by Ellie Hall
“Or commits or gets led on or deceived.”
The ring practically pulses in my pocket. “Which means we’re perfect for each other.”
“Are we?” Her eyes flicker and land on mine.
“We go together like chocolate and caramel. Apple pie and ice cream. Berries and whipped cream.”
“Cookies and milk.” The corners of Hazel’s lips lift.
An idea for a redo of the magical moment I’d hoped for comes to mind.
“I’ll admit, I assumed the worst about you two.” Hazel lifts and lowers a shoulder.
I grip them both. “I think the point was to make you question things, to feel jealous. I promise you have nothing to worry about.”
“In that case, I should ask, are we more than friends? Are we together?”
“I’d like to be? You?”
She nods.
“Hazel, will you be my girlfriend?” Even though this is a training wheels question in preparation for the big one, the words come easier than I expect.
“I want to be.”
“In that case—” I lean in to kiss her.
Just then, a surprised shout comes from nearby. The young woman with braids, face slack, stares at Polly.
In fact, everyone does.
I try to bring myself back to the conversation with Hazel, but our attention remains on the girl who’s now crying. I glance around for an explanation. Her shoulders shake as she sobs into her hands. A balding guy with glasses pats her on the shoulder.
“Brenda, are you okay? What happened?” Hazel hurries over.
She wipes her eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing,” Dorothy says.
From the corner of my eye, I watch as Polly crosses her arms in front of her chest.
“Was it caught on camera?” someone asks.
“No, but her treachery with the Banker Baker’s cake was,” someone else whispers. “So is this.” I notice they have their phone out. I am not for public humiliation but am confident the very existence of this content might get Polly to back off.
Hazel rubs circles on Brenda’s back, trying to soothe her and help her breathe.
Around fitful sobs, the young woman says, “Polly said I was the reason extra-large was invented and that I should lay off the cake and mind my own business. It’s just that I saw what she did to Maxwell’s table. It isn’t the first time either. I can’t just keep quiet anymore.”
Dorothy says, “No, you can’t. It’s time someone spoke up. I’m only sorry I hadn’t either. I held out hope that Polly might come around. Sorry to say all that sugar went to her head.”
“At least it hasn’t gone to my hips,” Polly snaps.
Everyone in the room gasps.
“She told me we’ll special-order a shirt that says wide load, coming through. She said I was fat and if I knew what was good for me I’d keep my big, fat mouth shut.” Brenda is in tears again.
Hazel and I lock eyes.
She shakes her head. “Brenda, don’t listen to Polly. If you feel shamed because of your size, remember this, you aren’t fat. You may have fat just like you have a pinky toe, but you aren’t a pinky. We don’t go around saying, ‘Oh, look at that pinky person. Let’s criticize her because she’s different.’ Own who you are and what you look like. Honor that body of yours as a force of nature whatever size it is.” Just then, Hazel ducks down.
I fear Polly is about to throw a punch and Hazel is avoiding it with cat-like reflexes, but my girlfriend pops back up with the remains of my chocolate cake on the platter.
“Polly, in case you forgot what sugar tastes like. Try to add some to your words.” In one swift motion, she mashes the chocolate in Pooty Pootwell’s face.
A long silence follows.
Then someone starts to clap slowly. Another pair of hands join and another.
I expect Polly to go rabid, but her tongue flicks out of her mouth and her shoulders lower a measure. “That. Is. Delicious. And you’re right. I needed that.”
Everyone, including Polly bursts into laughter.
At that, Hazel and I rush outside and onto the lantern-lit path. The snow sparkles. We catch our breath and laugh.
“That was awesome.”
“She needed a little sweetness in her life.”
As we sit down on a bench, Hazel’s fingers brush mine. The iron in my blood magnetizes to hers.
“I’m disappointed that I didn’t get to taste what you baked.”
“Me too. But I imagine it tasted like justice.”
