Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating

  “You’re nuts. You know that, right?”

  The basket starts to slip and I adjust it, sidestepping him just as he’s about to take it. “Listen,” I tell him, “I plan on giving the best man’s speech at your wedding one day. This is no time to take chances.”

  He laughs, leading me up the steps to a small porch filled with potted ferns and a tinkling wind chime.

  The door is unlocked and Josh steps inside. “Appa?” he calls out, waving me in. “Umma?”—followed by a stream of words I don’t understand.

  I trip on the sexual speed bump that is the sound of Josh speaking Korean, but my attention is immediately snagged by a voice from the other side of the house.

  “Jimin-ah?”

  “My mom,” he explains quietly, and proceeds to toe off his shoes and place them neatly just inside the door. “Umma,” he calls out, “I brought someone.”

  I follow suit, managing to slip off my sandals just as an adorable dark-haired woman turns the corner into the living room.

  I’m not sure I fully appreciated exactly how much Emily and Josh look alike until now, when I see the amalgamation of their features standing in front of me. Josh’s mom is petite, just like her daughter, with chin-length dark hair that flips up rebelliously at the ends on the left side. She’s not smiling yet, but there seems to be one permanently residing in her eyes.

  Josh places a hand on the center of my back. “This is my friend Hazel.”

  “Yujin-ah’s Hazel?”

  I sense a hint of sibling rivalry as his brows come together. “Well . . . my Hazel, too,” he says, and I don’t have to tell you that I am freaking delighted by this. “Haze, this is my mom, Esther Im.”

  “It is nice to meet you, Hazel.” Her smile spreads to her mouth and it takes over her entire face. It’s Josh’s unexpected, sun-coming-out smile. I love her already.

  My first instinct is always to hug, to glom all over people as if there’s some direct line that leads from my heart to my extremities. Fortunately I happen to be holding the world’s largest fruit basket and my arms are otherwise occupied.

  Unfortunately, every K-drama I’ve ever seen chooses this exact moment to shuffle through my brain and I bend, bowing deeply at the waist and sending apples and oranges sailing across Mrs. Im’s spotless entryway floor.

  A few things happen in rapid succession. First, I let out a stream of curse words—something I shouldn’t be doing in front of anyone’s mother, let alone my new bestie’s sweet Korean umma. Next, I throw the rest of the basket at a very surprised and unprepared Josh and dive for the floor, scuttling across the rug on my hands and knees.

  Josh doesn’t even sound horrified by my antics anymore: “Hazel.”

  “I’ve got them!” I say, frantically scrambling for the bruised fruit and making a basket out of the front of my shirt for safekeeping.

  “Hazel.” His tone is firmer now, and I feel his hands on my waist as he drags me back toward them and helps me to my feet.

  Hurricane Hazel strikes again.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, smoothing my hair and twisting my skirt so it’s facing the right direction. “I’ve been so excited to meet you and of course that means that I do something like launch a fruit basket.” With as much grace as I can muster, I pull a couple of clementines from the vicinity of my cleavage. “Can I put these in the fridge for you?”

  ··········

  Seated at the kitchen counter, I glare down at the glass of water Josh sets in front of me, muttering, “At this rate I won’t even be invited to the wedding.”

  Josh’s mom is at the stove, dropping onions into a pot that looks like it is at least as old as Josh.

  “What are you talking about?” he whispers, and kneels down at my side.

  “She started speaking in Korean. Was she saying she hated me?”

  “Of course not. She thinks you’re a pretty funny girl.”

  Pretty funny? Or pretty, funny? Is that a half compliment, or two solid ones? Either way, my eyes widen and I grin. “Your mom is pretty comma smart.”

  Without expecting me to translate this, Josh taps me on the nose and moves to the counter, reaching for something in a cupboard too high for his mom to reach. He isn’t exactly what you would call redwood tall, but he’s got at least a few inches on me, and looks like a giant standing next to her.

  Mrs. Im glances over at me. “So, Hazel, where does your family live?”

