by Ellie Hall
We’d discussed the situation at length after I fell out of the pose in class the other day. He suggested I pray about it.
All signs point toward Maxwell. Yet, I resist.
“He’s picking me up here after I teach my lunch class.”
“He got off work early, and he has a car?” Omar whistles. “Flexible and successful. Nice catch.”
“Don’t remind me about the car ride. Wait, do you have a brother who also happens to be a thug? I could hire him to strong-arm Maxwell in the alley. He could tell him that I’m spoken for. It was an arranged marriage, and I forgot—”
“I do have a brother. Soon I’ll have many when I join the seminary, but I’ve also seen Maxwell when he dropped off those biscuits the other day. The dude is bigger and probably stronger than me and my bro, combined.”
“He’s just as buff as you. You’re made of steel.”
“Hazel, occupational hazard. I notice these things, okay. Trust me, the guy is pure muscle.”
“Yeah, I know.” I sigh, shifting my weight between my feet.
“You’re nervous.”
A masculine figure approaches the glass doors of the entrance.
Omar raises his eyebrows indicating it’s game time.
I whip around.
Maxwell wears a dark suit. It fits his broad shoulders perfectly. The middle button is fastened. The tie is as neat as a pin even as the wind ruffles his hair. The pants are tailored for the perfect fit.
“Breathe,” Omar reminds me at a whisper.
I bite my lip. The nervousness bubbles over.
The door opens and then seals shut.
“You’re early,” I slur-mumble as Maxwell leans in and kisses me on the cheek.
The room is suddenly twenty degrees warmer.
Maxwell is a gentleman, or he’s marking his territory. He doesn’t have to worry about Omar. The guy is on the road to priesthood and sainthood should we be so blessed.
“I wanted to take your class before sitting in the car for hours.”
“Smart man,” Omar says, approvingly.
We make formal introductions and they exchange pleasantries while I fight the fluttering in my stomach, my chest, my toes!
I lead the students through yoga poses, making a last-minute change from invigorating heart openers to mindful stillness, with long stretches and meditative silence. It’s the best I can do to keep the shake out of my voice and the quiver in my fingers from being too obvious with Maxwell on the mat a few feet away.
Halfway through, I have a student demonstrate a pose and then go around the class, adjusting alignment. When I reach Maxwell, pressed into downward dog, I see how tight his hamstrings are. Sweat pools on the mat beneath his head. His hands slip. I run my hand along his spine, indicating he lengthen more. I draw his hips back and encourage a slight bend in the knees.
I take a breath. Maybe he’s just as nervous as me.
Afterward, we grab coffees near the studio before heading out of town.
While waiting for our orders, I say, “I’ve always thought you can tell a lot about a person by how they take their coffee. Espresso versus cappuccino for instance. Drinkers of the former are ready to get things done, are on the go, and tend to blend one word into the next in an attempt to say ALL THE THINGS.” Case in point as I take my latte from the barista.
Maxwell smiles. “And what about cappuccino drinkers?” he asks.
“They’re more inclined to sip their frothy morning beverage over a long philosophical conversation that highlights how smart they think they are.”
He chuckles. “What about people who take their coffee black with a sprinkle of sugar?” Maxwell takes his cup, filled with the same.
“They’re the bittersweet type. They tend to see the big picture. People who take their coffee black incline toward being moody and broody. And those who take their morning cuppa light and sweet often use a straw so they don’t mess up their lipstick. In other words, they’re perfectionists.”
Maxwell chuckles. “And what about people who never order the same thing twice?”
“I’d say they’re playing it safe.”
Something I ordinarily do but recently seem to have lost all sense of reason.
“Any other theories?” he asks as he opens the door of his slick BMW for me.
“Catherine likens men to dogs. Before you get defensive, if you heard her explanation it makes a certain kind of sense.”
“What do you think?”
I don’t know. “I used to theorize that there are a few kinds of people in the world: swans, peacocks, and pigeons.”
