Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating

by Christina Lauren

  Dax bites his lip, frowning down at the table. Although Hazel is handling him with her trademark breezy cheer, when he gets up to go to the restroom a few minutes later, she catches my eye and pantomimes drinking down a bottle of alcohol.

  “Oof,” she mumbles.

  “He seems a little . . . intense,” Michelle says quietly, wincing over at Hazel.

  Hazel grins, popping a chip into her mouth. “A smidge. I thought he bred ponies? How can he be so grouchy when he breeds ponies?”

  “Sorry.” I reach across the table, squeezing her hand. “We can shuffle him into the Never Again pile.”

  Dax returns and immediately looks over at Hazel’s plate, where only a small bit of beans and the last bite of her enchiladas remain. “You finished all that?”

  She stares at him for a long, steady beat. Inside my chest, my heart feels like a chunk of hot coal. I watch as she pushes a grin across her face. “Hell yeah, I did. My dinner was fucking awesome.”

  Dax lifts his glass, and if it’s possible to take a judgmental sip of water, he pulls it off. He sets the glass down carefully before looking up. “Is it fair of me to say now that I don’t think this is a good fit?”

  He hasn’t said this only to Hazel, he’s said it to me, to the entire table, and a hush falls over the four of us.

  “Are you for real?” Michelle can’t seem to hold it in anymore, and she throws her napkin on her half-eaten burrito. “I’m sure Hazel felt the same way the minute you asked her about her fucking 401(k).” She turns and levels her glare at me. “Josh? You seem like a nice guy. But can I give you some advice? You’re on the wrong date tonight.”

  Standing, she waves limply at Hazel before leaving.

  Dax lifts his napkin, tapping it to his mouth. “Good idea, Josh, wrong ballpark.” He stands, too, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a twenty. Smiling over at me like nothing is wrong, he says, “Let’s grab lunch this week?”

  I meet Hazel’s eyes. It’s at this moment that I realize I know her as well as almost anyone alive does, except maybe Aileen. She’s wearing a carefully practiced look of amused indifference, but inside she’s scratching his eyeballs out.

  He’s hovering, waiting for me to reply.

  Happily, I say, “Go fuck yourself, Dax.”

  ··········

  “I feel like I got in a fistfight tonight,” Hazel says, following me into my house. She collapses on the couch. “Dax is going to exhaust some decent woman someday.”

  “He used to be cool.” I drop my keys in the bowl near the door and toe off my shoes. “Or maybe he’s always been a dick and I just never hung out with him around women.”

  “Lots of guys are great with other guys, and legit assholes with women.”

  I stop on my way to the kitchen, bending to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Sorry, Haze.”

  She waves a tired hand and points at the television, indicating that she wants me to turn it on. I reach under her couch cushion and pull out the remote, handing it to her.

  Straightening, I continue to the kitchen, and I am immediately reminded that my mom was here earlier. My stomach rumbles to life; I’d essentially pushed my tilapia Veracruz around my plate—too preoccupied with Dax and Hazel to eat very much.

  Is that what Michelle meant on her way out? That I should have been on the date with Hazel?

  A rush of heat hits my cheeks, as if I’ve said it out loud and Hazel has heard me. On the counter the rice cooker is holding a batch of rice on the warm setting, and in the fridge I find shelves full of Tupperware and old butter containers, all labeled with whatever’s inside and the dates they need to be used by. There are even a few with Hazel’s name, filled with what I’m assuming is my mom’s kimchi fried rice—Hazel’s favorite.

  As if she can read my mind, she calls out from the living room, “Don’t eat my fried rice!”

  I look at her around the refrigerator door. “Then why did you eat my bulgogi earlier?”

  She gives me a dramatic you’re dumb face. “Because it didn’t have your name on it?”

  I reach for one of the containers, dump it into two bowls, and pop them into the microwave, grabbing a couple of beers when the food is done, and carry it all into the living room.

