Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating

  “Josh Im. I also threw up on his shoes.” I decide to leave out the roommate sex for now. “So, weirdest thing: he’s Emily’s brother!”

  This seems to take a few seconds for Mom to process. “Emily your Emily?”

  “Yes!”

  “I thought Emily’s last name was Goldrich?”

  I love that it would never occur to my mother that a woman would take her husband’s name. “She’s married, Mom. That’s her married name.”

  She feeds Winnie a handful of muffin crumbs. “So, you and her brother . . . ?”

  “No. God no. I’m an established idiot with him, and he’s most likely a Normal Dude.” Our shared code for the kind of man who wouldn’t appreciate our particular brand of nuts. “Besides, he has a girlfriend. Tabitha,” I can’t help but add meaningfully, and Mom makes a yeeesh face. “He calls her Tabby.”

  Mom’s yeeesh face deepens.

  “I know, right?” I poke at my salad. “But he’s actually pretty cool? Like, you wouldn’t look at him and automatically think he’s a banker.”

  “Well, what is he?”

  “A physical therapist. He’s all muscley.” I maneuver an enormous piece of lettuce into my mouth to beat down the image of Josh Im working his strong hands over my sore thighs.

  Mom doesn’t say anything to this; she seems to be waiting for more, so I swallow with effort and venture onward into Babble County.

  “We hung out together at Emily’s barbecue last night, and it’s weird because I feel like since he’s already seen me at my most insane, and he has a girlfriend, I don’t have to try to pull up the crazy plane around him. I always wanted to be friends with him and here he is! My new friend! And he looks at me like I’m this fascinating bug. Like a beetle, not a butterfly, and it’s fine because he already has a butterfly and when you think about it, beetles are pretty great. It’s nice.” For some inexplicable reason, I repeat it again. “It’s nice.”

  “That is nice.” The way Mom studies me is making me feel like I forgot to dress myself this morning; it’s with this Does my adult daughter know her own mind? kind of maternal focus.

  I shake my head at her and she laughs, absently petting Winnie.

  “You” is all she says.

  I growl. “No, you.”

  She looks back at me with such adoration. “You, you, you.”

  FOUR

  * * *

  JOSH

  I pull in front of Hazel’s apartment complex and stare up at the flat gray buildings. From the outside, they look like perfect cubes. Structures like these make me wonder whether an architect actually took time to design this. Who would create a concrete block with bland windows and look back at the blueprint and go, “Ah. My masterpiece is complete!”

  But the tiny garden out front is pretty, full of bright flowers and neatly spaced ground cover. And there’s underground parking, which can’t be beat in a town like . . .

  Clearly, I’m stalling.

  I reach for the bag on the passenger seat and carry it with me up the walkway to the buzzer at the front door.

  Pressing the button for 6B, I hear a shriek from several floors up and step back to see Hazel leaning out the window, waving a pink scarf.

  “Josh! Up here!” she yells. “I’m so sorry, the stairs are broken so you’re going to have to scale the outer walls. I’ll throw down some ropes!”

  I stare at her until she laughs and shrugs, disappearing. A few moments later, the front door buzzes loudly.

  The elevator is small and slow, giving me a mental image of a bored teenager riding a stationary bicycle in the basement, sweatily coaxing a pulley to raise and lower tenants and guests. Down a yellow hallway I go, stopping at 6B, where the welcome mat bears three colorful tacos and reads COME BACK WITH TACOS.

  Hazel opens the door, greeting me with an enormous grin. “Welcome, Jeee-Meeeeeen!”

  “You’re a maniac.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “Speaking of gifts.” I hand her the bag of fruit. “I got you apples. Not tacos.”

  In the Korean community, it’s customary to bring fruit or a gift when visiting someone’s home, but Hazel—the teacher—inspects the bag with amusement.

  “I usually only earn one of these at a time,” she says. “I’ll have to be very impressive today.”

  “It was either apples or a bag of cherries, and apples just seemed more appropriate.”

  She guffaws at this before motioning for me to come inside. “Want a beer?”

