JOSH

After I help her move things into her new classroom, I barely see Hazel for days—which, given that she only moved out about a week ago, is oddly disorienting. I went from being in a long-term relationship to being single, and having my life turned upside down with a roommate of sorts, in a matter of days. You’d think I’d be glad to have my own space again and not have to worry about what someone is doing—or lighting on fire. You’d think I’d be ready to find some kind of new normal. And yet, you’d be wrong.

Who knew normal could be so boring?

Just like I’ve seen my sister do half a dozen times before, Hazel dives into this intense teacher zone, and I can’t exactly criticize her for being so focused. From what I can surmise in observing her bouncy bliss stapling borders to her bulletin boards, the beginning of the school year is better than Christmas and birthdays combined.

“I fucking love being a teacher,” she says over the phone just after the pre-first-day Back to School Night. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard quite the same enthusiasm from Em after one of these things, but Hazel is Hazel. She loves big. “I am a hot mess ninety percent of the time, but man, third graders are my jam.”

“I’m not surprised,” I tell her. “Like eight-year-olds, you also struggle when reaching for things on high shelves and remembering to use the bathroom before long car rides.”

“Nice, Jimin.”

A tiny unknown organ in me aches at the way we’re having such a familiar conversation over the phone, rather than across the couch.

The next day—Hazel’s first day teaching at Riverview—I am greeted by a constant high-pitched hum of noise as I walk through the doors. It sounds a bit like a swarm of bees, emanating down the hall from the cafeteria. Hazel’s classroom is number 12, so after waving at frazzled first-day-of-school Dave through the glass window of the principal’s office, and peeking in on my sister as she wrangles a chaotic blur of fifth graders, I head across the hall to the door covered in hot sauce packets and the words Taco ’bout a Great Class!

Through the little window, I can see her standing at the front of the room, watching while the class works independently, and am already laughing. This is Hazel—of course she’s wearing something like this. Her blue dress is cinched in at the waist by a belt decorated with red apples and brightly colored textbooks. I’m getting definite Ms. Frizzle vibes, a look I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be into, but one glance at Hazel’s long, delicate neck and the smooth gloss of her ponytail and … well, here we are.

She spots me through the glass, grinning widely before walking over—even though I’m waving at her to indicate I can wait until the class is in the cafeteria for lunch. Her eyes are scotch and flirtation. Her lips are a wild cherry red. Something inside me shivers.

“Welcome to the fiesta!” Wooden pencil earrings swing with the happy little shake of her head.

I hand her an apple and a cellophane-wrapped bunch of sunflowers. “I thought I’d catch you at lunch—I wanted to wish you a happy first day.”

She takes the flowers and hugs them to her chest. “You already did that when you texted me this morning!”

“Well, I’m glad I decided to be thorough or I’d have missed all of this.” I motion from her toes to the top of her head, where, incidentally, there’s a ceramic bookworm pinned in her hair.

She does a little spin. “You like? It’s my traditional first-day-of-school costume.”

“And to think my sister is just wearing a new cardigan. How’s it been so far?”

“Pretty good! No emotional meltdowns and only one tetherball incident at recess. The students are writing down their goals for the year. Do you want to come in and meet them?”

I’m in the middle of telling her no when she reaches for my jacket and yanks me inside.

“Class.” Twenty-eight sets of eyes look up from their papers and focus squarely on me. “I want you to meet my best friend, Josh.”

There is a combined verse of ooooh and one lone rebel who calls out, “So he’s your boyfriend?” followed by a chorus of giggles.

Hazel gives a very practiced tilt of her head and the room quickly quiets down. “Josh is a guest in our classroom, so we should be on our best behavior anyway, but he’s also Mrs. Goldrich’s brother. Let’s all welcome our new friend to our classroom.”

“Welcome, friend,” they say in unison, and without the lingering boyfriend scandal to hold their attention, they quickly lose interest and return to their projects.

“Well done, Ms. Bradford. That was impressive,” I tell her. “You are awesome at bossing small humans around. If only Winnie listened so well.”

