Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating

by Christina Lauren

  It might not go entirely according to plan, but we do have a great night and my winged liner has never looked better.

  ··········

  My apartment is ready a couple of weeks before school begins, during the very last humid gasp of summer.

  As happy as I’m sure Josh is to get me and Winnie out of his clean living space, I think he might almost miss us.

  A little.

  I say this because by the last day I think even Josh was surprised by how normal it was starting to feel to live together. Loud? Yes. Chaotic? Absolutely. But also: comfortable. Dare I say easy?

  On a typical day, Josh would drag himself out of bed, Winnie trailing sleepily behind him, to find the cup of coffee I’d poured for him on the counter. I would cook some variation of burnt breakfast food, and we would talk as we ate, text all day, and then come home, eat dinner together, and fall asleep watching TV. It was as close to being in a normal relationship as I’ve ever been. I think it’s been good for Josh, too: the name Tabby hasn’t been brought up in weeks.

  I’ve always loved my apartment and living alone, but as I walk through the freshly painted door and stop on the new wood floors to survey what they’ve done, it’s impossible not to notice how empty it feels.

  Winnie seems to have reached a similar conclusion. Sniffing a path through the doorway she does a quick circle of the front room before stepping outside again, emitting a heavy sigh, and then flopping down on the mat.

  “I know what you mean,” I tell her, making my way inside and dropping my bags on the newly delivered couch. Other than this, there isn’t much furniture. A lot of it was ruined when the pipe broke, and most of what could be salvaged was old and not really worth saving anyway. Like every twentysomething I know, I ordered this new one at IKEA, but it seems a million miles away from the soft, worn-in leather in Josh’s living room.

  Winnie is reluctant to admit that this is where we’ll be staying. Even after I coax her inside she insists on camping out near the door. Stubborn. I unpack a few things and get the rest of the animals situated, put new sheets on the new mattress and inspect the updated bathroom fixtures and kitchen cabinets. With nothing more than pet food in the house and no real desire to rectify that tonight, I order dinner and work on untangling the box of cords and hooking up the TV again.

  I’m at the stage in the technology setup process where I’m whimpering and facedown on the living room floor when my phone chimes from the corner I threw it into not long ago.

  It was weird not to trip on your shoes when I got home.

  I knew you’d miss me.

  Maybe a little.

  I mean, who’s gonna use all the hot water every morning?

  Lose my number.

  I’m kidding.

  The house feels sort of empty.

  Fondness squeezes at my heart but I push it away before I begin typing out a reply.

  Winnie’s being a sad sack and won’t move away from the door.

  I think she misses you.

  Winnie. Right.

  You know how clingy she can get.

  How’s the apartment, btw?

  I think about that one as I look around the bright, clean living room. Empty walls, a stack of boxes that need to be unpacked, a disgruntled labradoodle. I suppose it could be worse.

  Pretty good. A little bare but we’ll get it there.

  I was going to stop by but thought you’d want to get settled.

  Send me a pic.

  I snap a few photos, including one where half my face takes up most of the screen, and another where a mass of tangled cords lies next to a sad, dark TV.

  Because Josh is a caretaker, my phone rings almost immediately.

  “Hazel’s House of Hedonism.”

  “Do you want me to come help?” he asks, and there’s a feeling inside my chest. Victory, yes, because I was hoping he’d come over, but something else, too. Like warm rain, a warmer blanket. I really want to see him. And I mean, so does Winnie. Look at her. “I could hook up the TV while you work on other stuff.”

  As a strong, independent woman, I should tell him no, that I’ll take care of it myself—which I would, eventually—but RuPaul’s Drag Race is on tonight and saying no would be both inefficient and inconvenient.

  “I ordered dinner,” I say instead. More than enough for two, now that I think of it. “Winnie will be happy to see you. Maybe she’ll even stop sulking.”

  “Let me shower and I’ll be over in twenty.”