  Hazel is watching Olympic gymnastics where she left off earlier, and on the screen a group of young athletes anxiously pace the sidelines as they wait their turn on the vault. I already know the results—having seen the scores when it aired six years ago—but can’t help but wince anyway when the third girl loses her balance and lands hard on her foot.

  I peek at the screen through my fingers. “Isn’t there anything else on?”

  Hazel moves to the edge of the couch and turns to face me. “You’re into the fitness, how can you not be into this?”

  “ ‘Into the fitness’?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I use my chopsticks to point to the TV. “Because look at it. It wrecks your body.”

  Hazel glances back to the screen. “You mean, like, broken bones and stuff?”

  “That, sure. But I’m also talking long term. These kids start so young, and that kind of exertion and training is hard on growing bodies. Stress fractures can occur later in life because low body fat can lead to delayed puberty and weaker bones. Even stunted growth. Not to mention the sheer force the body is being subjected to. Little wrists and ankles aren’t made for that sort of impact.”

  She frowns. “I never thought about it like that. They all look so fit. Like little muscle machines.”

  “They are fit. That’s part of the problem. They train nonstop and that kind of strenuous lifestyle is almost impossible to maintain. Why do you think most gymnasts retire in their twenties?”

  “But then they get a whole new career. I should have done gymnastics. I bet I could do it now.”

  “You’re what? Twenty-eight?”

  She startles. “Twenty-seven.”

  I laugh at the shadow of insult on her face. “Okay, twenty-seven. I bet you used to do cartwheels all the time.”

  “Are you kidding? Constantly.”

  “But you probably couldn’t do them as well now. Our center of gravity changes and even if we’re still fit and strong, we become less flexible as we get older.”

  She lobs a frown in my direction. “Are you calling me old?”

  I place my bowl on the coffee table in front of us before I’m wearing its contents. “Older, not old.”

  Hazel sets her bowl next to mine and stands, reaching for my hand. “Come with me.”

  “What?” She lifts a brow in warning but doesn’t elaborate. I take the offered hand and let her help pull me up. “Okay . . . Where are we going?”

  “Outside to be young again.”

  “Right. Of course. You hear that, Winnie? We’re going outside to be young.”

  Winnie trots happily along behind us, because clearly the only thing she’s heard is outside.

  Hazel leads us through the kitchen and out the back door, and the screen falls closed at our backs. The sun is long gone but the motion-detector lights flicker on, casting shadows of the trees from one end of the yard to the other. The air is heavy and damp, thick with pine and the sweet scent of decaying mulch in the flower beds. It’s a little on the chilly side, and feels like it might rain. Even in the night air, Hazel bounds down the stairs and out onto the grass.

  Satisfied that she’s found the right spot, she bends at the waist, gathering her long hair again and twisting it back into another gravity-defying bun. Winnie stops at my side, head tilted as we both watch, eager to see what Hazel has in store for us.

  Straightening, she motions for me to join her.

  I cross the yard. “What are you—” I start, but my words are cut off by a gust of air forced from my lungs as I’m tugged down into the dewy grass. Hazel kneels at my side and proceeds to tug off my socks, one at a time.

  I look down to my bare feet and then to my dress pants and button-down shirt. “What .
. . are we doing?”

  She considers me for a moment but is not deterred, chewing on her lip as she moves to unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” she says then, pulling my arm toward her to begin rolling up my sleeve.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you ever miss Tabby?”

  This takes me by surprise and I look up at her. She’s so close, hovering just above me. I spot a tiny freckle I’ve never seen before on the underside of her chin.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  She shrugs. “You were right. Dating is rough. I think I forgot. Or maybe I’ve never done it like this before.”

  Hazel looks down, meeting my eyes briefly before she turns her attention back to where she’s rolling up my other sleeve. Her touch is soft and focused; it makes me feel hyperaware, bringing the heat back to my face as I think again about what Michelle said. For the length of an inhale, I picture leaning forward, feeling the press of her mouth to mine. I swallow, not sure where the thought came from, or what to do with it.