  Given the awkwardness of this semiblind friend-date, I absolutely want a beer. “Sure.”

  I toe off my shoes near a group of hers, and Hazel looks at me like I’m stripping. “You don’t have to do that. I mean, you can if you want, but know that pile of shoes has a lot more to do with me being too lazy to pick them all up than it does with wanting to save the carpet.”

  “Family habit,” I explain.

  But one look around and . . . I believe her. Her apartment is tiny, with a small living room and galley kitchen, a tiny nook for a table, and a hall that leads to what I assume is the only bedroom and bathroom. But it’s airy and bright, with a couple of windows in the living room and a balcony on the far wall.

  It’s also full of stuff, everywhere. When Emily and I were young, our mother would read us a book about mischievous gwisin who would slip out at night and play with children’s toys, pull food from cabinets and pots from shelves. When the family awoke, the gwisin would disappear, leaving whatever they’d been playing with out for someone else to clean up.

  I’m reminded of this as I take in Hazel’s space. Still, it’s not messy so much as it is full. Books are stacked on the coffee table. Pages of brightly colored construction paper sit in piles on the floor. Folded clothes are draped over the arms of chairs, and a basket of laundry pushes rebelliously against a closet door. I know most people would call this lived in, but it presses like an itch against the part of my brain that thrives on order.

  I watch her turn and walk into the kitchen, taking in her cutoffs and pale yellow sweatshirt that falls off one shoulder, revealing a red bra strap. Her hair is in that same huge bun right on top of her head, and her feet are bare, each toenail painted a different color.

  She catches me staring at her feet.

  “My mom’s boyfriend is a podiatrist,” she says with a teasing smile. “I can totally introduce you.”

  “I was just admiring your fine art.”

  “I’m an indecisive type.” She wiggles her toes. “Winnie picked out the colors.”

  I look around for a roommate, or any sign of someone else living here. Emily implied that Hazel lives alone. “Winnie?”

  “My labradoodle.” Hazel turns to the fridge, bending and digging, presumably, for beer. I shoot my gaze to the ceiling when I realize I’ve let my eyes go blurry on the view of her ass. “My parrot is Vodka.” Her voice reverberates slightly from inside as she reaches to the far back. “My rabbit is Janis Hoplin.” She looks over her shoulder at me. “Janis gets really crazy around men. Like, humping crazy.”

  Humping? I glance around the apartment. “That’s . . . hmm.”

  She has a dog, a rabbit, and a parrot.

  “Oh, and my new fish is Daniel Craig.” She straightens with two bottles of Lagunitas in one hand, cracks open our beers on a brass mustache mounted to her kitchen wall, and hands me one. “I thought it best to ease you in, so they’re all at my mom’s.”

  “Thanks.” We clink the necks together, both take a sip, and she’s looking at me like it’s my turn to speak. Generally I have no problem making conversation, but rather than feeling uncomfortable around Hazel, I actually feel like the most entertaining thing for both of us would be if she would just keep babbling. I swallow, wiping the liquid from my upper lip. “You like animals, huh?”

  “I like babying things. I swear I want, like, seventeen kids.”

  I freeze, unsure whether she’s being serious.

  Her mouth curves up in a thrilled arc. “
See?” Her index finger aims at her chest. “Undatable. I like to drop that one on the first date. Not that this is a date. I don’t really want seventeen kids. Maybe three. If I can support them.” She bites her lip and begins to look self-conscious just when I’m starting to dig the way she’s throwing the kitchen sink at me. “This is where Dave and Emily usually tell me I’m babbling and to shut up. I’m really glad you came for lunch.” A pause. “Say something.”

  “You named your fish Daniel Craig.”

  She seems delighted that I’m actually listening. “Yes!”

  She pauses again, reaching up to brush away a wayward strand. Is it weird that I like that her hair seems to be as resistant to being tamed as she does?

  I dig around in my brain for something not related to my current train of thought. Apparently I fail, because what comes out is “Summer vacation looks good on you.”

  She relaxes a little, looking down at her cutoffs. “You’d be amazed what a few days without an alarm clock can do.”

