HAZEL
She freaking knew I was coming. She’s the one who asked me to, after all.
Then why in the world am I standing in the porch light, my arms laden with boxes of sweets I am not going to be paid for cooking? Juggling the boxes around, I reach for the doorbell again and press my forefinger hard. I let the bell go on and on for long minutes as the chilly breeze licks up my exposed legs.
“Come on, mom,” I jitter under my breath, my teeth clacking with the cold. I can’t believe she asked me to cook for her book club meeting and she’s not picking up. What am I going to do with all this stuff? Sure, I can display it tomorrow at the café and sell it, but I would rather offer fresh goodies to my customers. A day-old cake isn’t my style.
But I can’t eat the whole thing too. And I’m only meeting Lis and Chris on Friday, which is forever from now. A three-days old cake is a no-no. The icing goes brittle, the whole thing dries up. I wouldn’t offer that to my best friends.
Another gust of chilly wind kisses my ankles and I let the doorbell go. That’s it. I’ll ring the neighbor’s bell and if they’re home, they’re getting free fucking cake. I have somewhere to be, and I will not delay because mom forgot she asked for free cake and cupcakes.
As I whirl around on my heels, I hear the hasted footsteps inside the house. I roll my eyes. Finally.
Mom yanks the door open. “Hazel,” she hisses, eyes so wide I’m about to reach out to stop them from popping from her sockets. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you just wait?”
So she’s been home the entire time while I froze my titties off. And she’s not happy with me.
“I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes, mom.” I stretch my numb arms, offering the boxes. “Your landline’s busy, you won’t pick up your cell phone. What did you expect me to do? You almost lost a gorgeous, decadent cake.”
She scowls and reaches out, but her hands don’t take the weight of the cake from me. She circles her fingers around my arm and pulls me inside the house. “Get in.”
I stumble inside and pick up my pace not to lose my balance. Mom is awfully weird these days. I stride to the kitchen, looking over my shoulder at her. “Is everything all right?”
Her scowl still in place, she follows me in and shakes her head. “Of course it is. Why do you have to ask this all the time?”
Silly me thought I’d get gratitude.
She’s never been an easy person. We’ve had a rocky relationship through my life — both my parents were conventional and, well, I’m anything but. Nothing out of this world, but I take pride in being a modern woman. I don’t date, for example. But I do like to feel pleasure, like every healthy woman does, so I’m always seeing someone. No strings attached, no expectations. I just want to have a good time.
My heart has no place in it. It’s not allowed to have.
The first and only time I dated someone, it didn’t end well.
It was a shit storm. A wordless breakup. He left without a look back. Stomped on my heart and ignored me as if I had meant nothing. As if he wasn’t the one who asked me to move in with him.
Doesn’t matter. I’m over him, and never again I will let anyone bewitch me as he did. It’s all a matter of adjusting expectations.
As I just failed to do with my mother.
“You didn’t work dressed like this, did you?” My mom stands beside me next to the kitchen counter, her wide eyes taking me in. I’m in a black dress that hugs my ample curves to the middle of my thigh, a pair of ankle boots completing the look. My black, short hair is curled in soft waves and I’ve put on my favorite kind of makeup — cat-eyes and dark lipstick.
The red color painting my lips makes it clear I’m out to have fun.
“Of course not, mom.” I turn to face her after abandoning the boxes over her counter, my hand propping up on my hip. “And what if I did? Last time I checked, I was overage. And I’ve been overage for a while.”
She curls her nose, her lips tilted down in that disappointed look she has just for me. “You look like a slut, Hazel.” The word leaves her in a whisper, coated in recrimination. “Where are you going? Not a place where you can meet a good suitor, I imagine.”
Suitor. That’s always been my parents’ number one cause of worry. That I find a husband, a rich one, preferentially. They didn’t support me when I went to college and I was lucky I nailed an internship. My parents despised it when I got a job and saved up for opening the bakery. These are all — and I quote — “things that keep you away from what matters”. They also “shy good suitors away”.
Suitors, suitors, suitors. Gah.
If a man is shooed away because a woman works for her dreams, the problem is not the woman. The problem is the man being a jerk. But tell that to my mom.
Dad had always been rigorous, even aggressive. His word was holy under his roof. After he passed away, I thought mom would relax. Live her life and let me live mine. But she didn’t. She’s even worse now, saying she wants to respect my dad’s wishes.
Talk about a bummer.
I know, I know. From my parents’ point of view, they just wanted my happiness. But I wish they had listened to me once in a while. Had given me a chance to prove myself.
But I guess I was born to bring them dissatisfaction. The one time I dated a guy, it had brought them feverish rage.
Vincent wasn’t rich, for starters. He wasn’t poor, but he was as middle class as the rest of my high school classmates. His mother was — gasp! — a single mother who worked hard to raise him. He had a tattoo and worked part-time to buy a motorcycle.
My parents were horrified when they caught us kissing under the porch light one night. I was sixteen, and they had forbidden me from ever seeing him again.
It didn’t work.
We stuck together for more than two years before he bailed out.
“I’m going to a concert, mom,” I tell her, stepping away. “And I don’t want to be late. Hope you and your friends have a wonderful time.” I wiggle my fingers as I start out of the kitchen.
“A concert?” She squeaks, stopping me in my tracks. “Where? Who’s going with you?”
“The event is downtown, and no one is.” I shoot her a glance and wonder if I should be easier on her. She was raised in a different time, under different circumstances. She didn’t have access to the internet to change her prejudices. Maybe she’s just worried. “I’ll let you know when I get home.”
She shakes her head. “What’s the point, Hazel?” She presses a hand to her heart. “You are too old for this. You should find an agreeable man and settle down. Have some kids. Not go to concerts and parties by yourself. A woman who goes out alone is looking for trouble.”
I deflate a little. “Maybe I am looking for trouble, mom.” The hot, chiseled-chest type of trouble.
The guy I had been seeing — just a couple of lukewarm dates really — texted me this morning to let me know he wasn’t interested anymore. He’d found someone who was more his type. He had the guts to send me the pictures of a skinny blond. As if I wanted to know I had been his plan B.
Sucker. He has no idea what he’s missing out. He was supposed to go with me tonight. And with or without him, I’ll have some shots and dance and I’ll have the damnedest best time. Maybe I’ll even find someone. Someone who will make me forget. Who will make me ignore the hole in my chest that aches here and there.