And I get the sense that she’s relishing it, too. She touches me like she’s memorizing my shape, with fingertips and palms, thumbs tracing the lines of my back. Her hands slide down to my ass, back up to my shoulders, my neck, and into my hair. When I push up onto my hands to see what I’m feeling, her hands make a circuit of my front: my shoulders, collarbones, chest, stomach, and down to where I’m moving in and out of her.
Her fingers come away wet and before I can think about it I pull them up and into my mouth before bending to kiss her. It’s such a rare filthy thought but I want her to feel what we’re doing with every one of her senses. If she wants to memorize it, I want to tattoo it into her thoughts.
Look at this, I think. We’re making something right now.
God, there’s a different awareness this time that makes me feel both more relaxed and more inhibited. For one, we’ve done this already, so there’s the familiarity of her body under mine and knowing—even barely—what she likes. But I’m sober, and so every movement is intentional, every touch is conscious.
I also realize, when I hear her sounds and feel the hungry wandering of her hands, that for me at least, this isn’t just infatuation or a flash of desire, it’s deeper. I think this is love, I think she’s it for me, but I can’t quite reach that emotional place with her noises pressed right into my ear; I know I’ll be hearing them for days.
“Josh.”
“Yeah?”
She goes quiet, almost like she’s suddenly shy.
My mouth presses to her jaw, my hand finds her breast as I narrow my movements to the tiniest circles. “Tell me.”
Instead of answering, she cups my face and brings my mouth over to hers. Her kiss is so searching, so desperate that I have to wonder whether she’s asking me something with the touch.
Is this real?
“I feel it, too,” I tell her. Whatever this is. “I’m right there with you.”
Hazel slides her tongue over mine, spreading her legs wide and pulling me deeper, until she’s crying out into my mouth, telling me
Yes
I’m coming
I feel every bit of air leave me as I follow her down the spiral—a relieved gust drains me. The pleasure is unreal: metal and liquid and light, pulling a long groan from my throat that comes out strangled.
Her hands grip my backside, holding me deep as I shake.
Other than our gasping breaths, quiet surrounds us.
“Did you come again?” I whisper. I need to know she did. If the answer is no, I’m not done here.
She nods, her forehead damp against the side of my face. “Did you?”
I cough out an incredulous sound, and she giggles, but when I begin to pull back, she grips me with her arms around my shoulder and her legs around my thighs, keeping me inside her.
“Don’t.” She presses her mouth to my neck. “I’m not ready for this to be over yet.”
I know exactly what she means.
··········
Hazel is already up when I wake, naked in her bed. I hear dishes clattering in the kitchen, and a flash of relief ripples through me that she hasn’t taken off on a run, needing to process this somewhere else.
I cup my forehead and try to figure out what to do. I love Hazel; with the clarity of the morning sun beaming in the window, I know I do. But in the long run, am I what she needs? I don’t want to root her down if she’s not ready, and if she wants someone boisterous and gregarious like Tyler, who am I to say she shouldn’t have that?
I wonder, too, where her head is after what we did last night. Hazel has done this before—casual sex, hookups. But I remember the moments last night when it felt nearly desperate between us, like she didn’t want to let me go. I know that could also be the weight of our friendship, and her fear of losing it. It could have been a comfort screw and nothing more.
I have no idea what to think.
It’s calculated, but I pull on my boxers and jeans, leaving my shirt off. I figure, if she makes some crack about my body, or comes over to touch me—that’s good, right? If she wants to figure out what’s going on between us, I’m totally down for that.
In the kitchen, she’s pulling spoons out of a drawer and glances up when I come in. She’s wearing her favorite dalmatian pajamas—tiny shorts and an even tinier tank, which makes them my favorite, too.
Her chest and neck flush when she sees me, but I notice that her eyes stay firmly on my face. “Hey.”
I rub a casual hand over my stomach. “Hey.”
She quickly turns back to the silverware drawer, closing it with her hip.
“What are you making?” I ask.
Pointing to a box of Shredded Wheat on the counter, she says, “Just cereal. I figured you’d want some, too.” Then she lifts her chin to the coffeepot.
“No blue pancakes? No banana waffles?”
Hazel laughs down at the counter. “I’d probably burn them.”
I pause on my way to grab a mug. “When did that ever stop you before?”
I’m treated to a flash of a real smile before she tucks it away and turns to pull the milk from the fridge.
And seriously, what the hell? Where is my Crazy Hazie?
A sinking feeling spreads from my stomach up through my chest. Did last night break something good between us?
“Haze.”
She looks up at me as she pours some cereal into her bowl. “Yeah?”
“You okay?”
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her blush before. “Yeah, why?”
“You’re being . . . normal.”
She doesn’t seem to get it.
I put my mug down and hold out my hand, curling my fingers. “Come here.”
She comes over to me across the kitchen. Her hair is a wild mess, tumbling down her back. The words are so close to the surface: I know this is confusing, but can we try to figure it out?
But she isn’t looking at me, and I can’t tell if the tightness in her eyes is fear or a need to put some distance between us. Am I missing something?