Her giggle is like tinkling bells in the cool night.
“I didn’t realize justice could be delicious...and chocolate. Talk about awesome, it was incredible.”
I go on to tell her about my crowning glory, but leave out the part about why I made it.
Her eyes are dreamy in the dim light and we meet for a kiss.
Behind the Wheel
Hazel
Maxwell smells like cold snow and the fabric of his jacket chills the burn in my cheeks from doing a brash, bold, and hazelnutty thing. I don’t know what came over me, tossing a hunk of cake at Polly, but she had it coming.
Only, there’s no time to think about it because once more, I’m lost in Maxwell’s lips as we kiss.
We kiss until his lips are warm and mine are cold. We kiss until I forget about fears and trepidation. The refuge of Maxwell’s lips provides a great distraction from the bubbles in my stomach.
He asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes.
An obnoxious voice inside me whines. It snarls. It gnashes its teeth. Watch out, I’m pretty handy with a hunk of cake, I warn.
I blink my eyes open, taking a peek at Maxwell. The dim lantern light softens his masculine edges, bathing him in a gentle glow.
He won’t hurt me I tell that stubborn wound in my chest.
After the eventful morning, Maxwell decides to forfeit his position in the contest. We go back and forth, but he feels strongly that it’s the right thing given what Polly asked him. After a brief talk with the organizers, he signs a document and the rest will make social media history.
“I can just see the hashtags now. “Banker Baker cashes in his dough.”
We both laugh and decide to blow off some steam snowboarding. After a couple of runs down the mountain, I wait at the bottom for Maxwell. It gets dark early this far north and I’m getting cold. We probably missed each other, and he headed back up on the chair lift.
That means it’s time to head to the lodge. I warm up by the fire and order us both cups of cider like we had our first night here.
While I scroll the social media fiasco, a resort employee hurries over sans drinks. He whispers a message discretely in my ear. My heart stutters, sinks, and I swallow what feels like cold, cold ice.
I take a shuttle ride to the first aid station, my mind racing ahead in panic. I do something that isn’t yogic breathing, huffing and holding, huffing and holding.
“You okay, miss?” the driver asks.
I don’t know what I am, but it’s not okay.
An ambulance idles outside when we pull up, but the lights aren’t on. Oh dear. I rush through the door, bringing in the snow on my boots and concern in my voice when I say, “What happened? Will he be okay?”
Two EMTs dressed in snow gear hover over Maxwell. His right leg is lifted and splinted. “He’s stabilized but needs to get to the hospital. Are you his wife?”
Maxwell’s eyes rim red with pain when they meet mine. It’s from the cold. It can’t be that bad, can it?
The EMT says, “He needs emergency care. It could be broken. He has to be checked for spinal damage as well.”
Diagnoses and fear blizzard through my mind.
They load him into the ambulance. I never answered the question about whether I’m his wife, but the assumption was there, and his eyes begged me not to disagree. I wouldn’t want to be alone right now either.
I want to ask what happened. I want to ask if he’s okay. I want to
ask what this all means, but I keep my mouth shut and slide my hand into his. It’s what I wanted all those years ago. Instead, I was by myself and scared.
After riding along the curving, icy roads, I scurry behind the EMTs as they rush him into the ER. The emergency room personnel disappear with him behind a curtain. I stand there starkly, my hands clasped together, listening as he moans in agony, as voices call commands.
One of the EMTs, a woman in her forties with deep rings beneath her eyes, approaches. “Unfortunately we see accidents like this all the time. I’m sorry. I mean that. It’s never easy to see someone you care about in pain.” She smiles and claps me on the shoulder and glances at my fingers.
Of course, we’re not married. We’re not wearing rings. But I don’t need to say it.
