Hazel peeks at me and I have to take a long swig of my water to keep from coughing.
Emily plants her elbows on the table, leaning in. “Was there another time?”
My smile straightens at her judgmental tone. “Can I remind you that my sex life isn’t your business?”
“If I remember correctly, I wasn’t the one bringing it up at the front door a few weeks back.”
“That was me,” Hazel agrees, “and only because I am constitutionally incapable of keeping my mouth shut.”
Dave looks like he wants to take a good swing at that one, but wisely keeps it restrained to a gleeful gleam in his eyes when he looks at me.
“You guys really slept together again?” Emily asks.
I look over at her, replying quietly, in Korean. “Ten seconds later, and it still isn’t your business, Yujin.”
She purses her lips but lets it go.
··········
When we climb out of Tyler’s Jeep in the parking lot on Sunday, it seems as if everyone around us is still recovering from whatever debauchery they took part in the night before. There are a lot of man buns, plaid shirts tied around waists, beards, and artfully distressed jeans.
It’s also barely ten in the morning, and everyone I see milling about on the lawn has a beer in their hand. On the distant stage, a pair of roadies strum a few echoing chords before switching guitars for the sound check, and the scattered crowd rustles nearby, beginning to press forward. Sasha packed a picnic of what I imagine is something like bulgur and tofu wrapped in grape leaves, or hemp tortillas stuffed with tempeh, but she looks really happy carrying the basket over her arm so I’ll eat some to be a good sport and then get a giant hot dog with Hazel from one of the vendors. Sasha’s also left her hair down . . . I’ve never seen it all, and it completely freaks me out. It’s really long—as in several inches past her butt long—and with her window down for most of the drive, her hair ended up crawling all over me. When I closed my eyes to try not to freak out about it, it wasn’t any better; it was like being pushed in a wheelchair through a room of cobwebs. I can now definitively check the no box regarding hair fetish.
This is just as well, because there is zero chemistry between us, and it doesn’t seem to bother her, either. We haven’t kissed, we haven’t really even flirted. I’m not really sure why we went out on Friday. It was almost like . . . well, Hazel was having Tyler over for dinner, I may as well take Sasha out, too. The fact that I took her to see King Lear when I knew that Hazel wanted to see it was actually unintentional—I’d just spaced about it—but in hindsight I wonder whether my subconscious was stabbing little holes in the Hazel kite.
Beside me, Hazel is carrying a small pile of blankets in her arms. Her perfect-kind-of-long hair is still wet, and twisted up in two side buns high on her head. She smells like some kind of flower I’m sure grows in my mother’s garden every spring, and the scent has me feeling both nostalgic and queasily lovesick.
We reach a stretch of grass, and it looked so much nicer at a distance. Up close, it’s patchy and muddy. Sasha heads out to locate the bathrooms, and Hazel gamely spreads the blankets over the threadbare ground, gestures for me to take a seat, and then promptly kicks off her shoes and jogs a little in place.
“I forgot how much I love these things!”
“Outdoor events with day-drunk, aging Gen Xers?” I ask.
She smacks my shoulder and then turns, bouncing, throwing her arms up in a distractingly catlike stretch. I glance at Tyler as he watches Hazel sway to nothing but voices and the crowd shifting around us. His attention goes from her to the groups in our immediate proximity, some of whom are watching her with curious looks. And then he looks back to her, eyes tight.
“Come sit by me, Craze.”
Irritation shoves the words out of me: “I’m not sure that’s a great nickname, Ty.”
Tyler—I’ve known him at the gym for a few years now. He’s always seemed like a good guy, usually smiling, helps spot anyone who needs it. But right now, he’s looking at me like he sees every seductive thought I have about the woman dancing before us and he’s figuring out how he can pull my brain out through my nostrils.
“Well, it’s my nickname for her, Josh.”
“Always?”
He shrugs. “Starting now.”
I can’t help but push. “What did you call her in college?”
Tyler smirks. “ ‘Babe.’ ”
Well, I guess I can understand why he’d want to go for something more original this time around.
“Because that’s what she was,” he says, looking me up and down a little now, appraising what he must realize is the competition. How did he not see it before? Hazel and I are together all the time. “She was my babe.”
With impeccable timing, Hazel turns and plops down cross-legged in front of us. “Who was your babe?”
Tyler scratches his jaw, fidgeting. “You.”
Her frown is immediate. “I was your babe?”
I lean back on my hands, grinning at them both.
“I was just telling Josh, that’s what I called you in college,” he clarifies.
“You did?”
God, this is so deliciously awkward. He glances at me, huffing a little. “Yeah. Remember?”
She screws up her nose, and then looks at me, gauging my reaction. The realization that she always looks to me, for solidarity, for my opinion, for reassurance, lights a fuse in me, and it’s honestly all I can do to keep from leaning forward and kissing her in front of him.
The roadies clear the stage closest to us, and cheers rise like a wave across the park. My phone buzzes at my hip with a text from Sasha. “Sasha says she found some friends down in the pit and is going to hang there if anyone wants to join her.”
“Who’s opening?” Hazel asks Tyler.
He blinks blankly at her for a beat, and then smiles patiently. “Metallica.”
“They’re opening? I thought they were headlining.”
Tyler’s wince makes me want to giggle. “No, they’re getting it started.”
“I don’t think I can handle that much body slamming at ten in the morning,” she says, with a genuine smile back.
With a look to me, and then a look to her, he pushes up and lopes off to meet Sasha down near the stage.
··········
As soon as he’s gone, we both flop back on the grass and stare up at the churning clouds overhead.
“It might rain,” I say.
“That cloud looks like a turtle.”
I follow where she’s pointing. “It looks like a bowl of popcorn to me.”
She responds to this with a simple “I feel like you and Tyler don’t like each other anymore.”
Rolling my head to the side to look at her, I say, “What makes you think that?”
“There was some testosterone-y thing happening just now.”
“About him calling you ‘babe’?” I look back at the sky. “I don’t know, I think ‘babe’ is the world’s lamest nickname.”
That might be hyperbole; I just really don’t like Tyler today.