by Leigh, Ember
His text comes through after my first bite of taco.
GRAY: When are you getting here?
HAZEL: I’m not coming over tonight.
GRAY: And why not?
HAZEL: It’s called weaning. We need to start.
I finish my taco and start on the second when his next message comes in.
GRAY: You haven’t even seen my spreadsheet.
I still my fingers before I call him a nerd. That could be construed as friendly or flirting. I must stop all those activities immediately. I need to put emotional distance between us now so that the physical distance doesn’t kill me.
GRAY: I’ll send it to your email. I broke it down by expenses in the NY market based on an interview I had with a realtor friend.
I soften a little. The man has done research on my behalf. He’s speaking my love language. Except his end goal is something I absolutely do not want to consider.
But maybe I should.
GRAY: I miss you, babe.
After that last text, I swipe my phone closed and turn it onto its face. Tears are stinging my eyes. If I can miss him after ten hours at the office, how am I going to survive weeks away from him? Months? Years?
Because I need to face the damned truth. Once Grayson leaves, my love for him will not magically extinguish. No, my feelings for him are resilient. They’ll survive fire and ice and earthquakes. My love for Grayson is the biological equivalent of a cockroach. It really doesn’t matter what you do to it—it’s going to survive.
It’s so non-romantic I should get it cross-stitched and gift it to him for our birthday.
But, again. Weaning.
My superbug-style love for Gray is why once our Bayshore time is over, I’ll still be just as hung up on him. Probably no matter how much time goes by. I’ve loved him for the past ten years—more, if I’m being honest. Wanted him without even realizing it. Pined for him when it didn’t make sense.
So him going home to New York? It’ll be no different. I’ll still be here, rocking the realty game, investing in my community’s future, while my heart throbs for the one man I can’t seem to snag.
Once I’m full of tacos and sadder than ever, I drive to my dad’s house. He’s on the front porch with a beer, talking to a friend. As I pull into the driveway, his friend says goodbye, and my dad pats the rocking chair next to him.
He’s a big old biker. White haired, big bushy mustache, and love handles to rival the best. I grew up around hot cars and fast motorcycles. He’s a gearhead and a homebody and had to be both mother and father to me as I grew up. Though he looks like a beast on the outside, inside he’s softer than melted butter.
And the hardest part about leaving Bayshore might be the thought of not being able to drop in on him weekly like I do.
“Hazeyyy,” he croons in his ex-smoker’s voice. We hug, and then I sit next to him in the familiar old rocking chair. I sigh, looking out at the last crimson rays of sunlight blanketing the world. In his driveway, his Harley is parked right behind an old ’64 Ford truck. That’s not even half of his collection.
“Hi, dad,” I say, unable to not sound morose. I already want to curl up in his arms. “Just thought I’d come and say hi.”
“I saw your new billboard the next town over,” he says before taking a pull at his beer. “Looks great, as usual. Hey, you want one?” He holds up his beer.
I smile, but it fades fast. Ask Hazel. All the billboards say the same thing. Except this is one situation Hazel can’t solve. So please don’t ask her. She has no freakin’ idea.
“No thanks.” I start to pick at a nail, the question bubbling up inside me faster than I can control it. “What would you say if I sold the business and moved to New York?”
My dad’s salt and pepper brows furrow together. “Move where now?”
“New York.” I clear my throat, cheeks flaming. This is so stupid. “I started seeing someone, and he asked me to move with him to New York.”
“You seein’ somebody?”
“Yeah.” I pause, wondering if I want to admit that it’s Grayson. My dad hated him alongside me for a long time, out of duty to his only daughter. I have to tell him. Otherwise, the story won’t make sense. Why I’d consider abandoning everything and leaving. Why I feel the way I do. “Grayson Daly is back. Temporarily. We were stupid and started something again. Except now he’s going back home and wants me to come with him.”
A long sigh rattles out of my father. Then he clears his throat. I can tell this isn’t gonna be good.
“Are you flippin’ crazy, girl?” my dad barks at me.
I sigh, feeling logic and reason click back into place inside my skull. “Yes. But that stops now.” My dad’s response is all I needed to hear. Besides, you’d think that the journals would have been enough. My mother left behind a lot after she passed away, days after I was born. One of the things was her journals.
They sat untouched in boxes in the attic for a long, long time. Until I discovered them as a teen, surreptitiously devoured them all in one sitting one day while my dad was at work, and then hoarded them for my own and never told anyone.
He still doesn’t know what I read in those journals. But I do know more about what brought them together back in the early 80s. How hard they fought to have a baby. And how much my mom gave up in order to follow my dad to his job here on the North Coast as a union worker.
She’d given up her own wild dreams to follow his path of stability. I don’t blame her for it. It’s what a lot of smart, forward-thinking moms would do.
But I could read the sadness tucked beneath her words. She’d always wanted to be an interior designer and run her own business. It’s one of the reasons I fought to have my own business and took such an interest in interior design, if only as a pet project. She’d dropped out of school halfway through her second year to follow dad here. And sure, they were happy, but she hadn’t wanted to come here.
