Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating - Christina Lauren Page 0,37

be unpacked, a disgruntled labradoodle. I suppose it could be worse.

Pretty good. A little bare but we’ll get it there.

I was going to stop by but thought you’d want to get settled.

Send me a pic.

I snap a few photos, including one where half my face takes up most of the screen, and another where a mass of tangled cords lies next to a sad, dark TV.

Because Josh is a caretaker, my phone rings almost immediately.

“Hazel’s House of Hedonism.”

“Do you want me to come help?” he asks, and there’s a feeling inside my chest. Victory, yes, because I was hoping he’d come over, but something else, too. Like warm rain, a warmer blanket. I really want to see him. And I mean, so does Winnie. Look at her. “I could hook up the TV while you work on other stuff.”

As a strong, independent woman, I should tell him no, that I’ll take care of it myself—which I would, eventually—but RuPaul’s Drag Race is on tonight and saying no would be both inefficient and inconvenient.

“I ordered dinner,” I say instead. More than enough for two, now that I think of it. “Winnie will be happy to see you. Maybe she’ll even stop sulking.”

“Let me shower and I’ll be over in twenty.”

“Deal. I’ll probably still be in this same spot when you get here so let yourself in.”

“Got it. Oh, and Haze?”

I smile into my phone. “Hmm?”

“Tell Winnie I miss her, too.”

TEN

* * *

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