Hazel shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”
Two seconds. I think she may be lying, but I appreciate it. Hazel’s good people.
Our seats are the best money can buy, so it would be impossible to get closer to the arena without actually entering the competition. The rodeo one. Not the one for Molly. And not that I’m competing for her. Or want her.
Something twists inside me.
I’m not entirely sure why I’m here.
Evan’s competing in the second event, bareback riding. Rider after rider explodes from the bright yellow chute, hanging on while the bronc does its best to knock them off. When Evan comes busting out, it’s clear he’s a big crowd favorite. He racks up an impressive score in eight seconds. It’s not enough for the win, though. Second Choice Boy comes in third. I don’t see Molly, though.
When we file out, Hazel nudges my arm. “There’s an after-party.”
“You think that’s where they’ll head?”
“I’m certain of it.” She smiles at me, her fingers grabbing mine so she can lead me through the crowd. “I overheard Molly talking to another rider’s girlfriend in the bathroom. Plus, he placed third. He’ll have sponsors to talk to, people to schmooze.”
The crowd’s large and some of the cowboys have drunk their weight in beer. After the third time someone bumps into Hazel, I pull my hand free and wrap my arm around her shoulders instead. People think twice about bodychecking someone my size and it’s a good excuse to touch her.
Naturally, the after-party isn’t being held in the same place as the rodeo. We walk down the Strip for a quarter mile in companionable silence.
“Pit stop.” Hazel yanks on my arm.
Obediently, I slow to a halt. “What’s up?”
“We totally need to try those.”
I follow her pointing finger. Those are Day-Glo margaritas in three-foot-high containers that look suspiciously like bongs and that can be obtained from a bar that’s steps from the Strip, apparently serviced by a bevy of bikini-clad, boot-wearing, feathered mermaids. Hazel steers me past the neon statues of deep-sea ladies and five minutes later we’re officially armed and dangerous. I take an exploratory sip of my pink to-go margarita as we walk. It’s more mix than tequila, which bodes well for our ability to make it to the after-party.
Hazel slurps enthusiastically. Hers is green and she ordered triple shots. “Are you sure Evan’s trouble? He’s obviously good at his job and people seem to like him.”
Sadly, she’s right. Still, I go with the obvious counterpoint. “She hasn’t known him long.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Hazel sucks an impressive amount of margarita through her straw.
“Words, Hazel.”
She swallows a mouthful of lime-green slushy. “Well, assuming that she met Evan after she moved out and filed for divorce—”
“Of course she did,” I growl. Molly’s neither a cheater nor a liar.
Hazel pats my arm. “Then she’s had a little over a year and a half to have met him.”
“She could have met him last week.”
“Or last year.” Hazel salutes me with her margarita.
I force myself to nod. I’m aware that coming to Vegas is at best illogical. At worst, it’s probably a misdemeanor. Clearly, Hazel is also aware of this because she goes right there.
“Why are you here?” She waves a hand around us. She’s a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Usually she avoids it at business dinners or I drink it for her. “If you want to reconcile with Molly, stalking isn’t going to help your case.”
Naturally, I double down on my stupidity. “I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“You’re such a white knight! Always rushing to the rescue. Why can’t she rescue herself? Why do you have to do everything?”
Hazel sucks fiercely on her margarita.
I try not to remember the way her mouth feels on my dick.
“I made promises.” Wow. That sounds lame, even to me. “A judge can’t just wipe those away with a stroke of his pen.”
I’m not sure if actual pen and ink was involved in our divorce. The whole thing was handled by our lawyers and I never even had to go to court. The last time I saw Molly was at our mediation appointment. Hazel would have been horrified, because I agreed to everything Molly asked for. I try not to think too much about the fact that she asked for almost nothing. She didn’t want money or our house or even most of our things. Just enough for a fresh start and a new life, one without me. It feels distant now and like a whole different life, as if somewhere out there is a happy Jack and Molly, married, making babies, carrying on toward happily-ever-after.
“Do you believe in parallel universes?”
“A multiverse?” Hazel pulls thoughtfully on her straw.
“Maybe there are multiple universes out there.” I rest my palm against the small of her back, nudging her toward the crosswalk. The light’s red, so we come to a halt, surrounded by a crowd of other pedestrians. “And there’s a different version of reality in each one, right? One where Molly and I never met, one where we split up, one where we reconciled. Hundreds and hundreds of different endings.”
“One where we never met or never had sex,” Hazel says. “One where there’s not this thing between us.”
As usual, she takes me by surprise. Even after all our years working together, I’m constantly amazed by the directions that her brain goes. It’s part of what makes her such a brilliant venture capitalist, though, because she sees connections and outcomes the rest of us don’t or can’t.
I try not to think about a universe where I never meet Hazel. Naked, warm, wide-open Hazel—her hands tugging me down until I’m at her favorite angle. God, she has so many preferences. Directions. Pointed suggestions. I never have to wonder if Hazel’s enjoying herself in bed. The words just pour out of her, throaty moans, half-spoken commands, the bite of her nails underscoring the moment when I do something she