And now my entire life is built here. I often wonder if the mother I knew for three days would have ended up loving it. If she’d have thought of it as home after raising a girl here and having her family.
“You tell that guy he can bring his big apple over my way, and I’ll take a smack at it.” A laugh cracks out of him. I snicker, swatting my dad’s arm. “If he breaks your heart again, I’ll smash his apple to pieces.”
“Well…” I start, trying to offer him comfort that he can’t, at least, do that to me again. But the words don’t arrive. I’m not certain I’ll escape unscathed. It’s never been possible with Grayson. All I can do is manage the consequences.
“But seriously, peach,” my dad starts, using the nickname he’s used with me since the day I was born. “You’re thinking about moving there? When you got all this good stuff going here?”
“I was considering it,” I admit, starting back with my cuticles. He’s the only person I’d admit this to. Him, and maybe London. I’d be too embarrassed to tell Callie and the boys. “I mean, just weighing my options, you know? But, forget I said anything. I’m not going to move.”
We chat for a little bit about other things—how his first run on the boat went, the new paint on the door trim and how he messed it up—and I finally head home around ten, feeling more confused than ever.
I was so sure about what I’d told my dad at his house. But as I’m driving home, I have to physically steel myself against turning onto Grayson’s street.
Go home. I need to go home.
I’d said it myself earlier that evening.
This is the weaning process, and it’s time to get used to it.
Chapter 22
GRAYSON
It’s Friday evening and I’m at my mom’s house, trying to take stock of my life now that I’m about to head back to New York. Drops of white paint dot my forearms and fingertips. Weston and I finished up all the trim in the house today, and I sanded the back deck.
The amount of satisfaction and—dare I say it—joy I’ve taken in this project is overwhelming. H
onestly, the sensation feels foreign after a decade in the city. I’ve forgotten what personal projects are like. What slowing down can do for a person. But the happiness is dampened by one little detail.
The fact that Hazel isn’t here to share it.
It’s been over twenty-four hours since I brought up the idea. I have full faith she’ll be looking over my spreadsheet and getting back to me with a whole list of logistical questions. I need to give her time to stew.
“You look like you need a shower,” Mom comments as she breezes into the kitchen where I’m staring out the back window.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just got done working for the day.”
“How are things coming along?”
“Pretty great. Reno-great, I should say.”
Mom snickers and rummages in the fridge and then pulls out a bowl of fruit. She pops grapes into her mouth as she assesses the backyard.
“Any offers on the house?”
“I got one earlier this week.” My heart rate picks up at the mention of the Parkers, because it reminds me of the epic sex that followed their visit to my house. “But I turned it down.”
Mom’s eyes almost pop out of her head. “You did? Did they lowball you?”
“No.” I pause, wondering if I should admit this. It feels…revelatory. In a bad way. “They actually offered me thirty thousand over what I was expecting.”
Her eyes widen more. They’re close to popping out of her skull. “And you didn’t accept it why?”
“I’m not done with the house,” I say simply, grabbing for a handful of grapes. I don’t like her inquisition. Or that tone she’s using. Or the way she’s studying me like she’s cracked a code or something. “Once I finish all the renovations, I’ll be able to get a higher price. You watch.”
Mom doesn’t respond right away, which unnerves me. Instead, she’s narrowing her eyes at the fruit bowl now, clucking her tongue. “Uh-huh,” she finally says.
“What?”
“No, no. I get it.” She waves me away, like suddenly my presence is unnecessary. “You don’t need to say anything else.”
I chew another grape, watching as a little smile quirks her lips. “Mom, what are you talking about?”
“You’re making memories there.” Her voice suddenly dons a wistful tone, and she’s moving around the kitchen like she’s floating on clouds. “And those memories have everything to do with our Hazel.”
Every time she references Hazel, it’s our. Except Hazel is now mine.
I won’t share her. Not even with my mom.
“I don’t know about that.” I drum my knuckles against the countertop. “It’s a wise business move. It means more money for me to invest in this start-up I have my eye on.”
Mom doesn’t look convinced.
“Besides, I’m trying to get her to come out to New York. It’s not about the house.”
Mom stops her dreamy saunter through the kitchen and turns to me with an icy look. “What?”
“I asked her yesterday morning. She’s still thinking about it. But I think she could make a killing out in New York.”
Mom blinks about a billion times, as though she’s having trouble processing the idea. “You asked our Hazel to move away from Bayshore?”
“Are you capable of calling her just Hazel? And yes, I did.”
“Grayson Thomas Daly. What the hell is wrong with you?”
She sounds angry. Like, actually angry. Not the fact that she used my full name, but the tone in her voice. She’s disappointed in me.
“We want to be together,” I say slowly, succinctly, “but it won’t work unless she comes to New York. I have my job there. She can bring hers with her. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Mom scoffs, throwing up her hands. “You seriously think Hazel is going to leave behind her empire?”
The question throws me for a moment. I hadn’t thought of it like that before. “She can create a new one over there. She’s the best at what she does. I have full confidence in her.”
