“Hazel was dancing,” Tyler says, leaning into the word like he knows Josh will Get It.
Josh, however, does not Get It. “And?”
“And . . . come on.” He looks to Sasha now, but she is similarly unswayed.
She piles her eighty feet of hair on her head and rests her hands there. “You were dancing in the pit like fifteen minutes ago.”
“But it’s the pit,” Tyler reasons, losing steam.
“Fuck off, Tyler,” I say, and then I notice it: the baseball hat on Josh’s head. The sight of it temporarily wipes clear my irritation. It’s a bright orange-yellow—I mean, a nearly blinding color—with giant black block letters across the entire front: CHEESY.
And I don’t know why, but it just makes me burst out laughing.
“Where did you get this?”
Josh breaks his stern attention from Tyler to pull the hat off his head and put it on mine. “I saw it and I thought it would make you laugh.” Josh’s eyes soften, and he gives me such an adoring smile, it’s nearly painful. “You look ridiculous in that. I hope you wear it all day.”
··········
“So, back up. Josh gave you a hat and that’s when you decided you’re in love with him?”
I drop an avocado into my shopping basket and growl at Emily. It’s a school holiday and I seem to be fighting some kind of stomach bug, so I talked her into joining me for a little morning grocery shopping. Maybe a little too early, judging by her expression. “Are you paying attention?”
“I think so, but my brain is also still spiraling from the first words out of your mouth a half hour ago.”
She has a fair point. The first thing I said when she climbed into Giuseppe the Saturn was “I’m in love with your brother, and I need you to tell me whether I’ve got a chance.”
Emily went silent for about ten openmouthed seconds before demanding that I start at the beginning.
But what is the beginning?
Is the beginning when I first saw Josh at a party ten years ago and there was something about him that just . . . sang to me? Or is the beginning when he came over and we made clay and we discovered that Tabby was cheating on him?
Or is the beginning the drunken night on my floor, or the sober, sleepy, tender night in my bed?
It’s only been six months since we started hanging out, but already it feels like he’s this redwood in the forest of my life, and so starting at the beginning is bewildering.
I started with the night he brought Tyler to Tasty n Sons. She knew a lot of this already—how thrown I’d been, how conflicted. Of course, now I know I was conflicted because I’m in motherfucking love with Josh Im, but at the time it seemed so much more convoluted. And I detailed everything—from my sobfest, to Josh appearing out of thin air, to the night sex, and the morning after, when it felt like my head was filled with cotton balls and Josh told me to give Tyler another chance.
I growl again. “Tyler had just told me how embarrassing I was being, and then Josh walked up with this stupid hat”—I point to it, still perched on my head—“and told me I looked ridiculous and to never take it off. Don’t you get it?”
Emily stops near a display of bananas. “Yeah. I get it.”
“And? Is Josh going to crush my heart like a grape beneath a boot?”
“You mean,” she says carefully, “is Josh in love with you, too?”
I nod. My heart is climbing up from my chest into my throat. I don’t think I could get another word out with the question put so plainly in the space between us.
“I know Josh has feelings.” She shifts her basket to her other arm. “I know he was trying to figure out what they meant, and where you were with it.” Emily winces. “I don’t want to give you false hope and tell you that I think he feels the same, because he’s been really careful to not be too . . . descriptive of his feelings when he talks to me.”
I groan.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Because I’m a coward?” I say, which I thought was pretty well established already. When she doesn’t bite I try again. “Because asking might ruin this.”
“Hazie, you know I hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t think things are ever going to be the way they were before anyway. You guys have already had sex. Twice Most friends don’t have sex, period.” Frowning, she turns and starts walking again. “Which reminds me, I need to grab some tampons.”
The color of the produce in a bin across the aisle goes all wavy at the edges, and the crack near my feet doesn’t register until Emily is there, bending to put things back in my basket, looking up at me from where she’s kneeling. “Hazel.”
“Oh my God.” My heart is a fist, punching punching punching, and a lurching, upside down feeling takes hold of my stomach.
She stands, holding my basket, and I can’t focus on her face because my heart is pounding in my eyeballs.
“Are you okay?”
“No.” I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to clear the film of panic from the surface. Opening them, I meet Emily’s gaze. “I haven’t had a period in like . . . two months.”
TWENTY-ONE
* * *
JOSH
Emily and Dave are gone when I drop by with a giant container of kimchi and a twenty-pound bag of rice from Umma. If Hazel thinks I’m a neat freak, I’ve got nothing on my sister. The immaculate house looks like something out of a magazine spread—decorated simply with a collection of midcentury vintage furniture I know Emily has spent the last ten years carefully cultivating, fresh flowers in vases, and original art and funky light sconces decorating the walls.
But the pristine shine to the counters in the kitchen makes it very easy to spot the note she’s left for me.
J—
I’m out. Dave should be home soon. If Umma gave you rice, don’t leave it. I don’t need any.
E.
I smirk, stowing the rice in the pantry anyway, beside four other bags the same size. My rice situation is equally absurd—no way am I taking this back home. When I open the fridge to find room for the kimchi, I have to take out the container of leftover carne asada from Friday night.
