She plops down onto her chair and explains, “Sorry. That was my mom. She got new boots, and I think she was going to keep spamming me with pictures until I called her and agreed that they’re awesome.” Stabbing her fork into her dinner, she adds, “For the record, they’re rad. They’re turquoise with shell beads around the top, and I bet they make her look like a fairy unicorn goddess when she’s gardening. Even though they’re, you know, cowboy boots.”
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?”