  “Deal. I’ll probably still be in this same spot when you get here so let yourself in.”

  “Got it. Oh, and Haze?”

  I smile into my phone. “Hmm?”

  “Tell Winnie I miss her, too.”

  TEN

  * * *

  JOSH

  After I help her move things into her new classroom, I barely see Hazel for days—which, given that she only moved out about a week ago, is oddly disorienting. I went from being in a long-term relationship to being single, and having my life turned upside down with a roommate of sorts, in a matter of days. You’d think I’d be glad to have my own space again and not have to worry about what someone is doing—or lighting on fire. You’d think I’d be ready to find some kind of new normal. And yet, you’d be wrong.

  Who knew normal could be so boring?

  Just like I’ve seen my sister do half a dozen times before, Hazel dives into this intense teacher zone, and I can’t exactly criticize her for being so focused. From what I can surmise in observing her bouncy bliss stapling borders to her bulletin boards, the beginning of the school year is better than Christmas and birthdays combined.

  “I fucking love being a teacher,” she says over the phone just after the pre-first-day Back to School Night. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard quite the same enthusiasm from Em after one of these things, but Hazel is Hazel. She loves big. “I am a hot mess ninety percent of the time, but man, third graders are my jam.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I tell her. “Like eight-year-olds, you also struggle when reaching for things on high shelves and remembering to use the bathroom before long car rides.”

  “Nice, Jimin.”

  A tiny unknown organ in me aches at the way we’re having such a familiar conversation over the phone, rather than across the couch.

  The next day—Hazel’s first day teaching at Riverview—I am greeted by a constant high-pitched hum of noise as I walk through the doors. It sounds a bit like a swarm of bees, emanating down the hall from the cafeteria. Hazel’s classroom is number 12, so after waving at frazzled first-day-of-school Dave through the glass window of the principal’s office, and peeking in on my sister as she wrangles a chaotic blur of fifth graders, I head across the hall to the door covered in hot sauce packets and the words Taco ’bout a Great Class!

  Through the little window, I can see her standing at the front of the room, watching while the class works independently, and am already laughing. This is Hazel—of course she’s wearing something like this. Her blue dress is cinched in at the waist by a belt decorated with red apples and brightly colored textbooks. I’m getting definite Ms. Frizzle vibes, a look I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be into, but one glance at Hazel’s long, delicate neck and the smooth gloss of her ponytail and . . . well, here we are.

  She spots me through the glass, grinning widely before walking over—even though I’m waving at her to indicate I can wait until the class is in the cafeteria for lunch. Her eyes are scotch and flirtation. Her lips are a wild cherry red. Something inside me shivers.

  “Welcome to the fiesta!” Wooden pencil earrings swing with the happy little shake of her head.

  I hand her an apple and a cellophane-wrapped bunch of sunflowers. “I thought I’d catch you at lunch—I wanted to wish you a happy first day.”

  She takes the flowers and hugs them to her chest. “You already did that when you texted me this morning!”

  “Well, I’m glad I decided to be thorough or I’d have missed all of this.�
�� I motion from her toes to the top of her head, where, incidentally, there’s a ceramic bookworm pinned in her hair.

  She does a little spin. “You like? It’s my traditional first-day-of-school costume.”

  “And to think my sister is just wearing a new cardigan. How’s it been so far?”

  “Pretty good! No emotional meltdowns and only one tetherball incident at recess. The students are writing down their goals for the year. Do you want to come in and meet them?”

  I’m in the middle of telling her no when she reaches for my jacket and yanks me inside.

  “Class.” Twenty-eight sets of eyes look up from their papers and focus squarely on me. “I want you to meet my best friend, Josh.”

  There is a combined verse of ooooh and one lone rebel who calls out, “So he’s your boyfriend?” followed by a chorus of giggles.

