Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating

by Christina Lauren

  We squat by the freshly turned dirt, and I ease a cluster of roots from the package, handing it to her once she’s dug a small hole. “But I don’t want things to change,” I say.

  Mom rests a dirty hand on her knee where she’s squatted and turns to look at me. “Really? You want it to be like this between you and Josh forever? Setting each other up on bad dates? Coming home to just Winnie?”

  “And Vodka, Janis, and Daniel Craig.”

  She ignores my humor defense mechanism and digs another hole, holding out her hand for another cube of dirt and airy roots.

  “I don’t know how to explain it,” I add quietly, handing it over.

  “Try.”

  “Josh has always been this person who I admired. I mean, he’s beautiful, we all know that. But he also has that impossible kind of smart, and poise, and is emotionally-controlled. I’ve never been able to manage that type of calm, but he comes by it so naturally.” I stab the ground with the point of a small shovel. “And as a friend? He’s just . . . lovely. Loyal, and aware, and kind, and thoughtful. I sort of worship him.” Mom laughs, and I hand her another clump of roots. “I know I’m like Pig-Pen in Charlie Brown, and I have chaos around me, but it’s like he doesn’t even care. He doesn’t need me to change or pretend to be someone else. He’s my person. He’s my best friend.”

  Mom straightens, surveying her work. “I don’t know, honey, that seems sort of wonderful to me.”

  A dark streak of anxiety spirals through me. “It is. It was. But then we had sex. The thing is, I know on some instinctive level that I’m not right for Josh. I’m messy and silly and flighty. I forget to pay bills and sing made-up songs to my dog in public before realizing what I’m doing. I spent an entire summer arguing with the city council about not being able to have chickens in my apartment, and remember that time I bought all those balloons because they were a nickel each and then I couldn’t even fit into my car? I know without a doubt that that isn’t the kind of woman he needs.”

  A little bit of fire flickers through her eyes. “How can you say that?”

  I shrug. “I know him. He loves me as a friend. Maybe like a sister.”

  “He had sex with you,” Mom reminds me, and I feel the memory like a pulse in my chest. “In most places, that’s not a sisterly thing. Hazel, honey, are you in love with him?”

  Her question slams into me and I have no idea why. We’ve been headed there this entire conversation. I press my hands to my stomach, taking stock of what’s there and trying to translate the ache into words. “I’m not, you know, because I think there’s a fail-safe somewhere inside here. I don’t think I’d come back from that.”

  Mom nods, her eyes softening. “Is it strange that I’ve never had one of those? I’ve never really had a love that could consume me. I want to know that kind of fire.”

  “I’m not even sure I want that. If I set my heart on someone and they move on, I think it would wreck me.”

  Mom reaches up, running a muddy thumb along my jaw. “I get it, honey. I just want you to have the world. And if your world is Josh, then I want you to be brave and go after it.”

  “Because you’re my mama.”

  She nods. “Someday you’ll understand.”

  FIFTEEN

  * * *

  JOSH

  As usual, it takes Emily a solid ten minutes of silent menu perusal before she decides what she wants. We’ve been eating at this restaurant for years. I always get the same thing, so I spend her menu inspection time sorting the sugars, straightening the salt and pepper, staring out the window trying not to think about Hazel.

  Hazel beneath me, the warmth of her hands moving down my back, the bite of her nails. Her teeth on my shoulder and the sharp cry she made the second time she came.

  The second time. When she came, and came, and came.

  I’m definitely not thinking about the quiet way she mumbled she loved me when I carefully lowered her semiconscious naked body onto her bed.

  Emily slides the menu on the table, snapping my focus away from the window and back to the approaching waiter. She smiles up at him, giving her order before I give mine, and handing over our menus. We’ve yet to say a word to each other, and it feels like the tense beginning of a chess match, or the hush before the first serve at Wimbledon.

  My sister and I unroll our napkins in unison, tucking them onto our laps, and then we inhale, eyes meeting. When she looks at me, she doesn’t have to say what she’s thinking. But this is Emily, so of course she does.

