Page 4 of Hazel and Elijah Find Out: First They F*cked Around

“Eli, do you need help down?”

Bending my neck, I found my mom standing at the bottom of the retaining wall—which was well over her head. “Sure, Mom. How?”

She held her arms out with a goofy grin on her face. “I’ll catch you.”

Some of the tension left my shoulders as I laughed. “I’ve got this.”

I dropped down to join her on the sidewalk.

Expecting me to follow, Mom started walking toward the restaurant’s front door. “Did you know her?”

“Who?” I played dumb, even though it was useless.

She lifted an eyebrow and gave me a look that expressed she was not fooled. “The young lady with Deputy Dipshit.”

“He seemed like a nice enough guy.”

“I don’t care. He let his dog get away from him, and that little shit wanted to tear your face off.”

I took hold of the handle and open the door for Mom to walk through first. The interior of the building was like stepping into a childhood memory. It all appeared the same with the dark green vinyl booths lining the walls, the rectangular tables filling the center of the space, and the bar with stools screwed into the floor just beyond them. Large lamps hung with thin ‘70s-era chains swooping from the ceiling and even the black-and-white checkered floor was the same. Old photos displayed on the walls, showing the town’s past, stoic people standing still next to Model T’s and the library surrounded by trees, instead of the parking lot and Westside general store.

We stood next to a “Please, wait to be seated” sign.

“It feels so strange to be here,” Mom whispered.

I nodded. “You okay?”

When she and I had moved to Nashville just after I graduated from high school, it gave us a chance to start over, something we both had needed. Divorcing my dad—the well-loved veterinarian—had unsettled the community, and he’d used that destabilization to paint my mom in terrible shades. And those terrible shades that were easier to spread because of scandalous rumors about me.

Rumors that were only partially untrue.

“I’m okay,” she said. “You?”

I shrugged. “I’m good.”

“So, did you know her?” Mom asked.

“Know who?” I didn’t know why I was avoiding talking to my mom about Hazel. Maybe because I’d kept this secret for so long. Maybe because I felt like a fool for pining over her for all this time.

“You know—”

“Table or booth?” a teenager asked, his tan skin speckled with pimples.

“Booth, please.” Mom gave him a polite smile.

He grabbed two comically large menus and gestured for us to follow him. We slid into a booth and gave him our drink orders.

When we were alone again, Mom held up a warning finger. “Now, don’t play dumb with me again. Do you know her?”

I forced my smile to be easy, as if it was just a stupid joke. “Yeah, that’s Hazel Matthews. She was a couple of years younger than me in school, and she took over Dad’s clinic.”

“That’s Hazel?”

“Yup.”

“I think I remember her. She was such a mature kid.”

I tried to remain nonchalant.

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