  The words alarm clock are enough to make the shrill blast of mine echo in my thoughts. “Must be nice. I’d sleep until ten every day if left to my own devices.”

  “Yeah, but according to Google you’ve got a booming physical therapy practice, and”—she motions in the general vicinity of my chest—“you get to look at that in the mirror every morning. It’s worth getting up.”

  I don’t know what feels more incongruous: the mental image of Hazel using a computer, or the idea that she used it to look me up. “You Googled me?”

  She huffs out a little breath. “Don’t get an ego. I Googled you sometime between Googling beef Wellington and chicken coops.”

  At my questioning look, she adds, “The chicken thing should be pretty self-explanatory. Spoiler alert: you can’t raise chickens in a nine-hundred-square-foot apartment.” She gives a dramatic thumbs-down. “And I was going to make something elaborate for lunch today but then remembered I’m lazy and a terrible cook. We’re having sandwiches. Surprise!”

  Being near Hazel is like being in a room with a mini cyclone. “That’s cool. I love sandwiches.”

  “Peanut butter and jelly.” She makes a cartoonish lip-smacking sound.

  I burst out laughing, and have a strange urge to ruffle her hair like she’s a puppy.

  She turns back to the kitchen and pulls out a baking sheet with supplies: a stack of small bowls, a few innocuous baking ingredients—including cornstarch—and some bottles of nontoxic paint.

  Peering over her shoulder, I tell her, “I’ve never made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches like this before.”

  Hazel looks at me, and this close up I can see that her skin is nearly perfect. Dating Tabby makes me notice things like this—hair, and lipstick, and clothes—because she’s always pointing them out. Now that she’s made me aware of it, I hardly ever see women without makeup on, and it makes me want to stare a little bit at the smooth, clean curve of Hazel’s jaw.

  “This isn’t for the sandwiches,” she says. “We’re making clay.”

  “You—” I stop, unsure what to say. Now that I know what we’re going to be doing, I realize I had no idea what to expect, and it seems pretty obvious that, of course, we’d be doing some random art project. “We’re having a playdate?”

  She nods, laughing. “But with beer.” Handing me the tray, she lifts her chin to indicate that I should take it to the living room. “Seriously, though, it looks fun and I wanted to try it out before attempting it in front of twenty-eight third graders.”

  Hazel brings us sandwiches and we mix up a couple of bowls of clay, adding paint to make a variety of batches in a rainbow of colors. She gets a smear of purple on her cheek and, when I point it out, reaches over to put her entire paint-wet green palm on my face.

  “I told you you’d have fun,” she says.

  “You actually never said that.” When she looks up, feigning insult, I add, “But you’re right. I haven’t made clay in at least two . . . decades.”

  My phone chimes with Tabby’s text tone, and I apologize under my breath, pulling it out carefully with my clay-covered hands.

  I’m not going to make it tonight. Trish has me here late and I’m so bummed. I’ve been thinking about your cock all fucking day. And fucking your cock all day . . .

  I stare at the screen, looking up at the name again to confirm it’s from Tabby, and not a wrong number.

  But it’s Sunday.

  Was Tabby planning to come up today? Was she going to make up for flaking on Friday . . . and skip work tomorrow?

  Confusion slowly cools into dread, and it drains all the blood from my heart into the pit of my gut. Not only am I fairly sure she wasn’t planning on coming to Portland tonight, she’s also never said anything nearly that filthy to me before.

  I wipe away most of the clay and with shaking hands, I type:

  I didn’t know you were planning on flying up.

  The three dots appear to indicate she’s typing . . . and then disappear. They appear again, and then disappear. I stare at my screen, aware of Hazel’s eyes on me occasionally as she works a blob of bright blue clay.

  “Everything okay?” she asks quietly.

  “Yeah, just . . . got a weird text from Tabby.”

  “What kind of weird?”

  I look up at her. I like to keep my cards pretty close to my chest, but from the expression on Hazel’s face, I can tell I look like I’ve been punched. “I think she just sent me a text that was meant for . . . someone else.”

