by Ellie Hall
I ignore them because I can only think about him. Later, my phone rings with a call from the studio, wondering why I didn’t show up to teach. Why? Because I brushed my teeth in front of a guy, leaving me feeling vulnerable and confused and senseless. I scrub my hands down my face. I forgot to go to work. Seriously this time, what’s happening to me?
I continue to roam Manhattan until the sun dips behind the skyscrapers and the commuters leave work for a weekend spent relaxing or out on the town.
Since meeting Maxwell, I lost track of Hazel, the empowered, independent female. I’m on a mission to find her.
I take a cab back to my neighborhood and creep past his door. I wash away the city grime. I scrub and exfoliate. I moisturize and primp, returning to my effortlessly put-together self. I pull on my tightest dress. I try on the heels Maxwell gave me, but I don’t need reminders of him with me tonight and trade them for a different pair.
I call up my girlfriends, leaving them messages to meet me later. I send a dozen texts with the address of the club I’m going to. But when I get there, bypassing the line and instantly engulfed in the party vibe of vices and victory over monogamy, I don’t see any familiar faces. Is the turnover that quick in this city? Out of the game for a few weeks and I don’t recognize anyone?
I get a reply from Lottie. On a date. Let’s meet for brunch tomorrow!
A message comes in from Tyler. Busy, babe. Let’s grab coffee soon.
Then Minnie writes. Broadway show and a late dinner with a friend ;-)
No, I want to dance and forget about couples and commitment. I don’t want to think about Maxwell. He doesn’t call or text, but that doesn’t make it easier. A man wearing a V-neck T-shirt leans close to my ear, trying to talk, but I can’t hear him over the music.
“Get meowtta here,” I mutter and rush off, regretting going out. My old life no longer fits.
Once again, I creep past Maxwell’s door. Floral perfume and the vague scent of baking cookies waft in the hallway. A twinge in my belly turns into a stab in my gut, leaving me more confused than ever.
Blondie
Maxwell
While I get ready to stay home again the next morning, I keep an ear on the hallway, listening for the telltale sounds of Hazel leaving her apartment.
I don’t understand why she wouldn’t brush her teeth in front of me. It’s not that weird. Why’d she flee? It’s been less than a day and I already miss hanging out with her. Also, I can’t quite fluff my pillows the same way she can with one on my side and another under my knee.
A long sigh escapes. We’re not married. It isn’t like she has to answer to me. I was going to text, but my phone battery died and the cord was in the other room. I’m getting around better now, but I figured she’d be right back. Now, I wonder if she needs her space.
What needs to happen is I need to get back on track. I’ve kept up with work to a degree but miss going into the office. I miss baking. I miss Hazel.
Just then the door whooshes open and in walks a sight for sore eyes.
“Hello,” the tall, leggy blond says. The rough edges to her movements suggest she’s upset. No, beyond upset. Furious. She tosses her hair and her nostrils flare.
“Don’t you dare call me Blondie, either. You’re on thin ice, Maxwell.”
I look behind Blondie to see if she brought the rest of the battalion, but she’s marched in here solo. My gaze lingers on Hazel’s door then flits in the other direction to the elevator. I think I hear laughter. It could be the TV or maybe I’m just overtired and overthinking things.
Hazel is a free woman. She can do what she wants.
“What happened to you?” Blondie asks.
“Hazelnut.”
The returned expression is not one of amusement. “What? No games, Maxwell. I want the full story.”
“Come with me to my physical therapy appointment and if you promise not to bite my head off, I’ll tell you everything.”
The cab ride isn’t long enough for me to get out the full story, just disjointed pieces that do nothing to plead my case. When Blondie gets ticked off, watch out world.
When I check-in for my appointment, the PT assistant informs me I’m trying something different today—a group class. “It’s a new program. A lot of times, people in physical therapy are homebound for the most part. It can get lonely, so we’re testing out a general movement class that incorporates a social hour.”