Maxwell chuckles. “Those are birds, not people.”
“Let me explain. Swans are all about forever. Someday I’ll get married, but it’s mostly for the experience and the dress.” The instant this is out of my mouth, my stomach squirms with the falsehood. “I’m a peacock so you’d better believe I’ll be parading around in my finery on my wedding day. But I also like to fly solo—I need my independence, like Mew. However, swans mate for life.”
“You’re not a love for life kind of gal?”
This time I tell the truth. “I don’t know. Then there are pigeons. They’re the ones filled with uncertainty. Not really knowing where they fit or what they want only it’s not what they have.”
“Are you really likening relationships to the avian kingdom?”
“I am,” I say as a pigeon pecks at something questionable by a sewer drain when we stop at a light.
Maxwell shakes his head. “There’s so much wrong with your theory. First, you can’t be a peacock because they’re male. You’d be a peahen which just sounds weird. Second, you’re a cat person. Birds and cats? Seems like a conflict waiting to happen.”
Our laughter diffuses the tension. For now.
Later, while Maxwell weaves through traffic, I have my doubts—about his nervousness. He’s all kinds of casual confidence with one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift. His jacket drapes over the seat in the back and the sleeves of his button-down shirt are rolled up while the heat warms us against the chill as we head north.
On the other hand, I’m painfully aware we’re sharing a car, not a cab. In the latter, if I needed to get out, I could tell the driver to pull over, but if I tell Maxwell to stop on the corner and let me out, he’ll just think I’m crazy. Plus he knows where I live. I have to walk by his door every day. It’s not like I can avoid him.
As the closely stacked buildings and bustling pedestrians thin, giving way to bridges and broader lanes, I notice there isn’t a Starbucks on every corner. The familiarity and comfort fades as we cross state lines. I turn my attention to the interior of the car: a centering practice one of my yoga teachers suggested to help calm nerves and remain in the present moment instead of thinking about the future and weddings and commitments and heartbreak.
Steering wheel. Windshield. Dashboard. A mix of guitar-heavy songs plays through the speakers. It smells like new car scent. Then there’s Maxwell who looks too delicious for his own good sitting behind the wheel as he tells me about some of his baking creations.
“Have you been to Vermont before?” he asks. “I hear they make the best maple syrup.”
“A few times—to this resort and another further north. How about you?”
“Used to come up here every winter with my family. My parents sold the log cabin when they divorced. Actually, I haven’t been back since. When I want slopes and snow usually I go out west.”
We delicately avoid discussing family as tiny snowflakes melt on the windshield. Despite the heat in the car, chills work their way across my skin. The grind of metal striking metal sounds in the distant past.
I swallow thickly. “Can we slow down?”
Maxwell lets off the accelerator with a look of concern. “You okay? Carsick? I can pull over.”
I should tell him about the accident, but I say something slightly less difficult only because if I think or speak about that fateful night I’m sure
to cry. It happens every time. “I’ve never taken a trip with a guy before.” No, it’s a tie; they’re both tough on the emotions and the ego.
“You mean not this soon?”
This soon as in the relationship? “No, I mean never.” That’s not what I meant about slowing down, or was it?
He chuckles genially. “Well, clearly we should get to know each other better. Um, I’m Maxwell Benedict Davis. I know, I have a pretentious name.” He speaks as if we’re meeting for the first time.
“Not pretentious at all,” I say with a shrug. “I’m Hazel Aphrodite Loves. You can thank my British, Greek, Kenyan, Indian, and Russian relatives. All family names. Well, my second middle name is Arya, but then it just becomes a mouthful and I can’t fill in the little boxes on forms.” I will not be telling him about my nickname from when I was at a yoga retreat in India, thank you very much.
“They’re all beautiful. Mine is boring. What would you name your kids?”
“Um, kids?” My cheeks blister and my stomach flip flops.