“I’ll keep that to myself,” she says with an astute nod at my hand. “But I will share this; he was asking for you. Well, at first he was using combinations of cuss words that would make even the most hardened northerners blush, myself included, but once we had him stabilized, he asked for you, Hazel, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Between you and me, his leg will be fine. I’m not a doctor, so don’t sue me if I’m wrong, but chances are he’ll be up and walking again in six weeks, tops.” She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “In my non-expert opinion his spine isn’t injured, but I’ll leave that to the professionals to determine.” She winks.
A wave of relief washes over me.
“But that does not mean he won’t be without pain. And that does not mean you can walk away from him in his time of need. You may not be married, but I recommend you stick by him. Understand?”
My eyebrow creeps into an arch as I try to make sense of what she’s telling me. “Okay...?” Does she know I’m only now getting used to the idea of being someone’s girlfriend?
“If the problem is what I think it is, they’ll be calling you in to discuss things in a little while.”
A little while turns into three hours as I revisit the humming and beeping unique to hospitals that had been the soundtrack to my own life long ago. I wonder if there’s a way to reach Maxwell’s family. His phone is back at the cabin. How will we get home? What should I do? Questions circulate in my mind as I sit here, helpless.
Another hour passes. I get a vending machine hot chocolate. It’s bitter and watery.
Another hour and I read every tattered magazine in the room.
Yet another hour goes by until finally, a nurse calls, “Mrs. Davis?”
I glance around the room. Oh, me. The pieces of the Styrofoam cup I shredded fall to the floor. I hastily pick them up and follow the nurse down a narrow but brightly lit corridor. Behind the first curtain, there’s coughing and hacking. Then there’s whining and crying. At last, there’s Maxwell, propped up in an adjustable bed with his leg in a plastic air cast.
“The good?” he asks. “You’re here.”
I take his hand and ask, “The bad?”
“Fracture. Stupid black diamond slope. Ice patch. Ego out of control.” His eyes drift and droop with relief, humility, pain medicine, and the awareness that the nurse called Mrs. Davis, and I answered, hurrying to his side.
I finally take a breath. They probably kept him waiting so long for test results and more acute patient’s needs.
I sit on the edge of the bed and rub the furrows of his palm just like my mom did when I was in the hospital bed after the accident. “No, Maxwell, that’s good.” It could be so much worse.
He’s too bleary on pain medication to ask what I mean or argue.
The nurse brings over a chart and gives me a lengthily rundown of his needs and care. “Every four hours or as needed for pain... Insurance... Primary care... Follow-ups…”
“Thank you,” I reply.
“A shuttle from the resort will be here at any moment to transport you back. The EMT arranged it. Be safe,” she says, before exiting.
“Now what?” I ask vaguely.
Maxwell’s eyes are closed.
What did my mother do for me? Wheelchair, bed, fluids, comfort, encouragement, companionship. I can do that.
Back in the cabin, the fire blazes in the hearth, and a pair of metal warming dishes sit on the table. The first aid center must have communicated with the resort, informing them of our dilemma.
That night, I have the recurring nightmare of the accident that left me wounded so long ago. Waking in twisted sheets and sweat, I witness the transition of the night sky from deep black to dark blue, to faded purple, to gray.
My mind whirs, preventing me from dozing back off. How do we get back to the city? What about after we get back?
This is but one reason I prefer avoiding romantic entanglements. There is too much uncertainty. There are too many feelings. To wide a margin for error or broken legs.
Maxwell stirs from undisturbed sleep while I provide pain pills, water, and a few slices of toast.
“Are you up for the drive?” he asks.
“Are you?”
“As lovely as this place is, I’d like to get home and see my doctor tomorrow.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Keys are in my jacket,” he says, pointing.
“I’m driving?” I ask.
“Unless you can fly…”
I’m not sure if that was a joke or if the dosage of pain medication has kicked in because the way he looks at me suggests he sees an angel. I begin to gather up our things. Yes, I can drive, but whether I want to is another matter entirely.
Accelerator, brake, clutch. Blinkers, windshield wipers. We’re buckled in. The key is in the ignition, but I’m as frozen as the icicles hanging off the eaves of the lodge.