  “I can see why you were so reluctant to dive back in there,” she says quietly. “I don’t know. Just wondering whether you missed being in a relationship with her.”

  “I used to think I was a good boyfriend. Looking back, I think maybe not.”

  She catches my eyes again, a protective gleam there. “I’ve talked to Emily. You were a great boyfriend. Tabby was a dick.”

  “I don’t know . . . maybe that was sort of convenient for me? I was beginning to realize how much we’d grown apart but it was easier to keep things the way they were than be the one making the decision.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I think what I liked was being someone’s person.”

  Hazel’s fingers come to rest on my wrist, and I blink up again to catch her reaction. She doesn’t meet my eyes but a flush of color deepens along the tops of her cheeks. “You’re my person,” she says. “Thanks for sticking up for me tonight.”

  She gives these vulnerable words so freely it makes fondness clench at something in my chest. Taking her hand, I bring it to my mouth and press a quick kiss to the backs of her knuckles.

  “I like being your person.”

  The corner of her mouth turns up, and she sits back on her heels. “And Winnie’s, apparently. Who knew she was so easy for a pretty face.”

  I grin. “What can I say?”

  Hazel groans, rolling her eyes skyward before she moves to her feet. “All right, lover boy. Let’s do some cartwheels so I can laugh at you and wipe that smug look off your face.”

  “I’m not the one insisting I can still do this. I’m fine being an old man.”

  I follow, watching her legs as she makes her way across the lawn. The sky is a bruise behind her, blue and purple in the dusky light pollution from downtown. I’m momentarily distracted by the way her skin looks under the beams of the backyard lights.

  Hazel takes a moment to shake out her hands and roll her head a few times in each direction. “Honestly. How hard can this be?” She moves into as deep a lunge as she can in her denim skirt. “Like riding a bike, right?”

  I motion back toward the house. “Should I get the first aid kit or . . . ?”

  Straightening, she stretches her arms over her head, but not before shooting a glare in my direction. She waits one, two, three seconds, and goes for it—body tumbling forward, feet in the air, and flowy tank top going right up over her face and flashing me a prolonged shot of her neon yellow bra.

  When she’s right side up again, her bun has slipped to the side of her head but her expression is one of pure joy.

  “Oh my God. That . . . was so FUN!” She bats the hair away from her face and tucks the front of her tank into her skirt. “And uh . . . sorry for the peep show.”

  I bite back a laugh. “It wasn’t a hardship.” I tilt my head. “You going again?”

  She does, and if possible, her smile is even bigger than the first time.

  “Why did I ever stop doing this?” she says, clearly dizzy but continuing on to do a line of cartwheels down the grass.

  Once vertical, she points to me. “Your turn.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah!”

  Wrapping her fingers around my wrists, she tugs me to stand in front of her.

  “I can’t. I’m taller than you.”

  She blinks a few times, confused. “So?”

  “It’s further to fall?”

  “Come on. We’ll do it together.”

  “Hazel.”

  “Josh.”

  I glance around the yard, suddenly nervous. “The neighbors will see me.”

  Unswayed, she moves to my side and gets into position. “Come on, it’s dark. Arms up. One . . . two . . . three!”

  The world turns upside down and when it rights itself again, Hazel and I are a tangle of arms and legs in the grass, and I’m laughing so hard it hurts.

  “Ow,” I say, rubbing my stomach and everything else I managed to pull on the way down.

  “But was I right?” She’s breathless, hair wild and face flushed and how has nobody seen how crazy and fucking amazing she is?

  I decide right there to make sure somebody does.

  “Yeah, Haze. You were.”

  ELEVEN

  * * *

  HAZEL

  I wouldn’t exactly say we were scraping the bottom of the barrel by date seven, but Josh did feel the need to fake diarrhea, and I readily rushed him out to the car, apologizing profusely to our confused dates over my shoulder.