“The only way Winnie listens to me is if I put a bagel on my head,” she says, and turns to set the flowers on her desk. “And thank you again for these. You’re second only to a unicorn as far as best friends go, Josh Im.”

“I wanted to see you in your element, and it gave me a good excuse to stop by with a development on the Josh and Hazel double-dating bonanza.”

“Ooooh!” She claps her hands, watching as I pull out my phone.

“My friend Dax is a veterinarian and breeds Shetland ponies or something in Beaverton. Really good-looking, too.” I open my Fac app and find his name.

“You have a veterinarian friend with ponies and you’re just now telling me about him? An imaginary talking badger has taken back second place in the best friend hierarchy.”

“I completely forgot,” I say, and click through to his profile, zooming in on the image so she can see. “We went to high school together and he popped up in my feed this morning.”

Hazel leans in for a closer look. “Would he be bringing a pony on the date?”

“I can certainly request it.”

She takes my phone and scrolls through his other photos. “He’s not unfortunate-looking and the prospect of future pony rides does sweeten the pot.”

“Should I call him?” I ask, studying her.

She hands me back my phone. “I’ve been thinking of asking the lifeguard at my pool,” she says in lieu of an answer, her lips pursed as she considers. “She seems really cool and can save your life if you fall in the river again.”

“I didn’t fall in the river, I was more or less pushed.”

“By gravity.”

I ignore this. “Maybe we could set something up for Friday?”

“I’ll stop by the pool on my way home and let you know.”

The volume in the class behind us is rising, and I know that’s my cue to let her go. “Sweet, I’ll get a hold of Dax and we can coordinate.”

It’s only once I’m back at my car that I register the reason I was thinking of a double date again: I want to hang with Hazel.

..........

When I get home Friday night, Hazel has clearly let herself in. I can hear the TV as soon as I step in from the garage, yelling, “Honey, I’m home.”

Winnie skitters around the corner when she hears me, almost knocking me over as I slip off my shoes. I’ve missed this girl but she is a terrible guard dog.

Hazel sits up when I walk into the living room and grins at me over the back of the couch. “Hola, señor.”

“Sorry I’m late.” Our dates with Dax and Michelle are tonight, and I have just enough time to shower and change if we’re going to make it in time for our dinner reservation. “Appointments went long and I got caught up on some insurance stuff.”

“My apartment was boring so I decided to just head over. Good thing, too, because your mom was just here.” She holds up a steaming bowl and a pair of chopsticks. “And she brought food!”

I fold myself over the back of the couch to see what she’s eating, and my stomach growls. “You know we’ll be at dinner in, like, an hour.”

“I dare you to face your mother’s cooking and refuse it.” Hazel lifts a strip of beef and green onion to my mouth, and I groan as I chew. I really should be getting ready, but instead I adjust her grip on the chopsticks, steal another bite, and round the couch to sit at her side.

“When did she leave?”

Hazel tears herself away from her food long enough to answer. “About twenty minutes ago? She was here for a while, though. She showed me some embarrassing baby pictures and we talked about how you work too much and have too many pairs of black tennis shoes.” She giggles through another bite. “I really like her.”

This catches my attention and I look over at her. I can count on one hand the number of times Umma and Tabby were together without me, and Tabby made sure to complain about each one as much as possible afterward. She never cared about getting to know either of my parents. She definitely never liked them.

“I guess it’s convenient that she likes you, too.”

“Of course she does,” Hazel says, handing me the bowl and laughing when I immediately dig in. “I threw fruit at her the first time we met, and am the only one who ate that stinky fermented fish she made the other night. According to your sister I’m at least half-Korean now.”

“It’s called hongeo and even I won’t eat it.” I take another bite and then offer one to Hazel. It’s been a long day, and a night out is sounding less appealing with every minute. “Umma likes you because you’re bizarre, charming, and have her worrying a little less that I’ll die miserable and alone.”

“Miserable and alone.” She scoffs. “Have you seen yourself? We just need to step up the search.”

Applause from the TV catches my attention, and it’s only now that I notice what she’s been watching.

“Why are you watching the Olympics from … London?”

