Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating(71)

I reach up, coaxing her hand back down and into mine. My heart is lodged somewhere in my throat; it seems like we could both use an anchor.

To fall in love, to be loved. The reality that we are together now is enough by itself to make my breath grow tight and hot in my chest. And to be here, with an ultrasound photo clutched in my hand … The mind, it reels.

But this is Hazel. We’re so much bigger than this moment, no matter what happens behind the wide white door leading into the exam rooms. Is it weird to think I’ve known for years that we would somehow end up here? Or is hindsight just the most convenient explanation for coincidence?

I squeeze her hand and she looks up at me, expression tight.

“You know,” I say, giving her the most genuine smile I can muster, “no matter what happens back there, we’ll be okay.”

“I knew I wanted kids, but I don’t think I realized how much until this happened.”

“We may not have seventeen, but we’ll get there.”

She laughs. “I’m going to win you over.”

“You will never win me over to seventeen children.” She growls when I say this, so I add in a compromise: “But how about this: after the appointment, we’ll go get milkshakes.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Cherry,” she says. “No. Wait. Cookies and cream.”

“One of each.”

Finally, I get a true Hazel smile. “You know what I keep repeating over and over in my head?”

“What?”

“ ‘I love Josh Im more than I’ve loved anything in my life.’ ” She bites her lip. “Don’t tell Winnie.”

I lean forward and rest my lips on hers. Against my mouth, she’s soft, shaking a little. The kiss angles, and my hand comes up to her neck, where my fingers find her pulse drilling against her skin. I could get lost in the way she leans into me, I could drown in the feel of her. But then the wide door opens, and her name is called.





EPILOGUE


JOSH


When Hazel comes bounding down the front steps, she’s wearing orange tights, a black miniskirt, and a purple tank top. Her bun is hidden beneath a giant, wobbly witch’s hat. In the light from the porch, she’s nearly glowing.

I glance down at my own outfit—black shirt, jeans, sneakers—and then back up again. “I feel like I missed an important text today.”

“Halloween stuff was out at Target.”

“It’s over a month away.”

Shrugging, she moves to where I stand leaning against the car and slides her arms around my neck. “Just getting into the spirit.”

I touch my lips to hers. “Because it would take you so long otherwise?”

“Are you by chance taking me somewhere Halloweeny?”

Every Friday night is date night, and tonight was my turn to plan. Last week, Hazel took me to a place where we painted self-portraits with our hands and feet, and then we had a picnic on the hood of my car. My date nights tend to be a bit more standard.

“Just dinner,” I say. “A new ramen place opened up near Emily and Dave’s. Thought we could give it a try.”

After a small rendition of the Running Man on the sidewalk, Hazel climbs into the passenger seat. Her fingers come over mine when I get behind the wheel and pull away from the curb, and with her free hand, she reaches to turn up the song playing on the radio, singing along badly, loudly, happily.

“Wait,” she says, looking at me and letting out a bursting laugh. “This is Metallica.”

I nod. “Takes me right back to the worst concert ever.”

She lets out a mock scream. “What was I thinking? Tyler!”

“No idea.”

“I wanted you to come to my apartment and say, ‘I love you, Hazel Bradford, please be mine forever and ever and ever.’ ”

“And I did.”

She nods with vigor. “You did.”

At the red light, she leans over, kissing me. One short peck turns into a longer kiss, with tongue and sound and the acceleration of her breath and mine. At the green light, she lets me focus on the road but her hand on my thigh soon transitions to her fingers unbuttoning my jeans, her teeth and growl on my earlobe.

Instead of ramen, we find our way back to my old house—empty, between renters—and return to our roots: making love on the floor.

..........

Our own home is dark when we pull in, avoiding the squeaky step and coming to a quiet stop in front of the door. Hazel—hair a mess, tank top slightly askew, underwear in her pocket—digs in her purse for her key, sliding it into the lock and gingerly letting us inside.

Umma meets us in the entryway, wearing her small, calm smile.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She nods, stretching to kiss both our cheeks before padding down the hall toward the separate wing of the house she shares with Appa.

Hazel turns and grins up at me in the darkness. “Even after that greasy burger, I’m starving.”

“Want me to make you something?”

She shakes her head, giving a little shimmy before disappearing down the hall.

I unload my wallet and keys near the door, slipping off my shoes. From one of the bedrooms I hear voices, and follow the sound, ducking into Miles’s dimly lit room, surprised to find him still awake. Hazel sits at the edge of his bed, food apparently forgotten as she pushes a strand of hair off his forehead.