Page 17 of Just Friends

Today is no exception.

She’s currently covered in varying shades of orange, blue, beige, and black. Without looking, I know she’s painting butterflies. She once told me that every artist has one thing they always gravitate toward when they’re making art without thinking, and hers is butterflies.

All over her house are paintings, drawings, collages, and illustrations of butterflies that she’s done over the years. When we’re at a restaurant waiting on our food, I can almost count on her being hunched over a napkin, doodling a butterfly better than the rest of us could draw given hours and proper tools.

“Hey,” I call out, trying not to startle her since she’s got her massive headphones clamped over her ears. I can hear the faint melody from an indie folk band we saw in concert last year.

Hazel turns, her mouth lifting in a smile when she sees me. She tugs the headphones off, letting the rest on her shoulders. “Hey, I didn’t even hear you come in.”

I hold up the to-go bag of Greek takeout from the restaurant down the street. The strong scents of oregano, basil, and garlic fill the tiny apartment. “I brought dinner.”

Her eyes flick to the gold clock she has hanging above her pantry. “Oh, good. I completely lost track of time and forgot to make dinner.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. “I figured when I couldn’t get a hold of you.”

She grimaces, reaching for her phone. “I turned it on Do Not Disturb.”

“No big deal,” I say with a shrug as I retreat into her kitchen. Hazel follows closely behind, heading straight for the sink to wash up.

“I didn’t realize how covered in paint I got,” she says, and I can’t help but look over my shoulder at her. She’s got her back to me, lathering soap on her smooth, tan arms and using her nails to pick at the dried paint.

Repressing the desire to keep watching, I turn back to the food, pulling items out of the paper bag one at a time. Hazel loves appetizers more than real food, so when we order out, she usually ends up with a salad and an entire platter of appetizers.

“Did they have the spanakopita?” Hazel asks, still trying to wash away the paint covering her arms.

Our favorite Greek restaurant is known for their spanakopita, so naturally, it sells out by lunchtime most days. But we got lucky today.

Pulling it from the bag, I cross the small distance between us and waft the to-go container beneath her nose. Her deep blue eyes light up, looking like sunshine glinting on the ocean. “They had it?”

I grin, leaning my back against the counter. “Last piece.”

“You’re my hero.”

The water shuts off with a snap of her wrist, and she reaches for a dish towel drying next to the sink. As she dries her hands, she assesses her arms with a pleased look on her face, no doubt proud of herself for getting all the paint off. It’s obvious she doesn’t know about the burnt orange streak across her cheek.

Looking up at me, she asks, “What are you smiling about?”

My hand reaches out of its own volition, making its own brush stroke against her cheek. “You’ve got paint right here.”

Her eyes widen. “Seriously?” Roughly, she scrubs the hand towel against her cheek, only serving to turn it an angry red. The paint flakes but stays there stubbornly.

“You’re going to rub your skin raw,” I say, taking the rag from her hand. Reaching around her, I turn on the sink and dampen one of the edges of the rag before turning back to her.

Slowly, I swipe the towel across her skin. Her eyes meet mine, and it’s at that moment that I realize how close we are. Her warm breath fans against my face, and the air thickens, spiking with electricity like in the gray moments before a storm.

I step back, clearing my throat, and hand the rag back to her. “There, I got most of it.”

She gives me a smile, although there seems to be a weighted look in her eyes. “Thanks,” she says, and hangs the hand towel back on the rack. “How was work?”

Hazel moves in a flurry around her kitchen, pulling out plates and utensils.

“Good,” I tell her as we load our plates. “I closed on a house today and started working with a new client they referred to me.”

After graduating from college, I decided to get my real estate license. I was interested in my parents’ field but refused to work for them since I knew it would only put a wedge in our already difficult relationship. I love my parents, but their idea of nurturing leaves something to be desired. I knew looking for a job at a competing property management company would only serve to cause division, so I went into real estate.

“One of these days, you’re going to find me a place. I’d like one just like yours.” She crinkles her nose. “But, like, with good decor.”

I quirk an eyebrow at her. “You don’t like my decor?”

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