A plate of leftovers and a beer later, they’re still not home.
Emily is often on my case for not having enough guy friends . . . is this what she means? That I’m sitting at my sister’s house, eating leftovers from her fridge and frowning at my watch when they stay out past six on a weeknight?
I call Hazel, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I call Emily—same. Does everyone have a life but me?
I know my restlessness is compounded because I’m sitting in my sister’s house, and there are signs of her happy marriage everywhere. Photos of her and Dave in Maui in a frame on a side table. A painting Dave did for her when they first met is mounted on a wall in the hallway. Their shoes are neatly lined up side by side on a rack just inside from the garage.
My house is clean, my furniture is nice, but the space is like an echo chamber lately. It’s so quiet. I never expected to think this, but I miss having Winnie there, watching her odd twilight mania around five every night when she sprinted through the house excitedly for ten minutes before flopping at my feet.
I miss tripping over shoes every time I walk in the door.
I miss Hazel. I’d buy a lifetime supply of fire extinguishers and eat bad pancakes every day to have her around again.
It could be different than it was before. We’re different now. She’s not just a new friend, she’s my best friend. The woman I love. We could have lingering talks over coffee or on a shared pillow, long into the night. She could bring her entire farm of animals, and I would be fine, I think. We could make a home of it.
The thought gives me such an intense pain in my chest that I stand, moving to the sink to wash my dish, and then pace circles around the house. Impulsively, I pull my phone out of my pocket, texting Dave.
Up for a beer?
Bailey’s taproom in 20?
I send him
a thumbs-up and duck into the bathroom before I leave. On the wall, Emily has a framed painting of Umma and Appa’s hometown. Lush woods, a small creek beside a house. I wonder how Umma feels about this being stuck in the bathroom.
But when I glance down to flush, my eyes are drawn to the left, to the trash can just beside the sink. Inside it is a messy pile of white plastic sticks.
I think I know what these are.
And I think I know what the blue plus on every single one of them means.
··········
It’s not your place to say anything.
It’s not your place to say anything.
I repeat the mantra my entire drive to Bailey’s.
Dave might not know yet that his wife is pregnant. And if he does, and he doesn’t mention it, then it’s certainly not my place to bring it up.
Oh my God, my sister is pregnant. She’s going to be a mom—I’m going to be someone’s uncle. I’m almost breathless with how happy it makes me. But there’s also something else: a sinking lead ball in my gut. I loathe admitting it, but it’s jealousy.
Emily was the first to get married. As the older brother, I took it in stride, reminding myself that we aren’t bound to tradition in the same way. My entire family welcomed Dave; the wedding was a blast.
But now she’s pregnant, and I’m . . . what? In love with a woman who doesn’t know what she wants? Who thinks she’s not right for me? I’m not even settled, let alone on my way to starting a family. And my parents aren’t getting any younger. I’m flexible about a number of traditions, but I’m unwilling to shrug off the responsibility that parents move in with the eldest son when they’re older. Umma wouldn’t say anything, but I know it wouldn’t be her choice to have me still a bachelor when that happens.
I park outside and lean forward, pressing my forehead to the steering wheel. I’d wanted to meet Dave for a beer to unwind and hang. Now it’s loaded with this—and we can’t even talk about it.
He’s already inside and at the bar with a beer in front of him, looking up at the television mounted on the wall. SportsCenter is recapping the biggest Oregon football rivalry from Saturday—the U of O Ducks versus the OSU Beavers, and I know without having to look that the Ducks won handily.
“Hey.” Dave puts his beer down and claps me on the shoulder when I sit.
“You got here fast.”
“The traffic gods were on my side,” he says, “and I was intensely motivated by the prospect of beer.”
“Bad day?”
“Teachers are out today so I was meeting with a parent.” He takes a drink. “It’s the job, and I seriously love hanging with the kids all day. It’s the rest I could do without. I think your sister went shopping or something.”
I nod, and try not to do that thing Em accuses me of where I smile when I’m hiding something. It doesn’t help that I feel oddly jittery. Not only am I stressing over the whole being-in-love-with-Hazel situation, I’m still shocked by the sight of all those pregnancy tests. Isn’t one sufficient? There had to be at least five in there.
I still can’t believe it. I take a second to imagine it all: Emily pregnant, the baby, and who it might resemble. Umma and Appa happily losing their minds as grandparents.
“You seem pensive,” Dave says.
I nod, and take a few wasabi peanuts from a bowl between us. “Just digesting the food I ate at your place.”
He laughs. “Is work okay?”
I thank the bartender when she deposits my beer in front of me. “Yeah, actually, work is great.” And it is. We’re talking about hiring another physical therapist to handle the workload. It would bring in more revenue and allow me to take a bit more time off from the practice. I love my job, but I frequently work ten- or eleven-hour days just to make sure I see everyone, and if Hazel and I . . .
I stop the thought before I can take it too far.
“I’m actually wondering whether I need to get a bigger place soon. I was home earlier, and Umma just looks so tiny.”
“She does seem to be shrinking.” Dave grins when he says this. “But,” he says, and then frowns a little, “and I know this bucks tradition, so please ignore me if this comes off as insulting, but you know Em and I would be happy to have them come live with us.”