Unfortunately, she’s going to have to do that with words, not expressions and mumbled phrases. I put my hands on her hips and it’s an invitation to touch me. Instead she curls her hands into fists and tucks them against her chest.
“Is this about Tyler?”
She blinks with incomprehension and then shakes her head.
“Then did last night freak you out?” I ask.
She hesitates, but then shakes her head again. But she was pretty emotional last night, and it’s hard for me to know how to read that: if the most insecure part of me is right, and she wants to give this thing with Tyler a shot, I have to let her.
Right?
“Okay, so what is it? Why aren’t you wearing a chicken costume and frying me homemade doughnuts in the sink?”
“I guess it’s a little about last night.” She gnaws on her lower lip before admitting, “I . . . worry about what would happen . . .” She screws her mouth to the side, plucking words carefully, but lets the last bit out in a rush: “If we were to pretend we’re compatible.”
Ummmm. It felt pretty compatible. I squeeze her hips gently. “I don’t think we’re pretending anything. We’ve slept together twice, and that’s okay, right? It doesn’t have to mean anything we don’t want it to mean. You’re okay?”
“I am. Are you?”
I laugh a little. “Of course I am. You’re my best friend, Haze.”
Her eyes meet mine and they’re wide with surprise.
“What?” I ask.
“You’ve never said that before.”
“Yes, I have.”
“No, you haven’t.”
I start to think back but it’s honestly immaterial. “Well, it’s true. I’m okay. You’re okay. Most importantly, we’re okay?”
She nods, and finally meets my eyes.
“Now come on. Make me some bad pancakes.”
She slumps with a dopey grin, shuffling back toward the stove. “I mean, if
you insist.”
Something unwinds in me at the same time something else tightens. On the one hand, Hazel is back. On the other hand, I feel like we just agreed to maintain the status quo, when I think I want us to evolve.
We made love last night. She has to know that.
She pulls out a mixing bowl. “Did you have fun last night?”
I stare at her. “Um. I thought we already established that, yes, I had fun.”
Laughing, she amends, “I mean before we got back here.”
“Oh. I guess—Sasha is nice. Tyler seemed okay. Mostly I was worried about you.” I study her for a reaction to this. She does a quick scrunch of her nose as if stifling a sneeze. “Feeling better about it this morning?”
She’s only just gotten the flour out and already she has a streak of white on her cheek. “Yeah. I don’t really know why it hit me so hard. It’s good to see him. He seems like he’s in a good place.” Hazel nods a few times, as if she’s convincing herself.
“I thought you told me you were only together for six months. He said two and a half years.”
“He strung me along for two of those years. We weren’t really together; he was just nailing me on the side.” She meets my eyes and crosses hers goofily. “Yeah, I know. I’m an idiot.”
“Guys are idiots when they’re that age. I’m sure he said all the right things to make you think he was coming back every time. He’s several years older now. He seemed pretty remorseful.”
She makes a weird little grimace and then looks away. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am: Why the hell am I defending him?
Hazel moves to the fridge for eggs. Her phone vibrates on the counter.
“Who is it?” she asks over her shoulder.
I look down and my stomach drops.
When I don’t answer, she leans over to catch my eyes. “Josh. What’s wrong?”
“Oh. Nothing.” I show her the screen. “But Tyler texted you.”
“Seriously?” She shuts the fridge door. “Already? What’d he say?” Is that anticipation in her voice?
I don’t want to read it. Literally the last thing in the world I want to read is this text.
But that might be a lie, because I also really, really want to read this text.
“You honestly want me to read this aloud?”
“Yeah, come on, we have no secrets.”
With a heavy sigh, I unlock her phone with the thumbprint she had me program months ago, and read the text.
“ ‘Hey, Hazel. I’ve had more time to process the shock of last night.’ ” I pause, looking up at her. “You sure?”
She cracks an egg into the bowl and nods.
“ ‘You looked beautiful. I’ve never used the word radiant, but it kept looping through my head every time you smiled at me.’ ” I rub my finger below my lower lip. He’s right; she did. She looks even more radiant now—I like to think I did that. “ ‘You’re different, but still the same untamed wild thing I loved. It nearly hurt to see you because I know I fucked up.’ ”
Damn it.
“I really think you should read this yourself,” I say.
She looks at me, pleading.
I lift my coffee, washing down the fire that bubbles up from my stomach. “ ‘I said it last night, and I’ll say it again today: I walked away from something good, and I would do anything to undo it. Will you give me one more chance?’ ”
I put her phone down and run a hand down my face. “That’s it.”
It’s a few seconds before she speaks, and in that time I watch her whip the eggs into a frothy peak.
“That wasn’t bad, was it?” she asks.
I want to punch the wall. “What are you gonna say?”
She drops the whisk and drags the back of her hand—and another smear of flour—across her forehead. “Josh. He’s my ex—the Ex—and he’s back, trying to fix things. You’re here. You’re shirtless. We had sex again last night, and was it good? Yes, hell yes. But am I right for you? Are we anything? Or are we just friends who bang? What would you say, if you were me? Tell me what to do.”
I let out a long, controlled breath.