“You’re welcome to join him, Mrs. Davis.”
I burst into laughter. “You can call her Blondie.”
That gets me a wrap on the back of my head.
Nonetheless, she follows me to a large room with eight chairs filled with five silver-haired people and a male physical therapist named Scotty who I’ve only ever seen wear shorts.
We begin with gentle stretching from the chair—Scotty tells us to do these twice a day at home to improve circulation.
The five older folks regale us with stories about their health, the good old days, war stories—both on the battlefield and on the homefront. A woman named Peggy tries to give Blondie a quiche recipe.
“I’m the better candidate for baked goods,” I interject.
Blondie looks at me like I have two heads. Meanwhile, Maria, seated beside me, proudly shares photos of her twenty-one grandchildren. It’s all very endearing and sweet.
My wallet falls out of my pocket and Blondie and I bump heads when we try to pick it up. We exchange a look. One easily mistaken for an expression of endearment.
In reality, it’s more like warning shots.
Her: Watch where you’re swinging that thing, Fat Head.
Me: Don’t you dare say anything about my large head, Blondie. Takes one to know one.
Her: If you call me Blondie one more time, I’m going to tear your head off.
Me: I’d like to see you try.
Of course, this is all a silent war of words.
Maud, a woman who reminds me of our grandmother, blurts, “Ah, to be young and in love. When you reach our age, every experience is intimate. How can it not be? We’re so close to life and death. It would be a shame to miss out on any of it because you just never know when—”
“When your number will be up.” Ralph, Maud’s crotchety old husband, finishes for her. “Any day now, any day,” he mumbles.
She continues more delicately, “I don’t mean for it to sound morbid. Of course, by intimacy, I mean being close to every moment and to each other.”
Blondie waves her hands. “No, we’re not—”
Scotty interrupts a potentially embarrassing moment and tells us to get to our feet, hold the chair for stability, and do leg lifts.
I’m used to going to the gym every day, but this is tedious. Thankfully, Scotty wraps things up and says, “I’ll see you all next week.”
“You might not,” an older, crotchety man says. “There’s the diabetes, the stent in my heart, the herniated disc, the recurring gout, risk of pneumonia, a piano could fall from a window...I could go at any minute.”
“Walter!” Maria scolds.
“What? I’m ninety-six; it’s a miracle I’m still breathing.”
I look at Blondie, get a flash of what she’ll look like in fifty years, and glimpse what the wrinkly, white-haired people used to look like. Something softens inside. They’re old but distinguished. They earned the lines on their faces. And I realize, I want that. All of it. With Hazel. I don’t want to grow old alone or be bitter.
During the time spent hanging out with Hazel, our weekend away, my failed proposal, UUniversity, and now my recovery each bring me a step closer to giving myself fully over to a relationship with her, but there’s still a distance to go.
On the cab ride back, Blondie says, “What has gotten into you?”
“I started to tell you.”
“Okay. I’m listening. But give me the Cliffsnotes.”
“As you know, I switched majors four times before I settled on finance. Up until my current apartment, I never
stayed in the same one for more than a year or so. I never dated the same woman more than a couple of times. Am I the kind of guy who goes to the same restaurant two nights in a row? No. Like a rock climber, I’m always anticipating the next hand or foothold. You could say I have a hard time picking and sticking with something or someone.”
Blondie cackles because it’s true.
I sigh.
Then she says, “But you’ve found the one and you’re scared. Oh, Fat Head. You are your own worst enemy.”
“No, that’s you Blondie.”
She socks me in the arm. It hurts just as much as it did when we were kids even though I’m twice her size now.
When we reach my building, I’m pretty sure Hazel slips around the corner and dashes into her apartment as we exit the elevator. By now, Blondie and I are laughing about old times. She’s still irritated with me, but that’s nothing new.
I’m pretty sure Hazel is avoiding me, and I’m not sure why. Unless she’s experiencing the same thing as me. Uncertainty. Trepidation.
