Once a week like clockwork, someone emails her a link to a small house on Amazon or a caravan that “doesn’t count as a house because it’s on wheels”—think taco truck with curtains. Her mother is a poet, one sister teaches English at the local high school, and another is homeschooling her two kids and leading prison writing workshops. Hazel, on the other hand, doesn’t get nuances, poetry or metaphors and her fridge-poetry-magnet set is used to make shapes. They’re fun, they live life loud and even though Hazel’s a bit of a cuckoo in the nest, they love her back even if they don’t get her. They love me, too, which Hazel claims isn’t at all unexpected as she’s yet to meet anyone who doesn’t like me.
“If I’d introduced him, they’d have had us engaged by the time we’d finished discussing the weather. If he didn’t sprint for his car by that point, my mom would have booked a nice beach for the wedding. They don’t get that I could just be using the guy for sex.”
“For a bunch of free spirits, they do have some hard limits,” I admit.
“There is no casual hookup sex.” She waves a hand dramatically. “They just want me married and settled and that’s the last thing I want.”
“I miss marriage,” I admit quietly.
“Molly?”
“No, not her specifically, not anymore. It’s just...”
“Having someone?”
“That,” I agree. “I miss the closeness, the intimacy, the sex.”
This earns me another snort-chuckle. “You goof. You have two out of three with me. We just don’t have sex.”
Before I can stop myself, my brain gleefully goes there. To the land of Hazel-and-Jack-having-sex. I don’t care if pundits claim all guys imagine having sex with their best friends if those friends are girls. This is the first time I’ve ever imagined naked Hazel and I don’t like it. Not really. Or maybe I like it too much. I need to be able to work with her.
Hazel dangles my phone in front of my face. “Pick someone and get laid.”
“Not a chance.”
She laughs as I shove the phone under my pillow because I’m not taking chances. Hazel is fully capable of choosing a date for me.
“We both suck,” she announces. “How can we make so much money but be so bad at meeting people?”
I don’t budge from the pillow. Hazel plays dirty. “It’s a gift.”
Hazel, who’s never still to begin with—unless she’s reading, in which case she might be mistaken for dead except for the frantic flick-flick of the pages—bounces to her feet. The mattress shakes. I rescue the champagne just in time.
“List time!” she cries.
She produces a black Sharpie from somewhere and writes Jack’s List of Requirements across my bedroom wall.
“Describe your dream girl. Five adjectives. Go.”
I take a pull from the bottle. It’s not as cold as it once was.
“No way.”
“Don’t make me pick for you, mister.”
Fine. “Loyal. Trustworthy. Strong. Happy. Honest.”
Hazel scrawls my words on the wall and then frowns. “Are you looking for a girlfriend or a pet?”
Holy fuck, I am boring.
From the way Hazel eyes my bedroom wall, she’s done the same math.
“You should try something different,” Hazel says. “But we can work on that later. Let’s talk about what you bring to the table.”
She sketches said table in bold, broad strokes. There’s a Pro column and a Con column, plus my name, JACK, just in case there’s any doubt who we’re psychoanalyzing today.
Her teeth chew at her lower lip. “First candidate for the Pro column—wildly successful venture capitalist, so excellent baby daddy.”
She writes BIG in the Pro column.
“Big?”
“Shorthand.” She gives me a dramatic eyebrow waggle. “For your...assets.”
Sharpie doesn’t wash off, now that I think about it.
And I’m not entirely certain she’s referring to my bank account.
“You’re not supposed to say those things, Hazel.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “I’m too old to change.”
“I don’t think you need to change,” I drunk-whisper.
“I like me, too.” She nods her head vigorously. “But we’re doing you here.”
“All yours.” I flop back on the bed. “But be gentle with me. Next point?”
She holds her hands up in front of her face and squints at me through the opening she’s made. “Let’s add big blond giant with bad-boy hair to the plus column.”
“Okay. Wait, what’s wrong with my hair?”
“Nothing.” She scrawls HUGE on my bedroom wall. “But you do realize that you show up at the office looking like a poster child for sex, right? I guarantee half of our employees fantasize about running their fingers through it.”
I roll onto my side. “Now I don’t feel safe going to work on Monday.”
Hazel is already busy adding another word to the list. VERSATILE. “You’re equally at home on a surfboard and in a boardroom.”
“Versatile? Since when is versatile sexy?”
“Fine.” She scribbles out VERSATILE and adds FIT and RICH to the list. I’d like to argue with her, but both of those things are true.
“I’m feeling objectified here—these are all outside things. How would you feel if I summed you up as a great pair of boobs and a pretty mouth?”
“Should I say ‘thank you’?”
“Not yet,” I say darkly.
Laughter shakes Hazel’s body. She has a nice butt, which her yoga pants put on display. Not that I’m noticing her butt. Even thinking about my business partner like that is a recipe for disaster.
SHARK.
I stare at the new word that Hazel’s just scrawled on my wall. “What?”
She looks at me impatiently. “You have the killer instincts of a shark for a deal.”
“I’m not sure that’s a plus in the dating world.”
Hazel taps the Sharpie against the RICH heading. “Hello. The leg bone’s connected to the hip bone.”
She shifts the Sharpie to the Con column. Great. Now we’re moving on to my flaws. She may need