  “Dude.”

  I nod. “I know.”

  “Josh.” With her elbows planted on the table, she leans in closer. “Like . . . seriously.”

  I shake my head, and thank the waiter when he returns to set my coffee in front of me. “I know, Em.”

  “What is this?” she asks, spreading her hands as if Hazel and I are naked right here at the table.

  I lift a shoulder. Honestly, I have no idea. It just happened. But looking back, it feels like we’d been headed there since the first time we saw each other at the barbecue. Even on our dates, she’s always been the center of my attention, the person I’m really with.

  “Is it a thing?”

  Emily’s foot bounces under the table and I reach out with my own, stilling it. “To who?” I ask. “Her or me?”

  “Either! Or both.”

  I pour a splash of cream into my mug. “I don’t know what it is, okay? My head is a mess.”

  “I know you, Josh,” she practically growls. “I know you. You’re the most serially monogamous guy I’ve ever met. You don’t just have sex with someone. I don’t care how drunk you are.”

  What can I say to this? It’s the same thing she said under her breath at her house before dinner. She isn’t wrong. I’ve never had casual sex. I’ve honestly never understood the impulse; sex is so supremely intimate. I give away a nonrefundable piece of myself, every time.

  When I don’t answer, she taps her index finger on the table as if to further emphasize her point. “You’re not that guy. You’ve never even tried to be that guy.”

  “Emily.” I put the cream down gently, feeling the tension from my fingertips all the way up my arm. “I know this about myself. Look at me, I’m not being blasé. It’s messing with my head, okay?”

  “Oppa,” she asks, sliding into Korean, “do you love her?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t, because it feels like the idea of saying it breaks something inside me open, exposing this precious organ. I’ve been avoiding the word since I stepped back from her bed, found my clothes in the dryer, and left her apartment. I gave love away so easily to Tabby, and compared to what I feel for Hazel? Those emotions now seem pathetically dilute, and still—I was bruised. That word—love—feels like a wrecking ball. I get the mental image of cracking open a walnut and staring at the pieces of flesh in my palm, knowing it can’t ever go back together.

  “Josh?”

  It seems hard to find enough air to form words. Hazel’s mouth and her shoulders, the soft pink tips of her breasts, her bursting laugh, and the quiet way she told me to stay inside her before she fell asleep beneath me on the floor—it all swims in my head. “I don’t know.”

  My sister leans back in her chair like she’s been pushed. “ ‘I don’t know’ means yes.”

  “I think I might.” I look at Emily. “I think I might be in love with her.”

  Our food is delivered and we thank the waiter with mumbled words. I watch Emily lift her fork and poke at her salad. Suddenly, I can’t even imagine eating.

  What if it’s not just a confused infatuation after good sex? What if it’s what my brain and heart seem to believe, and I really do love Hazel? What if she’s it for me, and I’m not it for her?

  I push my plate an inch or two farther away.

  “Josh, you guys are so different.”

  It’s honestly the last thing I need to hear right now. “Come on. I know that.”

  “She’s never going to be chill.
Hazel has no chill.”

  Despite my mood, this makes me laugh. “Em. Anyone who’s spent more than five minutes with her knows that.” I’m hit with a mental image of Hazel’s purple palm while she was cooking me pancakes. I wonder whether I’ll ever learn where the stain came from.

  And as if she’s said something unkind, Emily adds in a whisper, “But she’s the best. Hazel has the biggest heart.”

  A beast inside me has tightened a fist around my own heart when she says this. Hazel is without a doubt the best person I’ve ever known.

  “I thought you wanted to set us up, Em. After the barbecue?”

  “I did,” she says. “But you’re so close now. It worries me.”

  “Me too.”

  “You can’t hurt her.”

  I meet my sister’s eyes and see the heat there. It’s a moment before I can speak past the emotion clogging my throat. “I wouldn’t—I won’t.”

