to the face.”

“It’s my house, dumb-ass.”

“A text letting me know you were coming back would have saved your face, dumb-ass.” She turns to head toward the guest room. “Get some sleep. We’re going miniature golfing with my mom tomorrow.”

..........

I’m so tired and sleep so soundly that I forget her last words until I wake up and shuffle into the kitchen to find Hazel in shorts, knee-high argyle socks, a polo shirt, and a beret. I know her well enough now to realize this must be her Goin’ Golfin’ costume. She’s also wearing my apron and standing at the sink as a cloud of black smoke balloons around her.

“I’m not used to your stove,” she says by way of explanation, trying to angle her body to hide whatever is happening in front of her.

“It’s just gas.” I bend to retrieve a towel and use it to wrap around the handle of the still-smoking cast-iron pan. The aroma of burnt bacon quickly saturates my T-shirt. Walking the pan to the back door, I set it on the painted concrete porch outside to cool.

“I have gas at home but it doesn’t do that.”

“Doesn’t do what?” I say over my shoulder. “Make fire?”

“It doesn’t make it so hot!”

Closing the door behind me, I toss the towel to the counter and survey the damage. I think she’s been making pancakes. Or at least that’s what the beige liquid running down the front of the lower cabinets indicates. There’s a torn bag of flour and what has to be the contents of my entire pantry scattered across the countertop. There are dishes everywhere. I take a deep, calming breath before continuing.

“It’s a professional-grade range.” I pick up the garbage can to swipe a handful of broken eggshells inside. “It has higher BTUs, so it gets hotter faster and can generate a larger flame.”

She puts on an affected British accent. “Riveting, young sir.”

Winnie sits obediently just outside the kitchen and watches with what I swear is a look that can only mean Do you see what I put up with?

Yeah, Winnie. I do.

“Hazel, what are you doing?”

She holds up both hands. In one there’s a Mickey Mouse spatula she must have brought from her place; the other palm is stained purple. I don’t even want to know. “I’m making breakfast before we go golfing.”

“We could have just gone out for breakfast.” By the looks of things, we’ll have to do that anyway.

“I mean, obviously the bacon is a bit … ashier than I normally like,” she says, “but we still have pancakes.” At the stove, she plates up two of the saddest flapjacks I’ve ever seen. Turning back to me, she holds the plate proudly. “How many do you want?”

I’m surprised by the wave of fondness that angles through my chest. Hazel nearly created a fire in my kitchen, I have a bruise on my forehead from her umbrella—and a lock to fix—but I’d still rather choke down a plateful than hurt her feelings while she’s wearing argyle and a beret. “Just the two.”

“Good,” she says brightly, setting the plate on the counter and depositing a bottle of syrup next to it. Ready to start another batch, she reaches for a pitcher of batter and pours it into what I can tell from here is a too-hot pan. “I talked to your sister this morning.”

I look up from where I’m delicately scraping off some of the burnt bits. “Already?” I glance to the clock on the stove. “It’s barely eight.”

“I know, but I texted her last night when I thought someone was breaking in. I had to update her that I wasn’t being murdered in bed, which led to me having to tell her you’re home.”

Great. If there’s anyone who’s going to gloat over this, it’s Emily. She might even throw a party. I return to my pancakes. “What did she say?”

“I didn’t give her any other details. She wants you to call when you’re up.”

“I’m sure she does,” I say, barely loud enough for her to hear, but she does.

“You know, you don’t have to tell her everything. Saying you ended things is plenty.”

“How do you think that’ll work?” I look up as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the long line of her neck. “You’d be able to keep from spilling that Tabby was cheating for over a year?”

Hazel looks at me quizzically. “It’s not my story to tell.”

The idea of not having to share the specifics makes relief rush through me, cool and limber. Emily would never run out of I told you sos.

I look down to see a mournful Winnie staring up at me, her brown eyes pleading for me to drop something. I tear off a chunk of pancake and carefully feed it to the dog.

“Don’t spoil her,” Hazel tells me over her shoulder.

“Hazel. The dog you don’t want me to spoil is wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt.”

I hear the click of the burner being turned off, and then she’s there in front of me, leaning on the other end of the counter. “Your point?”

“I don’t have one.” I feed the dog another bite of pancake. “But do I really have to go miniature golfing?”

She tears off a bite of too-hot pancake and eats it. “You don’t have to. Mom and I were going to go, and I didn’t think you’d want to be alone.”

As soon as she says it, I know she’s right. But I should also check in at home. It’s been a couple of weeks since I spent any time with my family. “I was going to head to my parents’ place later.”

She shrugs. “Up to you. If you want to come with us, I can go to your parents’ with you after. I haven’t met them yet.”

“You don’t have to babysit me, Hazel.”

She pushes away from the counter and gives me a guilty smile. “Okay. Sorry. I’m being too Hazel-y.”

I watch her wash the dishes and manage to clean up the kitchen quite capably while I pick at my breakfast. She isn’t pouting, and it doesn’t seem like I’ve hurt her feelings—she honestly just seems to have heard something in my tone that I didn’t intend. “What does that mean,” I ask, “ ‘being too Hazel-y’?”

Turning with a dish towel in her hand, she shrugs. “I tend to be too chatty, too silly, too exuberant, too random, too eager.” She spreads her hands. “Too Hazel-y.”