Blondie calls me a pencil-in kind of guy. As in, I won’t use a pen in case I have a change of plans so a pencil it is. But when it comes to Hazel, I want to use a permanent marker.
After three days of my houseguest and not seeing Hazel, I am ready to run, even if it means reinjuring my leg. Maybe she’s out of town. Maybe I could trade Blondie for her.
All I can think about are Hazel’s long legs, her intelligent thoughts, and her bright smile. Also, her lips. I’d be a liar if I denied that.
If I can’t have her, I can have sugar. I make Blondie a batch of blondies. Well, three, until I land on the right balance of butter and sugar. I don’t want them dry or oily. I also tell her my plan for the ring, but she’s not so sure it’s a wise idea given Hazel’s absence.
While putting away the dishes, I hear a faint sound. I follow it to the hallway. Mew meows at the door. Hazel’s cat rubs against the doorframe.
“What are you doing here?” My gaze flies to her door, but it’s closed. “You’ve never even been outside.”
The last five texts I’ve sent Hazel remain unopened. Maybe she lost her phone...and her cat. I send a text. Then a cookie emoji. Then a cat head.
When she doesn’t reply, I call.
When she doesn’t answer, I knock on our shared wall.
“Are you home?”
Silence.
“I have Mew.” I bite my lip. “Meow?” Maybe that’ll get her to respond.
Instead, the actual cat and Blondie give me a deep side-eye.
I head to the hall and her door opens a sliver.
The look she gives me says everything she doesn’t. Or can’t.
I miss you.
“I have something for you. Would you mind coming over for a minute?” I ask.
Blondie waits by the front door. Her smile is forced.
I silently scold her with a scowl. “Hazel, meet Blondie. Blondie, this is Hazel.”
She glares at me and extends her slender hand. “I’m Audrey.”
I grunt.
Hazel looks like she wants to shrink or shank someone.
“I’m Maxwell’s sister,” she clarifies.
Hazel’s eyes widen. “Oh. I thought. Never mind. Nice to meet you.”
Her smile hides her sister-bear protection. “Likewise. Finally.”
“Finally?” she asks.
Blondie throws her thumb in my direction. “He wanted us to meet before I go home.”
“Have you enjoyed your visit?”
“I was here on business but found my brother alone on the couch, with a broken ankle and a broken—”
My voice is stiff when I cut her off. “It’s not broken,” I mutter then paste on a smile. “Nothing like having family around. I made some cookies and blondies,” I add sharply.
“And that’s about all, aside from watching Friends repeats,” Audrey says drily.
“Hey, I’ve been working too.”
“Well, I should go pack and leave you two to your cookies and milk,” Audrey says.
When the door to the spare room closes I say, “Sorry. She’s protective.”
“Of who?” Hazel asks, “Because it sounded like she was scolding us both.”
“She’s a high achiever and likes things just so. She doesn’t understand how things can fall apart because she’s so good at keeping them together. I guess I have a hard time with that too.”
“Is she married?” Hazel asks.
“Happily. Four kids. And a career. One of those superwomen who do it all. Our parents are very proud. Trust me though, she knows how to delegate.”
We stand at opposite ends of the hall. The entrance to the kitchen emits a sweet, chocolate aroma that seems to grow and glow between us like a living thing and not a plate of little round disks dotted with chocolate.
“I baked to prove that I’m not a complete klutz in the kitchen—and because I’m slightly addicted. I once caught the oven on fire back home so I had some remedial work to do.”
Hazel’s smile lights up the dim hall. “You’ve come a long way.”
I shrug. “I’m a klutz at other things too.”
“The snowboarding injury was an accident.” Hazel’s British accent goes wobbly. “Could have happened to anyone.”
Our eyes meet.
Just then, the door opens and Audrey rolls out her suitcase.
“Well, glad I’m leaving my brother in good hands. Call me if you need anything.”
“Okay, Mom,” I say, hugging her.
