Why would I make those choices? For starters, going to the party means finding a clean shirt. It’s currently me, my blue jeans and a bare chest, because why bother getting dressed? Plus, there are people at Max’s. Happy, cheerful, celebrating people who will wonder—and then outright ask—how Molly is or if I’m dating. Everyone has a cousin Jo or Sue or Amy Beth that I should meet. But I’m okay by myself. Hopping back on the dating merry-go-round isn’t part of my life plan...
Yeah. I need help.
My phone buzzes once, twice, and I eventually locate it underneath my pillow. I’ve missed a text from Hazel:
I’m stopping by. Scream now if you’re naked or on the throne.
Should I respond?
Nope.
Sure enough, there’s a brisk but brief application of knuckles to my bedroom door and the door flies open. Hazel marches in, one hand shielding her eyes, the other clutching two bottles of champagne to her chest. Brown hair, cut bluntly to stop in a perfect line between her jaw and her shoulder, swings about her face in a sleek, smooth curtain.
“Are you decent?”
She’s practically hopping up and down. I watched a video this morning of a labradoodle bouncing in place, wiggling its butt with canine glee as its owner arrived to collect it from doggy day care. That happy pooch has nothing on Hazel.
“I’m wearing pants,” I say gravely. “But you should add counting to ten to your door-knocking routine. What if I were shy?”
“You’re not shy. You surf half-naked all the time. I watch you from the beach.” Hazel drops her hand, sets the champagne on the floor and takes me in. Brown eyes meet mine and then dip quickly to my bare chest. A mischievous grin tugs at the corners of her mouth as she crash-lands on the corner of the bed nearest the door and looks at me upside down.
She’s a constant in my life, familiar and welcome. She has a strong face and bold eyebrows. Brown eyes. High cheekbones with three freckles she claims look just like Orion’s Belt. There’s another freckle in her ear, although she disavows all knowledge of it. She’s of average height and curvy. She likes long walks on the beach—not because they’re romantic, but to stay in shape. Hazel only needs people in small doses, so the running part happens when she spots a fellow walker (she claims it’s a HIIT workout, but I know the truth).
Her gaze returns to my chest. I should probably figure out why. Whatever. It’s a little weird, but it’s also not as if I’m a virgin princess in a tower. My naked chest has been previously ogled. Still, I shove to my feet, pad into my walk-in closet and retrieve a T-shirt from a hanger. The laundry service delivers them washed and pressed once a week.
“Why are you here, Hazel?”
The bed rustles and creaks, which is the most action it’s seen in ages. Footsteps pad across the floor and stop in the doorway. When I finish pulling the shirt over my head and can see again, Hazel’s standing in the doorway, watching me. We need to have another conversation about boundaries.
She’s wearing her usual Saturday uniform of leggings and a tank top. A gold chain with an infinity loop nestles in the hollow of her throat and she’s tied an oversize men’s flannel shirt around her waist because she worries constantly that she’ll be cold. It doesn’t matter that we live in California or that the temperature will hit ninety this afternoon—she’s prepared for arctic temperatures and the ice-cream aisle at the grocery store. Hazel herself isn’t pretty or gorgeous. She’s none of those adjectives you come up with when asked what your date looks like, but something about her makes you look at her and smile, even when she’s driving you completely nuts. She’s just so alive and full of energy that it lights up her eyes and the room. She’s not particularly easy to be around, but she’s never boring. In a world full of taupe and beige, Hazel’s carmine and verdigris, framboise and vermilion. It’s certainly made for an interesting business partnership.
“I’m here to stage an intervention.” Hazel waves a hand at me just in case there’s any doubt about who the intended recipient is. “You need to get back out there.”
“To Max’s party?”
I wander out of my closet and lean against the wall. I can’t wait to hear this plan.
Hazel hands me one of the champagne bottles and plops down onto the bed. “Open sesame.”
“I need the magic word.”
“Please buy me a drink, Mr. Reed.” She makes a hurry-up gesture. “I stole high-end champagne for you, so you should be thanking me.”
I peel back the foil carefully. Given Hazel’s vigorous delivery, odds are high I end up wearing champagne. I retrieve a towel from the bathroom and then grab my water glass. Hazel will have to share because I haven’t gotten around to replacing the glasses Molly took with her. Hazel watches as I cover the cork and the cage with the towel.
“Why are you here?” I untwist the cage and then work the bottle clockwise until the cork pops free.
She throws her arms wide. “I’m hiding from the party. The big question is why you’re here.”
“It’s my house.” I pour a glass of champagne and hold it out to Hazel.
She swipes the bottle from me instead and takes a swig. “I call bullshit, Mr. Reed. You’re hiding from life.”
I take a sip from the glass. She’s right about one thing. Max bought the good stuff