“I love highlight shows.” When I lift a skeptical brow she sighs, shoulders slumping back against the couch. “I couldn’t find the remote.”

“Have you actually looked? You’re probably sitting on it again.” I move to stand but she stops me with a hand to my stomach.

“You can’t change it now, I’m invested!”

“Haze, we have to go.”

“Then record this for me.”

“You realize you can Google to see how this ended, right?”

She gives me a grumpy Muppet face. “Where is the fun in that? Googling Olympic results is a joy killer.”

“Or, I don’t know, a time saver.” I get up from the couch. “Let’s get rolling. I’ll clean up real quick.”

..........

I get an uneasy feeling about setting up Dax with Hazel the very moment she and I step foot in the restaurant and he sees her. Granted, I’m not an expert on the variety of human expressions, but his mild nostril flare and frown when his eyes drag over her—her trademark high bun, her cow-print tank top and frayed jean skirt with green cowboy boots—can’t be a good sign.

We shake hands, introducing ourselves, and follow the hostess to our booth smack in the middle of the busy restaurant. Hazel smoothes her skirt over her thighs and turns to Dax, grinning. Inside my chest, my heart melts with the effort she gives every single person, even those who look at her like she’s beneath them.

“So,” she says, “where’re you from, Dax?”

“Michigan, originally.” He leans in, clasping his hands. “And you’ve lived in Oregon your whole life?”

Michelle is pretty enough, and being a lifeguard, she’s obviously fit. But even if it feels like we might have a lot in common, I can’t pay as close attention to her as I’d like given that what I’m overhearing from across the table turns more Spanish Inquisition than Getting to Know You.

Dax wants to know about Hazel’s extended family, her job, her home. He asks her whether she plans to buy a house versus rent. He seems concerned that she doesn’t know what kind of retirement plan the school district offers.

While Michelle and I make idle small talk, I overhear Hazel answering his questions happily, even throwing in little anecdotes, about her mom (“She has the most beautiful singing voice, but really only in the shower”), her apartment (“It flooded like an ocean a couple months ago … maybe that’s why all my dreams are about being on a boat?”), and her job (“Two days ago I came home smelling like tree sap, and I have no idea why. Third graders, man.”). But, for all of her efforts to be amiable, Dax continually answers her return questions with single words—even monosyllables.

When Hazel gets up to make a call, Dax meets my eyes and gives me an exasperated look I think is supposed to communicate Wow, this one is crazy, but I pretend I don’t understand.

“What?” I say, hearing the aggressive edge to my voice.

He laughs. “Nothing. Just …”

“Just what?”

I can feel Michelle looking at me, and the awkward tension rises like fog.

“She’s, ah, a bit eccentric for my ta—” Dax snaps his mouth shut just as Hazel returns to the table.

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?”

“Outside to be young again.”

“Right. Of course. You hear that, Winnie? We’re going outside to be young.”

Winnie trots happily along behind us, because clearly the only thing she’s heard is outside.

Hazel leads us through the kitchen and out the back door, and the screen falls closed at our backs. The sun is long gone but the motion-detector lights flicker on, casting shadows of the trees from one end of the yard to the other. The air is heavy and damp, thick with pine and the sweet scent of decaying mulch in the flower beds. It’s a little on the chilly side, and feels like it might rain. Even in the night air, Hazel bounds down the stairs and out onto the grass.

Satisfied that she’s found the right spot, she bends at the waist, gathering her long hair again and twisting it back into another gravity-defying bun. Winnie stops at my side, head tilted as we both watch, eager to see what Hazel has in store for us.

Straightening, she motions for me to join her.

I cross the yard. “What are you—” I start, but my words are cut off by a gust of air forced from my lungs as I’m tugged down into the dewy grass. Hazel kneels at my side and proceeds to tug off my socks, one at a time.

I look down to my bare feet and then to my dress pants and button-down shirt. “What … are we doing?”

She considers me for a moment but is not deterred, chewing on her lip as she moves to unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” she says then, pulling my arm toward her to begin rolling up my sleeve.

“Of course.”

“Do you ever miss Tabby?”