If she felt what I felt, it wouldn’t be a question. If Hazel is at all torn about the question of Josh versus Tyler, then it’s pretty clear she needs to figure it out before she and I can move forward—if she even wants to. The kitchen clock ticks while we maintain eye contact, and I calculate the odds of this going to complete shit.
She’s my best friend, I’m hers.
We’ve had sex twice.
Amazing sex.
I might be in love with her.
“Josh.”
She may, or may not, be in love with me.
Either way, she’s not settled yet.
“Josh.” Her voice is so thin, it’s like blown glass.
I rap my knuckles on her countertop. “If this is where your head is, then I think it’s worth giving Tyler another chance.”
EIGHTEEN
* * *
HAZEL
I realize it’s melodramatic, but when Josh leaves that morning, I stare at the closed door for a full fifteen minutes.
I used to wonder what it felt like to stand in the middle of a cyclone, a tornado, at the epicenter of an earthquake. Once or twice, when Tyler had bruised my feelings without any awareness of it, I would think, These emotions are tiny. Imagine standing right there when the entire Earth rumbles. I wonder whether what’s happening inside me is simply a smaller version of a tropical storm: everything is being blown around and upended.
Being near Josh feels like landing after a yearlong flight—arms flapping, energy depleted. The feelings I have for him have become so enormous, they’re nearly debilitating. They terrify me, and make it clear that whatever I felt for Tyler six years ago was like a drop in a bucket; last night with Josh was a tidal wave.
But I honestly don’t know if I want a tidal wave. Mom says she wishes she had one; I’m not so sure we’re tidal wave kind of women.
Tyler wants another chance, and Josh thinks I should give it to him. That seems to be what everyone else would do—what normal people would do. My gut isn’t totally on board, but without any experience in this degree of emotional combustion, my internal barometer feels unbalanced. I just don’t know what the right answer is.
So I straighten my shoulders, kiss Winnie for good luck, pray to Daniel Craig for wisdom, and reply to Tyler’s text.
I think we have a lot to talk about. Come over for dinner on Friday.
··········
Tyler shows up at my doorstep holding a piece of paper and two bottles of red wine. It would be easier for all involved if we went out to dinner, but if he really wants to redeem himself, he can eat my cooking and endure the car wreck that takes place while I do it. If that doesn’t test a person’s constitution, nothing will.
As soon as he steps into my apartment, he seems to crowd everything out of the space, looking around, nodding as if it’s what he expected before turning to me with a smile and the offered gifts.
I stare at the bottles of wine he’s put in my hands, admittedly confused. “Is this all for me?”
“We can share it.”
Pausing, I’m not sure if my question qualifies as Horrible Things That Slip Out of Hazel’s Mouth, but I go for it. “So, you’re not in recovery?”
With an easy laugh, he nods. “I don’t drink in bars anymore. I just drink at home. It’s cool.”
“. . . Oh.”
“Nice place, wow.” Tyler nods, impressed, and I have to follow his attention around the space to figure out what he’s seeing. Although I cleaned, my apartment just isn’t that much to look at, not really.
But he is being nice. There’s something to be said for that, after all.
A tiny voice reminds me that Josh didn’t bother to blow smoke up my butt and tell me what a lovely place I had. He never lies, or fakes enthusiasm. He just accepts me.
Why am I comparing Tyler to Josh
Im right now?
Probably the same reason I’ve been thinking about Josh Im for the past week.
Winnie comes up, gives Tyler a cursory sniff, and proceeds to look at me like I’m a trollop and a traitor. Unimpressed, she returns to where she was curled up by the window. Vodka squawks once and then tucks his head under a wing. The fish doesn’t even spare him a glance. The only thing I get from my animal family is a resounding meh, and although Tyler looks awesome in black jeans, his Chucks, and a tight black T-shirt, I can’t help but think my animals are comparing him to Josh Im, too.
With a deep breath, I push all that aside. I’ve decided I’ll give him another chance, and comparing him to the blueprint for Perfect isn’t any way to do that.
So, here we are.
I’ve attempted lasagna for our dinner, but when Tyler follows me into the kitchen to open the wine, I see the room through his eyes: it looks like a massacre happened in here.
“Wow. What’re we having?”
“Road kill?” I say, grinning.
He laughs, and surprises me by bending to kiss my forehead. “Should I get you some wine?”
My stomach does a weird tilt. I don’t feel like drinking with Tyler; I don’t want to get loose and comfortable and fall back into old patterns. But I don’t want to be rude, either. “Sure.”
The cork squeaks in the bottle as he opens it. “The entire way over,” he says, “I was remembering that time we went to see The Crying Game at the old dollar theater and you got into a shoving match with the dude behind us who used the word faggot.”
It takes me a few seconds to remember this one, but then it comes back with startling clarity. The redneck who ruined the end for those of us who hadn’t seen it years earlier.
“Oh. Yeah, he was lame.”
“God, those were good old days.”
I nod, disagreeing internally as I watch him pour two enormous glasses of Shiraz. He hands me the hulking dose and raises his glass in a toast. “To old loves and new beginnings.”