  “My father passed away a few years ago, but my mom lives here in Portland.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She turns again to give me a sympathetic smile. “Josh’s grandmother died last year. We still miss her very much.” She scoops rice into two bowls, handing one to Josh, who immediately tucks into it. “You have no brothers or sisters?”

  “No, ma’am. Just me.”

  She crosses the room to set the other bowl in front of me. It smells amazing. “And you’re a teacher?”

  I pick up my chopsticks—metal, not wood—and manage to scoop the first bite into my mouth. It’s delicious—fried rice and vegetables. I may marry Josh myself if it means I can eat like this every day.

  “She teaches with Emily,” Josh offers.

  “Oh, that is nice,” she says. “I like Yujin-ah having good friends at work.”

  Good friends. I manage to tear my face from my food and give him a thumbs-up, right as the bomb drops.

  “And Tabby?” Mrs. Im asks. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen her.”

  My eyes dart to Josh’s. Like the soul mate I always knew he’d be, Josh is already looking my way. I give him an encouraging nod, one meant to remind him that this is his life and he only has to tell people as much—or as little—as he wants.

  Even if those people are his family.

  Clearing his throat, Josh pretends to be super engrossed in his empty bowl. He is a terrible actor.

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” He clears his throat again. “Tabby and I broke up.”

  Now, obviously I am an outsider and privy only to the things that I’ve been told, but I don’t think I’d be off base in describing his mom’s immediate reaction as fucking elation.

  She does her best to look casual, though, pinching his waist with a frown before depositing another scoop of fried rice into his bowl, but the terrible acting gene is obviously genetic. “So Tabby is not your girlfriend anymore.”

  “No.” Her gaze slips to me and Josh reads the silent question there. “No,” he tells her meaningfully, and I might be offended if I didn’t have this delicious bowl of rice keeping me joyful.

  “Tabby never visited,” she dramatically stage-whispers to me, and then moves to the fridge. “We should have a big dinner to celebrate.”

  ··········

  If my current life were a movie, I would (1) be much better groomed, and (2) co-star in a montage of scenes in which Josh sits on the couch in his sweatpants and I dance around in front of him, trying to get him to laugh. Since he cleared his schedule and took the time off work anyway to go see Tabitha, he’s decided he wants a staycation for the remainder of the two weeks, which I insist is super lame. I’m on summer break. We could go to Seattle! We could go to Vancouver! Let’s go canoeing, or hiking, or biking, or even to a bar to get hammered and topless!

  Nothing. He’s not into it. Instead, he’s watching Netflix with one hand tucked in the elastic waistband of his sweats. Even telling him that I can practically see his abdominal muscles atrophying—and it is a sad prospect, indeed—doesn’t rouse him from his slouch.

  I don’t really know how much he’s told Emily. When we were over there for dinner the other night, she seemed as annoyed at her brother’s ex as she ever was, but there doesn’t seem to be any specific direction to her ire. It was more How could my amazing brother have wasted so much time with that woman than How could that whore have cheated on my amazing big brother for so long?

  And I sort of understand why he doesn’t want to tell her. Aside from
fanning her protective-sibling fire, being cheated on is obviously humiliating, and I realize that’s ninety-nine percent of why Josh is glued to his couch. It would suck to have his girlfriend choose a job over their relationship, but it must suck even more to realize that Tabby actually chose another dude (Darby!!) who helped her get that job, and she happily strung Josh along because he’s Perfect, and, who knows, maybe because he’s also really amazing in bed.

  That sort of understanding—that someone treated him so carelessly and he had no idea—would not only make others see him differently but probably make Josh see himself differently, too.

  So I get the couch potato inclination, but it also bums me out. Here’s the thing: Josh is hot, as we’ve established, and not only that but he’s incredibly tenderhearted, despite his sarcastic exterior. He’s still letting me stay with him—even though he’s home. He makes a point to thank me when I clean the dishes once for every ten times he does them, and he always brings me a coffee back from his morning run. We talk in a straightforward, honest way: the dreams we had the night before, political drama, stuff that bums us out or makes our goddamn day. It’s like living with a best girlfriend who is actually male and very nice to look at. It’s not that I want to live here forever, but it hasn’t exactly sucked being with Josh Im for the past couple of weeks.