“Yeah, hypothetically. I ask only because I notice people with long or unusual names often opt to name their kids something simple and classic.”
“Then I take it your parents’ names were John and Jane.”
He smiles. “Actually John and Ann, but you were close.”
“Seriously?”
“Quite. They’re all family names like yours. Tell me more about yourself.”
“Hazel Loves is my real name. People often wonder. You can ask the boys in the schoolyard. They got a kick out of saying things like, ‘Hazel Loves the locker room laundry bin or Hazel Loves Albert’—not the prince. Ooh and my least favorite Hazel Loves poo.”
Maxwell holds in laughter.
“What else can I tell you? I teach yoga, live next to a hot guy, and my best friend and I have a soft spot for cookies. Chocolate chip in particular. Your turn. What’s your job like?”
“A hot guy, huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “As you know, I work for an investment firm. Seriously, you don’t want to hear about it. Boring. Baking on the other hand...”
“Except for the quarterly trips to tropical islands.”
“It’s still work, though maybe you’d like to come with me sometime. I’m going to Turks and Caicos in the spring.”
One trip at a time, buddy, one trip at a time.
The drone of the tires on the asphalt between songs punctuates the silence that follows our mutual hesitancy to talk more about real-life outside our baking bubble.
“My siblings and I used to play a game on the ride up here when we were kids.”
“I’m good at playing games,” I say in a more surly voice than I mean to. The fearful fighter in me prevails. The snow forms a thin layer on the road ahead, and I grip my seatbelt.
“It’s called two truths and one lie. Since we don’t know a ton about each other—I’ll go first and then you’ll get the picture of how to play. Just guess which thing I say isn’t true.”
“Easy enough.” I refuse to think about the Galentine’s game.
“I’ve watched every episode of Friends. I lived in Japan for a year. That time I baked cookies, and you came over, was the first time I’d ever baked on my own.”
“Friends,” I guess.
“I’ve watched every episode twice at least.”
“Should I ask why?”
“Sisters.”
“How many Davis’ are there?”
“Five. Three boys. Two girls. Your turn.”
“Oh, that’s right. You mentioned your family at the Galentine’s Day party. What was a lie?” I ask.
“I’ve never lived in Japan.”
There are reams and scrolls and stacks of facts he doesn’t know about me. “I was a fitness model while I was in college. I’ve watched every Harry Potter film twice.” I weigh the last one carefully. I already told him I’ve never been on a trip with a guy before. I’m about to say that I’ve never been to Japan either, but I blurt, “I’ve never been in love.”
Cabin Fever
Maxwell
Hazel’s previous turn in our two truths and one lie game about never being in love was definitely false. There’s no way that’s possible. I got a work call, so we moved on.
In the next two hours, I do learn that she was a runner in high school and college, has an obsession with clothing, and that she is not fond of monkeys.
“I’ve been an extra in a movie, spend a week every summer with all my siblings and their families—” I leave out the part that I’m the only one left who’s single and don’t gripe about how this upsets my parents. In fact, it’s better not to mention them. “Binxy, our Labrador retriever, used to eat rocks and leave them around the house.”
Hazel tilts her head back and forth in thought about my truths and lie. “You’ve never been an extra in a movie. You’d be the lead for sure.”
That’s the second time she’s commented on my appearance. Is that all I am to her? A hot, hunky extra in her life. Voices of doubt swirl. I snap my fingers. “Wrong. I was in the background during a shot when I used to work on the Wall Street trading floor.”
“So what was the lie?”
“Binxy used to eat coins, not rocks, and leave them around the house. She wasn’t the smartest dog, but I was the only one in the family she listened to.”
“Except about not eating coins?”
I chuckle.
Hazel tells me about her love of hiking. “I have bucket list mountains—Elbrus among them. But my trip to Antarctica several years ago quickly taught me that I’ll never scale all of the Seven Summits. I don’t tolerate cold well.”
