Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating - Christina Lauren Page 0,75

last ten years carefully cultivating, fresh flowers in vases, and original art and funky light sconces decorating the walls.

But the pristine shine to the counters in the kitchen makes it very easy to spot the note she’s left for me.

J—

I’m out. Dave should be home soon. If Umma gave you rice, don’t leave it. I don’t need any.

E.

I smirk, stowing the rice in the pantry anyway, beside four other bags the same size. My rice situation is equally absurd—no way am I taking this back home. When I open the fridge to find room for the kimchi, I have to take out the container of leftover carne asada from Friday night.

A plate of leftovers and a beer later, they’re still not home.

Emily is often on my case for not having enough guy friends . . . is this what she means? That I’m sitting at my sister’s house, eating leftovers from her fridge and frowning at my watch when they stay out past six on a weeknight?

I call Hazel, but it goes straight to voicemail.

I call Emily—same. Does everyone have a life but me?

I know my restlessness is compounded because I’m sitting in my sister’s house, and there are signs of her happy marriage everywhere. Photos of her and Dave in Maui in a frame on a side table. A painting Dave did for her when they first met is mounted on a wall in the hallway. Their shoes are neatly lined up side by side on a rack just inside from the garage.

My house is clean, my furniture is nice, but the space is like an echo chamber lately. It’s so quiet. I never expected to think this, but I miss having Winnie there, watching her odd twilight mania around five every night when she sprinted through the house excitedly for ten minutes before flopping at my feet.

I miss tripping over shoes every time I walk in the door.

I miss Hazel. I’d buy a lifetime supply of fire extinguishers and eat bad pancakes every day to have her around again.

It could be different than it was before. We’re different now. She’s not just a new friend, she’s my best friend. The woman I love. We could have lingering talks over coffee or on a shared pillow, long into the night. She could bring her entire farm of animals, and I would be fine, I think. We could make a home of it.

The thought gives me such an intense pain in my chest that I stand, moving to the sink to wash my dish, and then pace circles around the house. Impulsively, I pull my phone out of my pocket, texting Dave.

Up for a beer?

Bailey’s taproom in 20?

I send him a thumbs-up and duck into the bathroom before I leave. On the wall, Emily has a framed painting of Umma and Appa’s hometown. Lush woods, a small creek beside a house. I wonder how Umma feels about this being stuck in the bathroom.

But when I glance down to flush, my eyes are drawn to the left, to the trash can just beside the sink. Inside it is a messy pile of white plastic sticks.

I think I know what these are.

And I think I know what the blue plus on every single one of them means.

··········

It’s not your place to say anything.

It’s not your place to say anything.

I repeat the mantra my entire drive to Bailey’s.

Dave might not know yet that his wife is pregnant. And if he does, and he doesn’t mention it, then it’s certainly not my place to bring it up.

Oh my God, my sister is pregnant. She’s going to be a mom—I’m going to be someone’s uncle. I’m almost breathless with how happy it makes me. But there’s also something else: a sinking lead ball in my gut. I loathe admitting it, but it’s jealousy.

Emily was the first to get married. As the older brother, I took it in stride, reminding myself that we aren’t bound to tradition in the same way. My entire family welcomed Dave; the wedding was a blast.

But now she’s pregnant, and I’m . . . what? In love with a woman who doesn’t know what she wants? Who thinks she’s not right for me? I’m not even settled, let alone on my way to starting a family. And my parents aren’t getting any younger. I’m flexible about a number of traditions, but I’m unwilling to shrug off the responsibility that parents move in with the eldest son when they’re older. Umma wouldn’t