  Still, with two days left of his staycation, I’m about to blow. I’ve gone out every day to do something new. One day, Dave and I went hiking in Macleay Park. Another afternoon, Emily and I found a new farmer’s market and Dave cooked up an amazing dinner. Josh sat on their couch, too, staring at whatever was on TV—a summer softball tournament. Today, I went to play with dogs and cats at the Humane Society, and the only thing Josh says when I walk back in the house is that I need a shower.

  “Don’t you want to have sex?” I yell.

  He stares up at me, slowly pulling his hand from the front of his pants.

  “Look at your body!” I gesture to the splendor of it with my hand. “You’re amazing. And your face? Pretty fucking great, too. Come on, Josh, where is your sex drive?”

  His eyes slowly widen, and I realize he thinks I’m propositioning him while I smell like a barn.

  “Not with me, Jimin, I mean with someone in your league! Don’t you want a companion—not even just for sex, but for hanging out and talking and enjoying life? Getting your dick played with would just be a bonus!”

  “Hazel.”

  “Josh.”

  He does a dramatic sweeping gesture with one hand. “I’m here, aren’t I? Hanging out and talking with you.” He turns back to the Law & Order rerun.

  “Joossssh,” I whine.

  He mutes the television and looks up at me with a deep sigh. “I hate dating and I don’t want to be in a relationship.”

  “But sex?”

  “I like sex,” he concedes, “but what comes with it isn’t appealing right now.” He groans and repositions himself on the couch. “The games? The getting-to-know-you dance? The putting on of actual pants? No, thank you.”

  Sitting next to him, I take his hand. It’s nice and warm, but remembering where it’s been, I put it back on his thigh. “Look. I realize Pussycat did a number on your head, and you think that all women are jerks. We aren’t.”

  “You aren’t,” he says. “You’re just annoying.”

  “Right. But you don’t want to fuck me.”

  “And you don’t want to fuck me,” he agrees. “But Hazel, it’s not like you’re getting out there and dating left and right, either. When was the last time you were with someone?”

  “With, as in dating? Or with, as in sex?”

  He scrunches his nose. “They’re different answers?”

  I look at him as if he’s crazy. “I’ve had sex with guys I haven’t dated, and dated guys I haven’t had sex with.”

  It’s his turn to look at me like I might be crazy.

  “What?” I say. “You’ve never just . . . boned someone?”

  He hides his blush by pretending to be grossed out by me. “That’s the worst word.”

  “Bone. Bone. Boner. Booooones.”

  He leans his head back against the couch. “God, would you just go away?”

  I ignore this. “What if I set you up with someone?”

  “No.”

  “Just listen,” I tell him, pushing up onto my knees and invading his space. “What if I set you up with someone, and you set me up with someone, and we went out together?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. No games, no expectations. Double blind date. Just for a laugh.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Josh, just one time.”

  He rolls his head to look at me. “If I say yes, will you leave me alone for the rest of the day?”

  “Yes.”

  “And if I hate it I never have to do it again.”

  I nod, reaching up to scratch his scalp. His eyes fall closed. “If you hate it, we’ll never have to do it again. You can die in peace and will never have to take your hands out of your pants.”

  He’s quiet for a minute. Is he considering it? Was it really the hands in his pants that sweetened the deal? He opens his eyes again. “Fine.”

  I sit up straighter. “Fine? Really?”

  “Yeah. But make sure she isn’t a jerk.”

  EIGHT

  * * *

  JOSH

  We set the date for a Friday night, almost four weeks from our original deal, and agree to spend the evening at the Rumrunner’s Tree House, a kitschy little bar Hazel found downtown. The location should have been my first clue.