  “I’m serious.” She points her fork at me. “You have to be sure. You have to be positive. Hazel’s like this rogue star that just sort of floats around. She has a lot of friends—because how can you not love her?—but only a few she’s close to. You’re really important to her. She would honestly break if she lost you, Josh.”

  I look up at her, skeptical. Hazel is made of brick and fire and iron. “Come on, Em.”

  “You don’t think I’m serious?”

  “Hazel isn’t fragile. She’s a brute.”

  “Where you’re concerned she is. She idolizes you.” She pulls her cheek up in a sarcastic smile. “God knows why.”

  I sigh, blinking down at the swirling white in the brown coffee.

  “But if you changed your mind about something like that,” Emily says, “I think that’s the one thing that could dim her light. We both know Hazel is a butterfly. I think you have the power to take the dust from her wings.”

  SIXTEEN

  * * *

  HAZEL

  Amonth of normal hang-out time is what Josh and I seem to need in order to stop having to make a joke about the Drunk Sex all the time to show how OKAY WITH IT we are. Every weekend for the subsequent four weeks, we do very friend-appropriate things, like catch a couple of plays, peruse local art galleries, have dinner with Emily and Dave where we assure them we haven’t slept together again, and avoid bars and drinking (and nudity) whenever possible. Josh even starts bringing me lunch every Wednesday at school so we can Just Hang Out.

  In the end, maybe it’s good that I have intimate knowledge of his penis so that I can confidently recommend him to my friends for the dating?

  We are definitely—very vocally—Totally Ready to Try the Double-Dating Thing Again, so I pick up his date, Sasha, at the yoga studio where she teaches, because she says it will be easier for her to shower and get ready there than go all the way home on the bus. Things I have learned about Sasha since asking her to come on this blind double date:

  1. She has never owned a car, nor does she ever plan to.

  2. Her clothes are all made from hemp, vegan leather, or recycled soda bottles.

  3. She hasn’t cut her hair in four years because she doesn’t feel it’s given her permission.

  Although she seems like a conscientious and lovely person, I’m no longer feeling very confident that she’s a good match for Josh, per se. To be perfectly honest, it might be time to admit I’m not a very good matchmaker—we’ve had a lot of duds.

  We’re having dinner at one of John Gorham’s restaurants, Tasty n Sons. Toro Bravo is probably my favorite restaurant in all of Portland, but I’ve never been to this one of his, and I have purposefully not eaten anything since breakfast so that I can stuff my gob and require Josh to roll me home in a wheelbarrow, date or no date.

  When I pick her up, Sasha looks fantastic. She’s wearing black jeans and a cute red T-shirt that shows off great boobs. Good job, hemp! Her hair is up in some sort of Rapunzel braid that looks like it weighs about seventy pounds. When we walk into the crowded restaurant, heads turn. I’m pretty sure if Josh and the guy he’s bringing—someone named Jones—didn’t show up, Sasha and I could have a pretty hot ladies’ night out.

  But a hand goes up in the back and waves us over; of course Josh is already here.

  “Oh my God, is that him?” Sasha leans to the side, staring toward the table where Josh has now stood. I start to agree that yes, I am the most generous yoga student in her class and she should totally give me a discount, but then the person beside him stands, too, and oh.

  My head goes blank for

  one,

  two,

  three,

  four breaths.

  I already know “Jones.”

  He isn’t Jones Something. He’s Tyler Jones.

  I rarely have moments that throw me, but this one is a doozy. Tyler was my six months. Six months together followed by years of him studiously manipulating me into thinking we might happen again someday so that I’d sleep with him again, and again.

  Josh knows about Tyler, but not the extent of the head games he played, and without a doubt Josh has no idea that my ex Tyler is the gym buddy he calls Jones.

  And damn it, Ty looks good. He’s still got that soft floppy blond skater hair that falls over his left eye. His knee-buckling smile hasn’t changed with time, the scar on his chin is still the best way to make a great face better, and he’s still insanely tall for no good reason. Tonight he has on a well-worn flannel and some perfectly beat-up button-fly jeans that cover up what I know to be a magical dong. I bet under the table I’d see his requisite black Chuck Taylors and in his back pocket he’s tucked his Yankees cap. It’s like walking backward into my life from six years ago.