  Hazel gives a very practiced tilt of her head and the room quickly quiets down. “Josh is a guest in our classroom, so we should be on our best behavior anyway, but he’s also Mrs. Goldrich’s brother. Let’s all welcome our new friend to our classroom.”

  “Welcome, friend,” they say in unison, and without the lingering boyfriend scandal to hold their attention, they quickly lose interest and return to their projects.

  “Well done, Ms. Bradford. That was impressive,” I tell her. “You are awesome at bossing small humans around. If only Winnie listened so well.”

  “The only way Winnie listens to me is if I put a bagel on my head,” she says, and turns to set the flowers on her desk. “And thank you again for these. You’re second only to a unicorn as far as best friends go, Josh Im.”

  “I wanted to see you in your element, and it gave me a good excuse to stop by with a development on the Josh and Hazel double-dating bonanza.”

  “Ooooh!” She claps her hands, watching as I pull out my phone.

  “My friend Dax is a veterinarian and breeds Shetland ponies or something in Beaverton. Really good-looking, too.” I open my Facebook app and find his name.

  “You have a veterinarian friend with ponies and you’re just now telling me about him? An imaginary talking badger has taken back second place in the best friend hierarchy.”

  “I completely forgot,” I say, and click through to his profile, zooming in on the image so she can see. “We went to high school together and he popped up in my feed this morning.”

  Hazel leans in for a closer look. “Would he be bringing a pony on the date?”

  “I can certainly request it.”

  She takes my phone and scrolls through his other photos. “He’s not unfortunate-looking and the prospect of future pony rides does sweeten the pot.”

  “Should I call him?” I ask, studying her.

  She hands me back my phone. “I’ve been thinking of asking the lifeguard at my pool,” she says in lieu of an answer, her lips pursed as she considers. “She seems really cool and can save your life if you fall in the river again.”

  “I didn’t fall in the river, I was more or less pushed.”

  “By gravity.”

  I ignore this. “Maybe we could set something up for Friday?”

  “I’ll stop by the pool on my way home and let you know.”

  The volume in the class behind us is rising, and I know that’s my cue to let her go. “Sweet, I’ll get a hold of Dax and we can coordinate.”

  It’s only once I’m back at my car that I register the reason I was thinking of a double date again: I want to hang with Hazel.

  ··········

  When I get home Friday night, Hazel has clearly let herself in. I can hear the TV as soon as I step in from the garage, yelling, “Honey, I’m home.”

  Winnie skitters around the corner when she hears me, almost knocking me over as I slip off my shoes. I’ve missed this girl but she is a terrible guard dog.

  Hazel sits up when I walk into the living room and grins at me over the back of the couch. “Hola, señor.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” Our dates with Dax and Michelle are tonight, and I have just enough time to shower and change if we’re going to make it in time for our dinner reservation. “Appointments went long and I got caught up on some insurance stuff.”

  “My apartment was boring so I decided to just head over. Good thing, too, because your mom was just here.” She holds up a steaming bowl and a pair of chopsticks. “And she brought food!”

  I fold myself over the back of the couch to see what she’s eating, and my stomach growls. “You know we’ll be at dinner in, like, an hour.”

  “I dare you to face your mother’s cooking and refuse it.” Hazel lifts a strip of beef and green onion to my mouth, and I groan as I chew. I really should be getting ready, but instead I adjust her grip on the chopsticks, steal another bite, and round the couch to sit at her side.

  “When did she leave?”

  Hazel tears herself away from her food long enough to answer. “About twenty minutes ago? She was here for a while, though. She showed me some embarrassing baby pictures and we talked about how you work too much and have too many pairs of black tennis shoes.” She giggles through another bite. “I really like her.”

  This catches my attention and I look over at her. I can count on one hand the number of times Umma and Tabby were together without me, and Tabby made sure to complain about each one as much as possible afterward. She never cared about getting to know either of my parents. She definitely never liked them.

  “I guess it’s convenient that she likes you, too.”