  Adam—a defensive lineman for an arena football team—shows up at the house while Hazel is still getting ready. I let him in, keeping my face neutral as we both pretend not to hear the horrible sound of her singing from the other end of the house.

  The repairs on Hazel’s apartment are taking longer than expected, but we’ve managed to find a happy medium between my need for order and the trail of chaos that follows her everywhere she goes. Since the house looks presentable for the first time in days, I lead Adam back to the kitchen for a beer.

  He follows with Winnie right on his heels and takes a seat at the kitchen bar.

  “The place is looking great.” He nods, glancing around. “I think the last time I was here you were just finishing the floors.”

  “I did the floors in the spring, and just got the new window casings in. I’ll let you know the next time I have a barbecue. Zach would like to catch up.”

  “Cool.”

  I met Adam at a youth event we were both doing a couple of years ago. We had just started the practice, and Adam was there with the team he played on at the time. He’s a nice enough guy—I mean, obviously, or I wouldn’t have set him up with Hazel—and at six foot four and 235 pounds of muscle he’s definitely good-looking, but he’s a little on the quiet side. My first instinct was that it would be a nice contrast in personalities, but now I’m wondering whether Hurricane Hazel might eat him alive.

  “So this is kind of weird, right?” he says, reaching down to scratch Winnie behind her ears. “I mean, picking her up here? The two of you living together? I wouldn’t want to . . .”

  I follow his eyes back down the hall to where Hazel is belting out an operatic version of Quiet Riot’s “Cum On Feel the Noize” and realize what he means. “Oh no. No.” I hold my hands out in front of me. “Hazel and I have never been, and are not, together.”

  “So you’re just roommates, then?”

  “Temporary roommates,” I correct. “She has her own place, but they’re doing some work on the building and she needed somewhere to crash for a few weeks. Or months, I guess.”

  “I wondered what was going on when you called because you’re the last person I expected to want a roommate.” He chuckles as he brings the bottle to his lips, pausing to add, “No offense, man.”

  My smile is wry as I take a sip from my own bottle. I turn my attention to the dog. “Winnie? Potty?”
She bolts to my side. Bending, I stage-whisper, “You stay away from him, okay? He’s a dick.”

  Adam laughs, and Winnie barks in what I take as agreement before following me to the back door and bounding down the steps into the yard.

  When I return to the kitchen, Adam is eyeing a drawing of a unicorn Hazel doodled while I cooked dinner last night. It has two horns, a purple mane, pink fur, and a giant yellow penis.

  Adam looks up at me with his beer paused midway to his lips. “She’s not like . . . crazy or anything, is she?”

  There’s a twinge in my gut at this, a protective aversion to that word, but I refrain from asking him to define crazy. I wave him off instead. “Definitely not crazy.”

  Of course it’s this moment she decides to make an appearance, bursting into the kitchen in a bright yellow sundress. “Who’s crazy?”

  “Winnie,” I say quickly. “She’s been chasing squirrels again.” Placing a hand on the small of her back, I usher her closer. “Hazel, this is my friend Adam. Adam, this is Hazel. You two might actually see each other this year because Hazel just got a job at Riverview, and Adam’s team participates in the youth program there.”

  Adam stands to greet her, and I watch as her eyes widen and visibly travel the entire length of him. Subtle, Haze.

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, vigorously shaking his hand. “Be sure to stop by and say hi if you’re ever in the school.” Leaning in, she puts a hand to the side of her mouth and adds conspiratorially, “Unless of course this sucks, then never speak to me again. Oh my God, Josh. Your face. I’m kidding!”

  “Definitely not crazy,” I mumble, moving to let Winnie back inside before clapping my hands. “Let’s go.”

  ··········

  Hazel’s friend Cali—an admin at the school where she used to work—plans to meet us at the bar, so we pile into my car, with Adam crammed into the front and Hazel in the back seat, poking her head between us.

  She leans farther forward to see out the windshield when we park. “Isn’t it great?” she says, halfway in my lap. “I didn’t even know this place existed until Google sent a message to my soul.”