She is all of these things, but it’s actually why I like her. She’s entirely her own person. I reach for her wrist when she moves to leave the kitchen. “Where are we going mini-golfing?”

..........

Hazel looks nothing like her mother, but genetics work in wild, mysterious ways, because I would never doubt for a second that she came from this woman, Aileen Pike-not-Bradford, as she’s introduced to me. She’s wearing a flowing skirt decorated with embroidered peacocks and a bright blue tank top, and not only does she have rings on every finger, her earrings brush the tops of her shoulders. She and Hazel dress nothing alike but they both silently scream Eccentric Woman.

Aileen hugs me upon greeting, agrees with Hazel that I’m adorable but not her daughter’s type, and then apologizes for Hazel’s painkiller email all those years ago. “I knew I should have typed it for her.”

“I still have it printed out.” I grin at Hazel’s complete lack of self-consciousness. “I may actually frame it for the duration of Hazel’s visit in my house.”

“A constant reminder of my charm?”

I take the golf club and a bright pink ball from the guy behind the counter. “Yeah.”

“Speaking of your home,” Aileen begins, “is my daughter trashing it?”

“Mildly.”

Hazel tosses her blue golf ball from hand to hand like she’s juggling it. A single golf ball. “I knocked him out with an umbrella last night.”

At her daughter’s proud tone, Aileen slides knowing eyes to me. “Be glad it wasn’t a frying pan, I guess?”

Given that the umbrella gave me a bruise the size of a baby fist on my forehead, I can’t really disagree. “She’s got quite a swing.”

We make our way to the windmill at the start of the course, and out of courtesy for our elder, let Aileen go first. She easily makes a hole in one: through the sweeping windmill, up and over a tiny hill, and down into the hole in the back corner.

It takes me ten shots to make it—so long that Hazel and Aileen are sitting on the bench by the little creek, waiting for me when I approach. Hazel has a handful of pebbles from the path and is trying to get one into the guppy statue’s waiting mouth.

“Are you a mini-golf shark?” I ask.

“If only it got me something useful.” Aileen laughs, and again, I’m reminded of Hazel. She has the same husky belly laugh that seems to come out of her as naturally as an exhale. These two women: laugh factories.

“Mom used to bring me here every Saturday,” Hazel explains, “while Dad watched college football.”

They exchange a knowing look, which morphs into a smile, and then Aileen asks her daughter for an update on the apartment. It’s a few weeks away from being move-in ready. I listen to them speak and marvel over how they seem to communicate in half sentences, finishing thoughts with a nod, an expression, a dramatic hand gesture. They seem more like sisters than mother and daughter, and when Hazel gives her mom crap about her boyfriend, I look over in shock, expecting Aileen to be scandalized, but instead she just grins and ignores Hazel’s needling.

Hazel and Aileen have the same wackiness with an undercurrent of unshakable confidence; people look at them as they pass, as if there is something ultimately magnetic about the two of them obliviously dancing their way through the course. I follow behind, registering how quickly I’ve become the straight man to Hazel’s clowning.

I end up being glad we didn’t put any money on this outing; Aileen cleans the floor with us. To make up for our bruised egos, she buys us coffee and cookies, and I’m treated to several amazing Hazel stories, such as the time Hazel dyed her leg hair blue, the time Hazel decided she wanted to play drums and entered the high school talent show after only two weeks of lessons, and the time Hazel brought home a stray dog that turned out to be a coyote.

By the time we get back to my car, I realize I haven’t really thought about Tabby for more than an hour, but as soon as the awareness hits, the sour twist works its way back into my gut and I close my eyes, tilting my face to the sky.

That’s right. My girlfriend was sleeping with another dude for most of our relationship.

“Oof,” Hazel says, looking over at me across the top of my car. “You just left the happy bubble.”

“Just remembered I’m an idiot.”

“So here’s the thing.” She follows after me, climbing into the car. “I know this Tabby thing sucks, but everyone feels stupid in relationships at least some of the time, and you have a better excuse than anyone. Me, I work to not feel stupid most of the time. I don’t always understand the best way to interact with other humans.”

I grin over at her. “No.”

She ignores this. “I tend to get too excited, I realize that, and I say all the wrong things. I have zero chill. So yeah, guys have made me feel stupid about a trillion times.”

“Seriously?”

She laughs. “This can’t surprise you. I’m a maniac.”

“Yeah, but a benevolent one.” I turn the key in the ignition, and we both wave as Aileen pulls out of her spot, a bumper sticker that reads NEIL DEGRASSE TYSON FOR PRESIDENT clinging proudly to the back of her battered Subaru.

“I realize that finding the perfect person isn’t going to be easy for me because I’m a lot to take,” she says, “but I’m not going to change just so that I’m more datable.”

Shifting the car into drive, I chance a glance over at her. “You’re awfully hung up on your position on the datable scale.”

“I’ve learned to be,” she says, and then pauses for a moment. “Do you know how many guys like to date the cute wild girl for a few weeks before expecting me to chill a little and become more Regular Girlfriend?”

I shrug. I can sort of imagine what she’s saying.

“But at the end of the day,” she says, and puts her hand outside the open window, letting the wind pass through her fingers, “being myself is enough. I’m enough.”

She’s not saying it to convince me, or even herself; she’s already there. I watch her pick up my phone and choose some music for the drive to my parents’ place and wonder whether that’s part of my problem: I used to think I was so together, but now the only thing I feel is a hollow sense of not enough.