I’m waiting for Maxwell to say something about getting a move on. He can’t be comfortable squished into the passenger seat, even reclined, but we timed his pain management to make the ride as smooth as possible for him.
The sky overhead hangs with dense gray clouds. The ride is under five hours. I’ve driven along the entire eastern seaboard, during an ill-conceived trip to get out of Manhattan one college spring break when Mother Nature dumped more snow than the streets could handle.
I can do this. I grip the wheel. I turn the key. I’m sliding and then falling into memory.
Yogic breathing. Stay present. Still the mind.
I am safe. I am in control of the car.
The tires crunch over the snow until we reach the main road where the damp cement spits under us. The narrow lane widens and I make a cautious turn toward the highway.
A black SUV with New York plates honks in frustration as I take an agonizingly long time reaching the speed limit. It swerves out from behind me with another blare of its horn. Maxwell remains sedate beside me.
By the time we leave Vermont, gentle flakes drop slowly enough that I count them on the windshield, turning on the wipers when I reach twenty, then thirty flakes. When snow frames the glass, I lean forward. My heart pounds in my throat.
Even though it was decades ago, once more, I see the slide. Feel the loss of control. Butterflies bump in my belly. My father’s voice, then my mother waiting for his response before the world went darker than night.
I blink my eyes. “It’s a memory, that’s all.” I exhale.
Should we get off the road? Find somewhere to stay? What if we freeze to death?
I swallow, but my throat is dry.
The defroster blasts white noise instead of music on the stereo like when Maxwell confidently drove us north in a similar storm.
Another SUV blows by us. I follow the glow of red taillights until they disappear. The number of car lengths I can see ahead decreases until the headlights reflect off a white wall of snow.
If we were playing two truths and one lie, the only true thing I could tell Maxwell right now is that I am terrified.
I drop into first gear.
From the passenger seat, Maxwell says, “You can do this.” His voice is quiet, comforting, and solid. In his tone, I don’t hear him
asking me please to get us home safely, he knows I will. He’s sharing his reserve of confidence with me. His hand grips mine and then moves to my leg, so I can keep both hands on the wheel, not letting go until the sky gradually opens again and we’re back in New York where the snow is merely a sprinkle.
I feel like cheering when the white carpet of the road reveals black asphalt.
I want to pump my arm when billboards and traffic crowd the roadway.
I could kiss the steering wheel when I maneuver into the underground garage and stow the car. Instead, I kiss Maxwell.
“You did well,” he says. “I kept my eyes closed because I didn’t want to distract you.”
“Are you suggesting your eyes are a distraction, Mr. Davis?” I ask, still strapped into my seatbelt. As soon as the name is out of my mouth, I recall being called Mrs. Davis.
He leans closer. “Ow. My leg. Almost forgot.”
“Let’s get you upstairs.”
Thank goodness for elevators and my own apartment. I feel the need to retreat.
After I get Maxwell settled in, I pop back to my place to shower. Yesterday rushes toward me along with the accident. The two collide. Tears flow freely with the warm water as I come down from the adrenalin of the drive.
When my hair dries, I stand outside Maxwell’s door and knock, remembering my first encounter with the Hottie in 7G.
Crossroads
Maxwell
When I was at the bakeoff, and I told Jenna the challenge was a piece of cake, I distinctly recall thinking it couldn’t be worse than dealing with Polly Spoonwell earlier that morning. Well, that day got worse and worse in every way except when Hazel said yes to being my girlfriend.
Now, I’m stuck on the couch with a bum leg, helpless to get up when she knocks to check on her hot boyfriend. Not.
I was the guy who’d greet Hazel at the door, muscles flexing as I leaned just so. Instead, because getting up will take a great deal effort, I helplessly yell, “Come in.”
The knob jiggles. “Maxwell?” Hazel calls in her lovely British accent.