  The expectant smile is wiped clean off Tyler’s face when he sees me and moves around the table. He pushes his way through the crowd, coming at me like a predator, and I’m the prey with no survival skills—just rooted in place. Sasha has made her way to Josh and I assume they’re doing the introductions without us because all I can really see is Tyler marching closer, heads turning because—let’s face it—he’s a hot man on a mission. Before I’ve decided whether I’m going to stay, or turn and run, his arms are around my waist and I’m off the floor with his face pressed into my neck as he says my name over, and over, and over.

  Hazel, Hazel, Hazel.

  Oh my God.

  Holy shit, what are you doing here?

  How are you?

  I had no idea it would be you!

  Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

  Josh’s eyes meet my wide gaze over Tyler’s shoulder, and I can see him trying to work this out. Without context it must look like one hell of a blind date greeting. His brows pinch down in question, and I mouth a simple Tyler.

  I can make out the swear word from here. Tyler Jones? his lips say next, and I nod.

  Sasha puts her hand on his arm to redirect his attention back to her, but I can tell he’s only ten percent there. Every few seconds he looks up at me, and I’m watching him as if he can somehow guide me on what to do here.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” Tyler says, putting my feet back on the floor, cupping my jaw, and bending so we’re face-to-face.

  I bite my lip, pulling back a little because I have the distinct impression he’s about to kiss me. “It was . . . a surprise for me, too.”

  “Really?” His mouth takes on a cockily skeptical curve. “I thought Josh told you who you were meeting.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I never knew you as ‘Jones.’ ”

  Only now does it occur to him that I wasn’t trying to surprise him with this “blind” date, and that I had no idea that he would be here. God, it’s so typical of Tyler to think this has somehow all been orchestrated for him.

  He ducks down again, catching my eyes. “I hope it’s a good surprise?”

  This throws me a little, this display of hesitance.

  “I’m still deciding,” I tell him. “The last time I saw you, you were sneaking out of my bedroom without saying goodbye. You l
eft for Europe the next day with the person I later realized was your girlfriend.”

  His eyes hold on to mine, and he’s nodding the entire time I’m speaking, like my words are gifts bestowed by a benevolent goddess. “I was a shit. I was a complete shit to you, Hazel, and it’s haunted me every day.” Tyler lets out a shaking exhale, and he seems genuinely thrown. “Holy crap, I can’t believe you’re here.”

  He jerks me again into his chest, and my expression of surprise is smashed against his sternum.

  My fingers are shaking when his giant hand engulfs them and he tugs, leading me back to the table where Josh and Sasha are seated and ordering drinks. I come up right as Josh is saying, “Aaaand the woman walking up just now will have a double Bulleit and ginger.” He meets my eyes, and adds, “In a short glass.”

  Josh knows I need to toss one back right now. It must be written all over my face.

  “Josh, dude!” Tyler smacks the table and the salt and pepper shakers clatter together. “You didn’t tell me Hazel is Hazel Bradford! Did you know she’s the love of my life?”

  Josh’s jaw drops to the floor, and I too want to guffaw heartily at Tyler’s declaration. How many Hazels has he met in his life? I also want to let out a banshee scream loud enough to break every window in the establishment.

  “We were together for two and a half years, man,” Tyler says, and as I start to challenge this calculation, he sees Sasha and apologizes for being rude (Tyler? Apologizing for social snubs?), reaching to shake her hand with the one that isn’t still wrapped around mine. “Sorry, sorry. I’m Tyler.”

  “Sasha,” she says, dazed, like we are as fascinating as early-days reality television.

  “I’m totally freaking out right now.” Tyler looks back at me and wipes his free hand across his forehead as if he’s sweating from the shock of it all. “Josh and I work out together sometimes. I had no idea he was fixing me up with my ex. I’ve been thinking about this woman every day for the past four years.”