Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating(54)
I stare at the bottles of wine he’s put in my hands, admittedly confused. “Is this all for me?”
“We can share it.”
Pausing, I’m not sure if my question qualifies as Horrible Things That Slip Out of Hazel’s Mouth, but I go for it. “So, you’re not in recovery?”
With an easy laugh, he nods. “I don’t drink in bars anymore. I just drink at home. It’s cool.”
“… Oh.”
“Nice place, wow.” Tyler nods, impressed, and I have to follow his attention around the space to figure out what he’s seeing. Although I cleaned, my apartment just isn’t that much to look at, not really.
But he is being nice. There’s something to be said for that, after all.
A tiny voice reminds me that Josh didn’t bother to blow smoke up my butt and tell me what a lovely place I had. He never lies, or fakes enthusiasm. He just accepts me.
Why am I comparing Tyler to Josh Im right now?
Probably the same reason I’ve been thinking about Josh Im for the past week.
Winnie comes up, gives Tyler a cursory sniff, and proceeds to look at me like I’m a trollop and a traitor. Unimpressed, she returns to where she was curled up by the window. Vodka squawks once and then tucks his head under a wing. The fish doesn’t even spare him a glance. The only thing I get from my animal family is a resounding meh, and although Tyler looks awesome in black jeans, his Chucks, and a tight black T-shirt, I can’t help but think my animals are comparing him to Josh Im, too.
With a deep breath, I push all that aside. I’ve decided I’ll give him another chance, and comparing him to the blueprint for Perfect isn’t any way to do that.
So, here we are.
I’ve attempted lasagna for our dinner, but when Tyler follows me into the kitchen to open the wine, I see the room through his eyes: it looks like a massacre happened in here.
“Wow. What’re we having?”
“Road kill?” I say, grinning.
He laughs, and surprises me by bending to kiss my forehead. “Should I get you some wine?”
My stomach does a weird tilt. I don’t feel like drinking with Tyler; I don’t want to get loose and comfortable and fall back into old patterns. But I don’t want to be rude, either. “Sure.”
The cork squeaks in the bottle as he opens it. “The entire way over,” he says, “I was remembering that time we went to see The Crying Game at the old dollar theater and you got into a shoving match with the dude behind us who used the word faggot.”
It takes me a few seconds to remember this one, but then it comes back with startling clarity. The redneck who ruined the end for those of us who hadn’t seen it years earlier.
“Oh. Yeah, he was lame.”
“God, those were good old days.”
I nod, disagreeing internally as I watch him pour two enormous glasses of Shiraz. He hands me the hulking dose and raises his glass in a toast. “To old loves and new beginnings.”
I let out a deflated “Cheers,” lifting my glass and letting the liquid touch my lips. The toast feels so cheesy and overbaked, I half wish Josh were here to give me a knowing eye roll over the rim of his own wineglass. Josh is a wonder when he’s serving his parents a drink; I love to watch the way he pours with both hands, the way he reverently accepts a drink in return just the same way.
The wine tastes a little off to me, so I put it down under the guise of needing to check the lasagna, and start the salad.
Dinner comes out pretty well. The cheese is bubbly and nicely browned, the salad came from a bag so it was impossible to mess it up, and the garlic bread required nothing more than to be pulled out of the freezer and dropped in the oven for twenty minutes. The Barefoot Contessa I am not, but I didn’t burn anything and for that I am giving myself a mighty mental high five.
My brain whirs continually while Tyler talks about his job, his apartment, and the friends he’s still in touch with from college. Am I really doing this? Having a date, at my apartment, with Tyler Douchebag Jones? Is this what it’s come to?
I have honestly never spent as much time thinking about my love life as I have in the past few days. I’m not an idiot. I know that my feelings for Josh Im go beyond the friend zone—hello, we had orbit-bending sex only one week ago—but whenever I imagine trying to date him, I get this panicky feeling in my chest and have to stick my head out the window or unbutton my shirt. The thought of dating him and having him ever say that I’m weird or embarrassing makes everything inside me duck for cover. Sex I can do. But baring my emotional soul to Josh and watching his proverbial lip curl in distaste? Gah.
I think about Mom, and the way she reacted to Dad when he said those four words to her—you’re so fucking embarrassing—and how it didn’t seem to faze her at all. I used to think it was because she was so strong and was able to hide her pain, but now I know that it’s because his opinion didn’t matter. She didn’t love him.
And whether I love Josh as a friend or more, I do love him. Deeply.
“… so I took it to another shop,” Tyler is saying loudly, as if he knows I’ve spaced out and is turning up the volume to get my attention back where he wants it, “and the guy there agreed with me. Fucking timing belt. Who misdiagnoses a timing belt?”
“Right?” I say, giving what I hope is the appropriate degree of disbelief on his behalf. I add an indignant scowl at my plate, pushing the lasagna around a little. It looked so good coming out of the oven, but right now nothing has ever seemed so unappetizing. I wonder whether it’d be cool with Tyler if I just busted out some Cap’n Crunch for my dinner instead.