“If Mom knew you were down here alone, with a broken leg—”
“It’s not broken and I’m not alone.” To Hazel, I say, “The women in my family can be a little overbearing.”
“We care, Fat Head,” Audrey says, but her tone is less prickly.
“I know,” I say. “Tell everyone at home I say hi. Give each of those kids a hug from Uncle Max and one for your hubby while you’re at it. I imagine he misses you.” I’m not sure if I’m joking or not.
“Of course. I’ll be back in June to finish this merger. Hallelujah.”
She brushes past Hazel on her way to the door. “If what Maxwell said is true, then I hope to see you again.”
My pulse quickens as the door closes.
I don’t want her to scare Hazel off again. She might need distance and boundaries. She might want something casual. I don’t know.
We each examine the corners of the hall, the molding, the carpet fibers, all the details between us until the elevator dings. When I glance up, she’s looking at me.
“She seems—” Hazel bites her lip. “Fat Head?”
“Never repeat it. The Davis family have large heads. More brains. More smarts.”
Hazel chuckles. “Just keep telling yourself that.”
“Do you want—?” I point toward the kitchen.
Hazel doesn’t move. “You didn’t tell your mother about your ankle?”
“She worries too much and her blood pressure—” What about my blood pressure because right now I feel every beat of my pulse. “A cookie?” I ask, finishing my sentence from before and limping into the kitchen.
Hazel shakes her head slowly as if apprehensive. One cookie could lead to another. Two cookies could lead to a kiss...
Mushy Marshmallow
Hazel
I’ve mentioned a lot of nevers. I’ve never taken a trip with a guy before. I’ve never been in love. I never get the same coffee two days in a row. I’ve also never kissed the same guy twice...or more than twice. I’ve lost count now. So it’s probably best I keep my distance from Maxwell.
Easier said than done. His apartment smells like spicy soap, winter, and chocolate. The stainless steel appliances and the dark wood and marble of the kitchen remind me of how easily I succumbed to cookies...to him.
His buttery soft cotton T-shirt shifts when he moves toward me, revealing irresistible muscles. Everything about him is perfect. Too perfect.
“Listen, Hazel, I’m confused.
You’ve been avoiding me. Is something on your mind?” he blurts.
“This is going fast. I thought it was casual. But it’s not, not at all.” Heat rises to my cheeks. The dam holding back the river of emotion I have for him strains against the torrent.
“And that’s a problem, why?”
The words to explain rise to my lips, but it’s too risky. I saw what happened to my mother. It’s better to end things before I end up like her. “I can’t do this. You don’t understand. I want you to leave me alone.” I reinforce the dam with those words. Words that hurt to speak. My voice is surprisingly small.
Maxwell swallows hard. “If that’s what you want.”
“I should go.”
“You should stay.” He reaches for me.
I look up, wishing we could start over or that we were different people, meeting for the first time. He licks his lip. I bite my bottom one. There is no denying the electricity between us. But that’s just it. We’re going to get hurt if we continue. That’s the only possible outcome. I’ve seen it play out in real life.
“Goodbye, Maxwell,” I fire because, in the game of chess, we’ll even sacrifice ourselves to get what we think we want.
Sometimes words, the flat panel of a turned back, and a goodbye are the fiercest weapons we have.
When I get back to the apartment, I open my laptop, prepared to help others. That usually quells the ache inside.
Only, my last conversation was with program member BakerBanker.
I instantly knew it was Maxwell. How he ended up in my program is beyond me. My chest craters. He wants something that I can’t give him.
A week passes.
A horrible, lonely, melancholy week. I get stuck in a yoga pose, burst into tears at the scent of cake as I pass a bakery, and read half of Catherine’s book collection.
It’s Saturday night. I should be out and having fun. The only way to leave the building, aside from the fire escape, is by walking past Maxwell’s door. I give myself a pep talk. I’ll strut by, doing my best power walk like the strong, independent woman I am.
