Page 49 of Unexpected

“Delilah Cooper, do not say that. Hazel, you and Michael have been together forever. You really don’t think this is a misunderstanding?” Mom pleaded.

“No, it’s not a misunderstanding.”

“Mom, if Hazel says it’s over, then let her make that decision. It’s her life,” Delilah said.

“I just don’t want to see her make a mistake, Delilah,” Mom countered.

“It’s not a mistake, Mom. We’ve had this talk before. He’s not good for her, and quite honestly, he’s a piece of shit.”

“Delilah!” Mom said, enunciating every syllable like she did when we were children. “That's just not right. We’ve known Michael for forever. He’s so sweet and would do anything for Hazel.”

They went back and forth for a while, arguing over my relationship and whether I was making a mistake. Finally, I reached my limit and said the one thing that I never thought I would say to my mom or my sister.

I cut Delilah off, raising my voice just enough that she shut up, and said, “If by doing anything for me means beating the crap out of me for about a year now, then you’re right, Mom. He’d do anything for me.”

For a long time neither of them said a word. The silence on the other end of the line was all the confirmation I needed that neither of them had expected me to say anything like that.

“I’ll kill him,” Delilah seethed.

“Yeah, get in line.” Remembering Luke saying those exact same words made me smile. I knew both he and my sister were as serious as a person could be.

“Hazel, I don’t know what to say.” My mom’s voice was soft, and I heard her sniffle a few times.

“You don’t have to say anything, Mom. I didn’t think I was going to tell y’all because, honestly, I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to move on and keep moving forward. Right now, I’m just worried about finding an apartment and moving out.”

“You should come back home, honey. We have more than enough room here.”

I knew it was coming: my parents did have more than enough room. They still lived in the large, seven-bedroom house we grew up in, right outside of Nashville, and if I went back, I would have my own wing that at one point was for guests, but my mom promised it would be mine if I ever returned.

But I couldn’t go back home. Even though Michael had prevented me from seeing most of Austin, I wanted to give it a fighting chance before I turned tail and headed back up north. I thought I might actually grow to like the city.

“I’m not going to come home,” I said, and when she began to argue, along with my sister, I added, “at least not yet. I need to stand on my own for a while and staying here is how I want to do that. All I need from y’all is support. Just support me as my big sister and my mom.”

“I’m always here for you, Haze. When you’re ready to talk about it, let me know. I’ll come visit soon.”

“Thanks, D.” As rough as my sister was around the edges sometimes, she always had my back as a sister should.

“I don’t think Michael’s parents know the extent of it all. What—what should I say? If she asks if I’ve talked to you about it.”

I never believed our breakup would be easy; I knew it would be messy at best but knowing my mom would have to figure out how to move forward with her best friend of thirty years, who also happened to be Michael’s mom, was awful.

“You can say whatever you need to say, Mom. I know you disagree, but I’m not sure Michael’s mom ever liked me very much, so I don’t think she’ll believe you if you tell her about the—” I couldn’t say the wordabusewithout it making my skin crawl. “If you tell her about everything. If she asks if you talked to me, I would just tell her that you have and that Michael took the ring back. That we’re done.”

“I can do that. And just so you know, Hazel, I’m always on your side. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Mom. I have a lot of packing and cleaning to do, so I’m going to go. I’ll keep y’all updated on everything.”

They both said they loved me again, and when I hung up the phone, I cried for such a long time. I felt like a failure, although I knew I shouldn’t. I didn’t want my family to be caught up in our mess, but it was going to happen.

While I cleaned the house and organized all our things into three different categories: Michael’s shit, my shit, and shit to throw away, I attempted to listen to a few podcasts Delilah sent my way about life after breakups and domestic abuse. A few of them I couldn’t get through—the ones with survivor’s stories—without having flashbacks to specific times as they related to my own experiences. But of the ones I could get through, I found them somewhat helpful.

I told Delilah that they made a world of difference, though I don’t think she believed me but pretended like she did.

I was deep in our guest bedroom closet, trying to block out the memories of us discussing how we would decorate it as a nursery as well as trying—and failing—to hold back tears, when my phone buzzed from the bedside table.

I huffed at the inconvenient timing as I stepped over a box of Michael’s high school trophies, around a lawn statue of St. Peter his parents gifted us as a housewarming gift and finally, tripped over our old comforter before I made it out of the closet. I looked back at the shit piled a mile high and slammed the door shut—it was Michael’s mess to deal with.

Our once pristinely clean, all-white guest bedroom—white by Michael’s request—was now littered with everything from under the bed and a few of the items I did want to keep from the closet. When I looked around, it didn’t look like I had made a ton of progress, but it was the second-to-last room that I needed to clean out.

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