  “Of course she does,” Hazel says, handing me the bowl and laughing when I immediately dig in. “I threw fruit at her the first time we met, and am the only one who ate that stinky fermented fish she made the other night. According to your sister I’m at least half-Korean now.”

  “It’s called hongeo and even I won’t eat it.” I take another bite and then offer one to Hazel. It’s been a long day, and a night out is sounding less appealing with every minute. “Umma likes you because you’re bizarre, charming, and have her worrying a little less that I’ll die miserable and alone.”

  “Miserable and alone.” She scoffs. “Have you seen yourself? We just need to step up the search.”

  Applause from the TV catches my attention, and it’s only now that I notice what she’s been watching.

  “Why are you watching the Olympics from . . . London?”

  “I love highlight shows.” When I lift a skeptical brow she sighs, shoulders slumping back against the couch. “I couldn’t find the remote.”

  “Have you actually looked? You’re probably sitting on it again.” I move to stand but she stops me with a hand to my stomach.

  “You can’t change it now, I’m invested!”

  “Haze, we have to go.”

  “Then record this for me.”

  “You realize you can Google to see how this ended, right?”

  She gives me a grumpy Muppet face. “Where is the fun in that? Googling Olympic results is a joy killer.”

  “Or, I don’t know, a time saver.” I get up from the couch. “Let’s get rolling. I’ll clean up real quick.”

  ··········

  I get an uneasy feeling about setting up Dax with Hazel the very moment she and I step foot in the restaurant and he sees her. Granted, I’m not an expert on the variety of human expressions, but his mild nostril flare and frown when his eyes drag over her—her trademark high bun, her cow-print tank top and frayed jean skirt with green cowboy boots—can’t be a good sign.

  We shake hands, introducing ourselves, and follow the hostess to our booth smack in the middle of the busy restaurant. Hazel smoothes her skirt over her thighs and turns to Dax, grinning. Inside my chest, my heart melts with the effort she gives every single person, even those who look at her like she’s beneath them.

  “So,” she says, “where’re you from, Dax?”

  “Michigan, originally.” He leans in, clasping his hands. “And you’ve lived in Oregon your whole life?”

  Michel
le is pretty enough, and being a lifeguard, she’s obviously fit. But even if it feels like we might have a lot in common, I can’t pay as close attention to her as I’d like given that what I’m overhearing from across the table turns more Spanish Inquisition than Getting to Know You.

  Dax wants to know about Hazel’s extended family, her job, her home. He asks her whether she plans to buy a house versus rent. He seems concerned that she doesn’t know what kind of retirement plan the school district offers.

  While Michelle and I make idle small talk, I overhear Hazel answering his questions happily, even throwing in little anecdotes, about her mom (“She has the most beautiful singing voice, but really only in the shower”), her apartment (“It flooded like an ocean a couple months ago . . . maybe that’s why all my dreams are about being on a boat?”), and her job (“Two days ago I came home smelling like tree sap, and I have no idea why. Third graders, man.”). But, for all of her efforts to be amiable, Dax continually answers her return questions with single words—even monosyllables.

  When Hazel gets up to make a call, Dax meets my eyes and gives me an exasperated look I think is supposed to communicate Wow, this one is crazy, but I pretend I don’t understand.

  “What?” I say, hearing the aggressive edge to my voice.

  He laughs. “Nothing. Just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  I can feel Michelle looking at me, and the awkward tension rises like fog.

  “She’s, ah, a bit eccentric for my ta—” Dax snaps his mouth shut just as Hazel returns to the table.

  She plops down onto her chair and explains, “Sorry. That was my mom. She got new boots, and I think she was going to keep spamming me with pictures until I called her and agreed that they’re awesome.” Stabbing her fork into her dinner, she adds, “For the record, they’re rad. They’re turquoise with shell beads around the top, and I bet they make her look like a fairy unicorn goddess when she’s gardening. Even though they’re, you know, cowboy boots.”