“Like it’s so easy to pick up a thriving business and restart it elsewhere?” Mom scoffs again. “I tell you what. Sometimes, the denseness of men is astounding.”
Now she’s pissing me off. “Oh, come on. What’s so wrong with my idea?”
“You need to stop lying to yourself about how you’re going to make it work with our Hazel.” She’s pointing her finger at me and using the tone she uses during arguments with my dad, which makes me feel worse. This all went downhill very quickly. “She’s not going to stick around for you forever. You got lucky when you came back this time. But if you mess this up again, she might not be around for a third chance.”
I work my jaw back and forth. I feel like she’s got me and this situation all wrong. Nobody has looked at my spreadsheets, either. Nobody would be pointing fingers if they’d look at my projections. “This is my attempt to make it work.”
“Asking her to drop everything and leave when she’s at the peak of her career? Some offer you’re extending.”
“But she’s—”
“Don’t you ‘but’ me, young man.” Mom wags her finger at me. “I see what goes on here. I talk to Hazel. I recognize the look in her eyes. That woman wants to start a family. She wants a husband. She wants babies.”
I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. “I want that stuff too. It doesn’t mean—”
“You don’t get it. And that’s fine. But you’re going to lose Hazel if you ask her to follow you.” Mom slaps the countertop with her palm. I haven’t seen her this upset in a long time. And I certainly wasn’t expecting to provoke the beast today.
“I already asked her,” I say, the wind going out of me. I’m tired of defending this idea. I want to talk to Hazel and continue the conversation. “We still need to figure things out.”
Mom deflates a little, shaking her head. “Have you ever considered bringing your talents back home?”
She pins me with a look and heads for the living room. I watch her go, hearing all the usual protests in my head. There isn’t a job for me here, not like I have in New York.
So it’s impossible. Case closed.
But what if there’s a different job for me?
I can’t think about it. The thought is too big; too scary. I’d rather continue along the trajectory I set for myself in college. The path that involves assured paychecks, living well, and making millions. Everything else will figure itself out.
But still, I’m antsy the rest of the evening. I’m waiting for Hazel. For a text. For any hint that she’s planning on seeing me before I leave. Dinner comes and goes, alone, at my house. I can’t even convince Weston or Maverick to join me. It’s Friday night, after all—they’re already out partying.
Once I’ve milled around the house for hours and downed a few beers, I get a text. My heart hops into my throat.
LUKE: Yo buddy, where you at?
GRAY: Home. What’s going on tonight?
LUKE: Just got to the bar. Your girl needs you.
My heart starts racing, and I’m lacing up my sneakers before I can consciously decide to. Luke texts with their location—a lakefront bar about a mile away—and I hop into my car for the short ride. I could have walked, but I need to be there now.
It’s after ten when I pull into the packed parking lot. The marquee sign shows something about a Blues band. I push inside the doors, heart in my throat. I blow past the security guy, who calls out after me for my license.
“I’m fucking twenty-eight,” I shout over my shoulder, and then hang a right into the main area of the bar. The scent of beer accosts me, and the dull roar of conversation between musical acts fills my head. I scan the bar, my gaze hopping over women in sundresses, heads tossed back in laughter, lots of ruddy-cheeked men holding Bud Lights. And in the sea of normalcy, I spot Hazel immediately.
My Hazel.
She’s dressed for a night out. Like a girls’ night out. A silky red tank top that showcases the tantalizing tops of her breas
ts. Red lipstick to match. Hair pulled away from her face in a low ponytail. Callie is at her side, whooping while she holds up a beer. She’s facing the band, but nobody is playing. I can already tell she’s shit-faced.
Hazel isn’t looking my way. I weave through the crowd, keeping an eye on her. Luke clamps onto my shoulder as I approach.
“Hey. You got here fast,” he says into my ear, worry in his gaze.
“What’s going on?”
“She’s tanked.” He guides me toward the bar, and I can see Hazel over his shoulder. She’s leaning against the bar, and if she’s noticed me yet, she hasn’t let on. “About one shot away from taking her top off is my guess.”
That’s when I notice some slick-o sidle up to her. She turns to him like she’s been waiting for him. I can hear her throaty laugh, and she leans against him. Heat thrums through me, turning my skin prickly. My hands turn into fists.
“And yeah,” Luke says, casting me a worried glance. “There’s that guy. Callie told us that you guys are going through a thing. But I figured…” He trails off. He doesn’t need to say anymore. Tiff or not, Hazel is mine, and this bullshit is about to end.
I already know what she’s trying to pull. That’s the benefit of being telepathically connected to your archrival and greatest love. Even when we’re miles apart, throughout the years, I still get glimpses of Hazel in my mind’s eye. Days when I can’t get her out of my mind. Like her spirit can ping me.
We fucking are meant for each other.
And maybe she has been my soul mate all along.
Chapter 23
HAZEL
I need to start an advice column.
I already have the first submission for my newspaper debut.
ASK HAZEL: How should I handle my quasi-boyfriend, long-time rival, and hotter-than-sin soul mate dumping me discretely via outrageous ultimatum? Signed, Hazel.
