Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating - Christina Lauren Page 0,52
various careers to write a small report about, and how one of my boys informed the class that his dad (a plastic surgeon) touched boobs for a living. Josh tells us about his new patient, a seventy-year-old woman seeing him pre–hip replacement who has propositioned him no fewer than ten times in the past week.
Even given how the evening started, dinner is fine, mostly.
And as soon as I have the thought—in the car, as Josh drives me home—I turn to him and say it: “Dinner was mostly fine. Mostly.”
If he gets the Aliens joke, I can’t tell. He stares straight forward and gives me a tiny half smile aimed at the windshield.
I sigh, and poke my finger into the dimple in his right cheek. “Do we need to talk about it?”
He swallows, tightening his hands on the steering wheel. “Talk about what?”
I nod, dropping my hand and saying a quiet “Okay” out the passenger-side window. I can play that game, too. Sex? What sex?
“You mean about us having sex?” he says. “Or the fact that you told my sister and brother-in-law, aka your best friend and your boss?”
Ugh. Stomach flip-flops. Angst. I peek at him again. “It just came out, I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t actually care that they know.”
“I just blurted it. I’m broken.”
“They’d probably see it on our faces anyway,” he reassures me. And although we talked about it over the phone, it’s so good to talk about it here, too. Face-to-face. Nothing between us. Hazel and Josh.
“Sometimes your lack of filter kills me,” he says. “It’s not even like you lack a filter; you lack a funnel.”
“But seriously.” I turn in my seat to face him, pulling my leg under me. “I understand what it was, and there’s no reason it has to change anything. In some ways, it makes sense. You’re my best friend, and attractive. Of course I drunkenly mauled you.”
His smile slips a little. “Is that how you remember it?”
“I mean, you participated,” I concede, “but I practically begged you to show me your goods.”
This makes him laugh and I can tell he fought it for a few seconds. “Because I saw you peeing. You’re unreal.”
I sink down into my seat. “I’ll never get over that.”
“You vomited hot dog on television,” he says, sparing me a tiny glance at a red light, “but me seeing you pee is the mortification that’s going to stick with you forever?”
“I’m also still mortified about the hot dog thing.” I shudder at the visceral memory that winds through me. “I’m thrilled you remember that.”
He reaches over, taking my hand. “We’re good, Haze. I promise.”
With a little squeeze, he lets go, and my hand feels oddly cold.
··········
Mom reaches down, not even trying to be subtle when she fishes a tiny brown cookie out of her apron pocket and hands it to Winnie. Lord, the woman doesn’t even have a dog of her own and she’s stashing dog treats in her gardening apron. “Okay, kid.” She rests her hands on her hips. “Out with it.”
I stand up, brushing dirt off my butt and adjusting my gloves. “Out with what?”
Her eyes narrow and she cups my chin, leaving a smudge of dirt there as she tilts my face to the sun. “You’re off today.”
I hold my breath, feeling my face begin to heat in her hand. Her eyes relax, expression softening. “Out with it, honey.”
“The other night, Josh and I . . .” I shrug.
She bites her lips before saying, “I knew it.”
“Oh, come on. You did not know it. I didn’t even know it.”
“Mother’s intuition.”
“I think that’s a myth.”
She cackles like I’m a moron. “Was it at least fun?”
“I think so? It was mostly drunk, but what I remember was pretty great, yeah.”
Mom hums, and pulls a small weed up where she sees it by her shoe.
I groan. I thought telling her would make me feel better, but I still feel all twisty inside. “And things are already different. We decided they wouldn’t be, but—”
“You ‘decided’? Oh, kids.” She laughs as she picks up the small spade and a pack of cabbage starts, and tilts her chin for me to follow her to the next flower bed. “Honey, that’s not something you can decide. Sex changes things.”
We squat by the freshly turned dirt, and I ease a cluster of roots from the package, handing it to her once she’s dug a small hole. “But I don’t want things to change,” I say.