This takes me by surprise and I look up at her. She’s so close, hovering just above me. I spot a tiny freckle I’ve never seen before on the underside of her chin.

“What makes you ask that?”

She shrugs. “You were right. Dating is rough. I think I forgot. Or maybe I’ve never done it like this before.”

Hazel looks down, meeting my eyes briefly before she turns her attention back to where she’s rolling up my other sleeve. Her touch is soft and focused; it makes me feel hyperaware, bringing the heat back to my face as I think again about what Michelle said. For the length of an inhale, I picture leaning forward, feeling the press of her mouth to mine. I swallow, not sure where the thought came from, or what to do with it.

“I can see why you were so reluctant to dive back in there,” she says quietly. “I don’t know. Just wondering whether you missed being in a relationship with her.”

“I used to think I was a good boyfriend. Looking back, I think maybe not.”

She catches my eyes again, a protective gleam there. “I’ve talked to Emily. You were a great boyfriend. Tabby was a dick.”

“I don’t know … maybe that was sort of convenient for me? I was beginning to realize how much we’d grown apart but it was easier to keep things the way they were than be the one making the decision.”

“That makes sense.”

“I think what I liked was being someone’s person.”

Hazel’s fingers come to rest on my wrist, and I blink up again to catch her reaction. She doesn’t meet my eyes but a flush of color deepens along the tops of her cheeks. “You’re my person,” she says. “Thanks for sticking up for me tonight.”

She gives these vulnerable words so freely it makes fondness clench at something in my chest. Taking her hand, I bring it to my mouth and press a quick kiss to the backs of her knuckles.

“I like being your person.”

The corner of her mouth turns up, and she sits back on her heels. “And Winnie’s, apparently. Who knew she was so easy for a pretty face.”

I grin. “What can I say?”

Hazel groans, rolling her eyes skyward before she moves to her feet. “All right, lover boy. Let’s do some cartwheels so I can laugh at you and wipe that smug look off your face.”

“I’m not the one insisting I can still do this. I’m fine being an old man.”

I follow, watching her legs as she makes her way across the lawn. The sky is a bruise behind her, blue and purple in the dusky light pollution from downtown. I’m momentarily distracted by the way her skin looks under the beams of the backyard lights.

Hazel takes a moment to shake out her hands and roll her head a few times in each direction. “Honestly. How hard can this be?” She moves into as deep a lunge as she can in her denim skirt. “Like riding a bike, right?”

I motion back toward the house. “Should I get the first aid kit or …?”

Straightening, she stretches her arms over her head, but not before shooting a glare in my direction. She waits one, two, three seconds, and goes for it—body tumbling forward, feet in the air, and flowy tank top going right up over her face and flashing me a prolonged shot of her neon yellow bra.

When she’s right side up again, her bun has slipped to the side of her head but her expression is one of pure joy.

“Oh my God. That … was so FUN!” She bats the hair away from her face and tucks the front of her tank into her skirt. “And uh … sorry for the peep show.”

I bite back a laugh. “It wasn’t a hardship.” I tilt my head. “You going again?”

She does, and if possible, her smile is even bigger than the first time.

“Why did I ever stop doing this?” she says, clearly dizzy but continuing on to do a line of cartwheels down the grass.

Once vertical, she points to me. “Your turn.”

“Me?”

“Yeah!”

Wrapping her fingers around my wrists, she tugs me to stand in front of her.

“I can’t. I’m taller than you.”

She blinks a few times, confused. “So?”

“It’s further to fall?”

“Come on. We’ll do it together.”

“Hazel.”

“Josh.”

I glance around the yard, suddenly nervous. “The neighbors will see me.”

Unswayed, she moves to my side and gets into position. “Come on, it’s dark. Arms up. One … two … three!”

The world turns upside down and when it rights itself again, Hazel and I are a tangle of arms and legs in the grass, and I’m laughing so hard it hurts.

“Ow,” I say, rubbing my stomach and everything else I managed to pull on the way down.

“But was I right?” She’s breathless, hair wild and face flushed and how has nobody seen how crazy and fucking amazing she is?

I decide right there to make sure somebody does.

“Yeah, Haze. You were.”