Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating(64)

“I don’t …” Dave starts, and then shakes his head.

I lean infinitesimally closer. “What?”

He seems to be picking his words carefully and I can’t decide if he really doesn’t know anything, or his eyes keep flicking up to the ceiling because he’s really into the architecture. “I don’t think she was ever conflicted about Tyler, per se.”

I search for the hidden meaning tucked into that handful of words. “I … don’t know what that means.”

He turns to look at me. “Hazel is a wild one.”

I’m immediately confused. “Yeah? So?”

This makes him laugh. “So, it’s who she is. She’s just … Hazel.” He shrugs, and his smile is genuinely adoring. “There’s no one like her.”

Where is he going with this? “I agree …”

“But I get the sense that … sometimes Hazel … is very aware of how different she is from other women. She’s not ever going to change, but she’s aware that she’s quirky, and a lot to take.”

I look on, confused. We’re on the same page. “No, I totally agree with you, but what does this have to do with me and Tyler?”

Dave takes another sip of his beer. “From what I can tell, Hazel has worshipped you—sort of singularly—since college.”

The fog clears, and I understand his meaning. “You mean, she’s not sure she’s right for me.”

I’ve heard her say this before, too.

“That’s sort of what I mean,” Dave says, nodding side to side. “But I also mean your opinion matters more to her than anyone’s. And so if things don’t work with Tyler, well, that’s to be expected. But if things don’t work with you—well, it’s obviously because of who she is.”

“But I love who she is,” I say simply.

I’m at the dead end of this alley. I’m in love, and there is absolutely no going back.

Dave finishes his beer and blinks down at the bar for a few beats. When he looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed. “Then you should probably tell her, man.”





TWENTY-TWO


HAZEL


For the past twenty-four hours, I’ve carried around the most precious piece of paper I’ve ever held. In the pocket of my jeans, it’s sure to bend in a thousand places. My purse is a Mary Poppins rabbit hole, so if I put it there, I’m likely to never see it again. In my sweaty palm, I can feel the thin photo paper turning tacky and limp from the handling, but I simply cannot put it down.

I’m obsessing about this ultrasound photo. The moment I put it on the table, or nightstand, or counter, I want to pick it back up and look one more time at the white text on the black borders:

Bradford, Hazel

November 12

9w3d

And then my eyes drop to the object of greatest interest: my tiny sweet blob, a nebulous white figure in a sea of speckled black. Nine weeks and three days and it’s already the love of my life.

I press my hand to my stomach, and my pulse lurches to a thundering stampede. The embryo in the photo looks like a gummy bear, curled into a delicate C. My little monster, I think. My sweet little monster, with a fluttering heartbeat, little buds for limbs, and who is half me, half Josh Im.

Not my preferred reaction, but nausea rolls up from my stomach. I have just enough time to set down my precious piece of paper and bolt into the bathroom before I’m losing the cracker and three sips of water I’ve had today. Guess it wasn’t a bug after all.

After brushing my teeth—and almost throwing up again—I come back to the kitchen. I’ve got a text from Josh.



If I hadn’t just tossed my cookies—or crackers, rather—I might have tossed them now. With a trembling hand, I type out a



I stare at the photo again, and my heart feels too full.

After getting a last-minute appointment with my doctor yesterday and doing a blood test, then an in-office ultrasound—where Emily held my clammy hand, and we both cried our faces off when the monster came into clear view—I gave myself twenty-four hours to digest the news, and swore Emily to absolute secrecy.

Her response? “I already texted Dave, and I’m sorry for that. But if you think I’m going to be the one to tell my brother that he knocked up our best friend, you’re high.”

Today, I called in for a sub at work, and have spent the entire day walking around my neighborhood, staring intermittently at the photo. I’m in love with him.

I’m in love with Josh.

And I’m pregnant.

Yesterday, when I got home I was sweaty and panicky and eventually threw up. Now when I look at the photo, I feel jubilant.

Well, jubilant through whatever weird and exhausting things are going on in my body right now. Dr. Sanders told me not to Google pregnancy—said it’s a minefield of panic—and instead she gave me a few pamphlets and recommendations for books to read. But I’m sure every single person she’s given that advice to has ignored it similarly. Alas, the internet tells me that it’s normal to be tired in the first trimester.

So when Josh knocks on my door, I’m prone on the couch, one leg thrown over the back. All I can manage to do is moan out a zombified “It’s open.”

Josh steps in, kicking off his shoes. He greets Winnie as she races for him. And just the sight of him in my apartment is such a relief I have to swallow down a sob.