Step one in my wake-up-Hazel plan involves a kiss. Step two is all about the mug of coffee I hand over when she cracks one eye and shoves blearily upright. I’d like for step three to involve morning sex, but I’m not sure if Hazel has other plans for us today or not.
“Do we have anything on for today?”
She clutches the coffee like a lifeline. “Noon brunch at the compound?”
“Got it.” I peek at my phone and run the numbers in my head. It’s almost eleven. We could probably still sneak in quickie sex before we’re so late that we have to explain why.
Hazel’s family owns an insanely large double lot in Santa Cruz mere blocks from the beach. It’s crammed full of artsy bungalows, small houses and she sheds. I asked Hazel once if they were aware of the numerous zoning violations and she just shrugged and said that she’d taken care of it.
Unfortunately, Hazel figures out the time for herself and launches herself into my bathroom. She’s high-maintenance in the morning, so I figure it’s better to let her get started. She’s been this way as long as we’ve been friends. Hazel’s standing in the shower when I wander in—she gestures impatiently for me to join her.
“This will be quicker. Plus, we can save water and I’ll fill you in on the brunch plan. We’ll merit some kind of special California award.” She slaps the soap into my hand.
I’m as much a fan of efficiency as the next guy, but Hazel’s mistaken if she thinks my being naked and wet in a shower with her will save time or water. We’ve already christened my shower, so she knows exactly what can happen in here.
“You’d better give me the details fast.”
The look Hazel gives me says she’s on to me. “We’re having brunch at the compound. The usual suspects will be there, although I’ve been warned that George the Git is coming and that he wants to pitch you a business idea. What you do with that information is up to you, but any money you give him is a charitable donation to the Cause of George. You’ll never see it again, but I guarantee he’ll be back for more.”
“Do we need gifts? Flowers? A restraining order?”
The monthly brunch is more of a birth-aversary-ation, a Frankenstein event that I should be used to. The Colemans celebrate every birthday, anniversary, graduation and date of note for the current month with one big breakfast meal. Hazel catches me up on who’s been doing what and then shares the latest entirely unfounded speculations that have been making the family rounds. This consumes the rest of the shower despite my best efforts to distract her.
My family doesn’t really factor into our weekend plans. They’re across the country, in New England. I pitch them at least once a year about the benefits of California living, but so far they’ve refused to make the move. As a result, I own a farmhouse on the Maine coast. I travel back for all major holidays and work remotely in the fall. We didn’t have much in the money department growing up, but we had each other and we made that be enough. I worked two jobs through high school and then I followed the money to college. Not gonna lie—I played for high stakes, banking on an Ivy League acceptance, but the best offer had come from UCSC and so that’s where I went.
Good men look after the people in their lives. Bad men don’t. I don’t have to tell you which one I want to be, and a quarter-million-dollar education just didn’t fit into that picture. From the time I was eight and my daddy dropped dead of a heart attack, it was me, Momma and my four sisters. The Reed rules are simple:
1. Take responsibility.
2. Family first.
3. No one you love should want or hurt.
4. Fix what’s wrong. See rules 1, 2 and 3.
The Colemans play by a similar set of rules—they’re just louder about it. Much, much louder. Their compound is like a hipster version of the Kennedy compound. It’s surrounded by castle-worthy stucco walls and worth a small fortune. The first time I saw it, I asked Hazel if any of her high-school boyfriends yelled for Rapunzel to let her hair down.
Once Hazel and I are dressed and out the door, it doesn’t take long to get to the compound. Unfortunately, since we don’t arrive at the crack of dawn, I’m reminded firsthand that parking is a competitive sport in this neighborhood. I score the last open spot. Even better, I slide into it right before one of Hazel’s sister’s fiancés can do so. The Colemans respect ruthlessness—Hazel’s ability to amass a billion-dollar fortune is entirely expected after you’ve met her family.
As soon as we go in, Hazel’s mom greets us, George the Git firmly attached to her side. George is her boyfriend and a bad seed according to anyone not dating him. With the exception of Hazel, the Colemans are all terrified that Margie will finally agree to marry the guy. He’s a flirty bastard who clearly adores Margie. Unfortunately, he’s also a serial entrepreneur with zero business skills, and Margie spends far too much time picking up his messes.
“You’ve got the big three-oh coming up, darling. You should be doing something special.” Margie stares meaningfully at Hazel.
George slaps me on the back and suggests, sotto voce, that we wander off for a craft beer and a catch-up because he has an idea he wants to run by me. I plant myself firmly by Hazel’s side.
Hazel ignores her mom’s subtext because she recognizes a losing battle. “It’s a weekday. I’ll be working, Mom.”
“Ask your boss for the day off.”
Hazel makes a noncommittal noise and steers me toward