The idea of it makes my heart drop. “Oh, that’s okay.”
“I mean,” he continues, “we probably aren’t even going to have kids, and we have all that space. It seems sort of a waste.”
I lift my beer, drinking about half of it in a few long swallows.
So Dave doesn’t know that Em is pregnant. And he’s not expecting a baby, maybe ever. A protective fire rises in my chest. Is that where Emily is? He thinks she’s shopping, but is she really off somewhere freaking out?
I realize I’ve been silent for an impolite amount of time. “I know what you mean, and I honestly do appreciate that offer, but it’s something I’ve been looking forward to.” I try to explain this to Dave without sounding ungrateful or dropping the baby bomb. “It’s an honor for me to take them.”
He nods and opens his mouth to speak, but I need to change the subject quickly. “I think I need to do something about Hazel.”
Beside me, Dave goes still. “Like what?”
I take a deep breath. “I’m in love with her. I don’t think she’s going to see Tyler anymore, so I wonder whether I should tell her.”
Dave slowly lifts his beer to his lips, drinks, and swallows. “I mean, yeah, maybe you should talk to her.”
This response isn’t immediately encouraging. How much does Dave know about this? Why isn’t he more shocked? Does he know more about Hazel’s feelings than I do? Does Hazel talk to Emily, who then talks to Dave about it?
“Unless you think she’s just undecided,” I say, probing for a reaction I can then dissect until I am insane. “I mean, we’ve had the opportunity to be together, and the last time I tried to approach it, she still seemed conflicted about the whole Tyler thing.”
“I don’t . . .” Dave starts, and then shakes his head.
I lean infinitesimally closer. “What?”
He seems to be picking his words carefully and I can’t decide if he really doesn’t know anything, or his eyes keep flicking up to the ceiling because he’s really into the architecture. “I don’t think she was ever conflicted about Tyler, per se.”
I search for the hidden meaning tucked into that handful of words. “I . . . don’t know what that means.”
He turns to look at me. “Hazel is a wild one.”
I’m immediately confused. “Yeah? So?”
This makes him laugh. “So, it’s who she is. She’s just . . . Hazel.” He shrugs, and his smile is genuinely adoring. “There’s no one like her.”
Where is he going with this? “I agree . . .”
“But I get the sense that . . . sometimes Hazel . . . is very aware of how different she is from other women. She’s not ever going to change, but she’s aware that she’s quirky, and a lot to take.”
I look on, confused. We’re on the same page. “No, I totally agree with you, but what does this have to do with me and Tyler?”
Dave takes another sip of his beer. “From what I can tell, Hazel has worshipped you—sort of singularly—since college.”
The fog clears, and I understand his meaning. “You mean, she’s not sure she’s right for me.”
I’ve heard her say this before, too.
“That’s sort of what I mean,” Dave says, nodding side to side. “But I also mean your opinion matters more to her than anyone’s. And so if things don’t work with Tyler, well, that’s to be expected. But if things don’t work with you—well, it’s obviously because of who she is.”
“But I love who she is,” I say simply.
I’m at the dead end of this alley. I’m in love, and there is absolutely no going back.
Dave finishes his beer and blinks down at the bar for a few beats. When he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed. “Then you should proba
bly tell her, man.”
TWENTY-TWO
* * *
HAZEL
For the past twenty-four hours, I’ve carried around the most precious piece of paper I’ve ever held. In the pocket of my jeans, it’s sure to bend in a thousand places. My purse is a Mary Poppins rabbit hole, so if I put it there, I’m likely to never see it again. In my sweaty palm, I can feel the thin photo paper turning tacky and limp from the handling, but I simply cannot put it down.
I’m obsessing about this ultrasound photo. The moment I put it on the table, or nightstand, or counter, I want to pick it back up and look one more time at the white text on the black borders:
Bradford, Hazel
November 12
9w3d
And then my eyes drop to the object of greatest interest: my tiny sweet blob, a nebulous white figure in a sea of speckled black. Nine weeks and three days and it’s already the love of my life.
I press my hand to my stomach, and my pulse lurches to a thundering stampede. The embryo in the photo looks like a gummy bear, curled into a delicate C. My little monster, I think. My sweet little monster, with a fluttering heartbeat, little buds for limbs, and who is half me, half Josh Im.
Not my preferred reaction, but nausea rolls up from my stomach. I have just enough time to set down my precious piece of paper and bolt into the bathroom before I’m losing the cracker and three sips of water I’ve had today. Guess it wasn’t a bug after all.
After brushing my teeth—and almost throwing up again—I come back to the kitchen. I’ve got a text from Josh.
Are you around tonight?
If I hadn’t just tossed my cookies—or crackers, rather—I might have tossed them now. With a trembling hand, I type out a
Yes.
I stare at the photo again, and my heart feels too full.
After getting a last-minute appointment with my doctor yesterday and doing a blood test, then an in-office ultrasound—where Emily held my clammy hand, and we both cried our faces off when the monster came into clear view—I gave myself twenty-four hours to digest the news, and swore Emily to absolute secrecy.