  Her brown eyes pop wide open and she uses a blue-green finger to pull a strand of hair from where it’s stuck to the purple paint on her cheek. “Like, another guy?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to go out on a mental ledge right now, but . . . sort of.”

  “I’m gonna guess it wasn’t, like, a ‘Can I borrow a cup of sugar?’ type of text.”

  “No.”

  She goes quiet, then makes a little choking noise in the back of her throat. When I look up at her, it’s almost like she’s in pain.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  Hazel nods. “I’m swallowing down my terrible words.”

  I don’t even have to ask. “What, that she was destined to screw up because her name is Tabitha?”

  She points an accusing finger at me. “I didn’t say it. You said it!”

  Despite the hysterical thrum of my pulse in my ears, I smile. “You can’t hide a single thought you have.”

  There’s still no reply, and my thoughts grow darker with every passing second. Was her text meant for someone else? Is there any other explanation for her silence now? The thought makes me want to vomit all over Hazel’s chaotic living room floor.

  Hazel drops the clay into a bowl and uses a wet wipe to clean her hands. I half wonder how I look right now: bewildered, with a giant green handprint on my face.

  “How long have you been together?” Hazel asks.

  A tiny montage of our relationship plays in front of me: meeting Tabby at a Mariners game in Seattle, realizing we were both from Portland, having dinner and taking her home with me. Making love that first night and having a feeling about her, like she could be it for me. Introducing her to my family and then, unfortunately, helping her pack up her apartment, and all the promises that her move to L.A. wouldn’t change us. “Two years.”

  She winces. “That is the worst amount of time when you’re our age. Two of your hot years, gone. Invested.” I’m barely listening but she doesn’t even notice. Apparently when the Hazel train gets going, it doesn’t stop until it’s gone completely off the tracks. “And if you’ve been living together or engaged? Forget about it. By then your lives are all crisscrossed and overlapping and like, what are you supposed to do? Do you get married? I mean, generally speaking, but obviously not in your situation. You know . . . if she’s cheating on you.” She covers her mouth with her hands and mumbles from behind them, “Sorry. It’s a curse.”

  In my lap, my phone light
s up with a text.

  Yeah, I was going to surprise you!!!! I’m so bummed I can’t!!!!

  I groan, rubbing my face. This reply makes me feel infinitely worse. I mean, she’s lying. Right? That’s what’s happening right now? One exclamation point means enthusiasm. Four means panic. There’s a car inside my veins, driving too fast, no brakes.

  “This is not good,” I mutter.

  I feel more than hear Hazel crawl over toward me and when I uncover my eyes, she’s so close, sitting cross-legged beside me and staring at the mess of clay on the floor. I don’t know why I do it—I barely know her—but I wordlessly hand her my phone. It’s like I need someone else to see it and tell me I’m misreading everything.

  It’s Hazel’s turn to groan. “I’m sorry, Josh.”

  I take the phone back and toss it behind us onto her couch. “It’s okay. I mean, I could be wrong.”

  “Right. Sure. You probably are,” she agrees, half-heartedly.

  I let out a slow, controlled breath. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “You could call her now, if you need to. I would be going insane. I can leave the room and give you some privacy.”

  Shaking my head, I tell her, “I need to sleep on this. I need to figure out what I want to ask her.”

  She goes still beside me, lost in thought. Traffic passes by, unhurriedly, on the street outside. Hazel’s fridge gives off a metallic rattle, almost like a shiver, every ten seconds or so. I stare at her every-colored toenails and notice a tiny tattoo of a flower on the side of her left foot.

  “Do you have a comfort movie?” she asks.

  I blink up, not sure I’ve understood. “A what?”

  “For me, it’s Aliens.” Hazel looks at me. “Not the first one, Alien, but the second, with Vasquez, and Hicks, and Hudson. Sigourney Weaver is so badass. She’s a warrior, and a quasi–foster mother, and a soldier, and a sexy beast. I would do her so fast. It’s the first movie I saw where a woman demonstrates how easily we can do it all.”

  I let her odd brown eyes steady me; it’s almost like I’m being hypnotized. “That sounds pretty great.”