  I’d set him up with a girl I met in line at the grocery store. A word to the wise: that’s a bad idea, okay? She seemed so cool when we were talking about our shared love for the store’s juice bar, but it turned out that juicing was pretty much the only thing Elsa wanted to talk about other than her private asides to Josh about how willing she was to suck his dick in the bathroom.

  Josh set me up with a partner at the Fidelity branch that manages his money. (The fact that Josh has enough money to “manage” still boggles my mind. I’m thrilled when I have enough left over at the end of the month to order a pizza.) This partner, Tony, wasn’t terrible to look at, but he spent the first twenty minutes talking about what he could and couldn’t eat from the menu, and the next twenty minutes mansplaining the rules of football to me and Elsa. Elsa didn’t seem to notice; according to Josh, she was reaching for his crotch under the table every few seconds. He said it was like batting away piranhas in the Amazon.

  I probably would have suffered through it because my chicken parm was delicious, but Josh couldn’t take it and ran to the men’s room, with Elsa in close pursuit. Only his cry of “My stomach! I need a toilet!” kept her from following him in.

  He texted me from the bathroom, a manic SOS, and five minutes later we’re in his car with the music cranked and the bliss of sheer, unadulterated relief coursing through our bloodstreams.

  “That was the worst so far,” he tells me, turning right onto Alder. “I still feel her fist around my balls.”

  “I’d apologize and wish that never happened, but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of hearing you use the phrase ‘fist around my balls.’ ”

  He glares at me briefly.

  “Don’t even say it’s not funny, Josh. It’s incredibly funny.”

  I see him check the time on the dashboard, and follow his attention. It’s barely eight on a Friday night. I don’t feel like going back to my apartment, and I know that if Josh goes back to his he’ll just get in his sweats and watch TV. According to Emily, there has been a dramatic resurgence in Josh’s sweatpants-wearing since I moved out.

  “I’m still hungry,” I tell him. Getting him to stay out won’t be easy, and if theatrics are what it takes, I’m game. I rub at my stomach and do my best to look emaciated. “I left my delicious dinner to help protect your virtue.”

  It begins to drizzle outside, and Josh surprises me by turning down the music. I know hi
m well enough to anticipate that this next part is a peace offering. For some crazy reason Josh will bend over backward to make me happy. “We could stay out for a bit.”

  I smile in the dark car. “You’re reading my mind, Jiminnie.”

  He glances at me, and then flicks his turn indicator. “You up for some drinks with your food?”

  “When am I not?”

  ··········

  I’ve only seen Josh tipsy on one occasion, at Emily’s house over a couple bottles of soju. He got pink and giggly and just a little bit loud (well, loud for Josh) before falling asleep against my shoulder and waking up like nothing ever happened. Outside of that he isn’t much of a drinker, and when he does drink, he’s adorably slow. He nurses a single gin and tonic while I manage to quaff down three, an entire hamburger, and a basket of chips and salsa.

  He holds his glass, long fingers brushing away the drops of condensation. “Why are we so bad at this?”

  “Speak for yourself.” I hold up my empty glass. “I’m awesome.”

  “I mean the dating thing.” He runs his hand through the front of his hair. “People either have zero interest or want to bang in the restaurant.”

  The bartender takes the empty basket and replaces it with a new one full of fresh chips. I tell myself I really don’t need any more, but who am I kidding. I reach for a handful, saying, “That sounds pretty normal to me. It’s nothing, or sex.”

  He shakes his head, sipping from the drink that must be mostly melted ice by now. “I swear your dating experience is the oddest.”

  I look over at him. He’s so ridiculously hot, it amazes me that all women don’t react to him the way Elsa did. But he’s also so innocent in some ways. “No, Josh, listen. Haven’t you ever just wanted to rip someone’s clothes off?”

  “Of course.”

  “So you agree, don’t you, that you’ve had an instant attraction to every person you ended up sleeping with?”

  “Well, sure,” he concedes, “but most of the time I’m not trying to finger her under the table the first time we go to dinner.”