“What about hitting the slopes this weekend?”
“I’m envisioning sitting by the warm fire with a beverage and a book.”
“And what about a bake?”
“Have you decided on your recipes?”
“I had to submit them by midnight last night.” I hope I made the right choices. I have to prepare three total along with the other twelve contestants—we’re called the baker’s dozen.
“And what will you be wowing everyone with?”
“Surprise.”
“Oh, come on. Tell me.”
I make a my lips are sealed gesture. But I won’t lie. I have thought about kissing her. In front of one of those warm fires that are sure to be at the lodge.
Hazel talks some more about her travels and what got her into yoga. However, there is no further mention of her love life or lack thereof. Her obsession with clothing is nothing compared to how my mind fixates on that, but I don’t dare ask her. That would open up a door I’m not ready to enter.
As the highway narrows to two lanes and then one, with trees on one side and sparse settlements on the other, the talk turns easeful. I realize we aren’t trapped in the car at all. In fact, it’s kind of nice together in this journey north.
But then I realize we’ll be at the resort together for three days. Three days! That means a lot of time, minus during the contest. What do two people do together for that long? It’s a good thing one of the benefits of yoga is stress reduction. But if I ask her for a session, that means more time together. Then there is the ride back. What if things don’t work out? I shift gears, putting the road, and my thoughts, behind me.
“You okay?” I ask when I notice she’s white-knuckling the center console.
Maybe the idea of so much time together away from our usual routines got to her too.
“Yeah. We’re just so far from—”
“Civilization?” I say, finishing for her.
“Something like that.”
The trees lining the winding road leading to the resort look like upside-down hearts frosted in sugar. When we park, like the gentleman I am, I open the door for Hazel. A porter takes our bags.
When she bounces on her toes as the cold sneaks between the seams of her parka, scarf, and hat, I draw her closer. “I’ll warm you up.”
If we were an actual couple, she’d lean her hea
d against my shoulder, angle her jaw up a degree or two, and we’d kiss. But we aren’t so we don’t. But what are we? What do I want us to be? The UUniversity lessons come to mind about identifying what I truly want in life.
Yes, I’m still doing research. It’s for the junior team I’m mentoring. Sheesh.
We walk under a massive wooden overhang, with outdoor heaters, and into the lobby.
Hazel, with her graceful movements now that she’s no longer an icicle, looks right at home among the polished wood and rustic elegance of the lobby with stained glass and brass embellishments, cushioned seating areas, and loads of flowers.
At the check-in counter, the resort employee greets us warmly. “Let me guess, you’re here for our signature romantic weekend getaway. You both have that glow about you. I take it you’ll be spending plenty of time in one of the cabin suites with an outdoor hot tub.” Her voice has a bubbly quality.
But it pops in the long pause that follows.
“Oh, um, we’re not together,” Hazel blurts.
My stomach knots.
The clerk tilts her head slightly.
“I meant we have separate rooms.” Hazel’s cheeks flame red and she wrings her hands. Her gaze darts everywhere but at me.
“I’m here for the baking contest,” I explain.
“I’m the support team and—”
The clerk goes on to rave excitedly about the event, Polly Spoonwell, and how she wonders what they do with the leftover desserts.
I wink. “If they let us share, I’ll bring you some.”
The gal behind the desk smiles and types away on the computer to register our rooms. “Oh, gosh. I am so sorry. It looks like we’re overbooked and the only rooms we have left are the cabin suites with the hot tubs. Consider it an upgrade. But don’t worry. There are two private rooms and a kitchen if you need to test any of your baking.” I get a wink this time.
I give Hazel a questioning glance.
Her shoulder lifts and lowers. “If that’s all that’s left, I guess we don’t have a choice.”
We settle on the cabin suite and for the trouble, the clerk suggests we relax by the fire in the lounge and someone will bring us each complimentary warm mulled cider.
