Page 32 of Just Friends

I press my lips together to keep from laughing and drawing Dad’s attention back over here. “Oh, absolutely,” I say, glancing up at him.

His lips curve in a slow smile, his voice lowering to a deep, honeyed pitch. “I think high school Alex and high school Hazel would have gotten along really well.”

“No,no,youcan’tlook at that one,” I say, trying to snatch the yearbook from Alex’s hands, his knuckles grazing mine. We’re in my childhood bedroom, and Alex is going through every single memento I accumulated throughout the eighteen years I lived here. The house is quiet, everyone having retreated to their bedrooms for the night, tipsy on too much red wine and stuffed with tangy tomato sauce and creamy ricotta.

His fingers tighten on the book, not letting go. “I’ll absolutely be looking at it.”

“No,” I say, pulling harder, my knees bracing against the quilt-covered twin-size bed Alex is lounging on. “You’re not. Seventh grade was the peak of my awkward years.”

“Which is exactly why Ihaveto see it, Hazel.” He gives the yearbook one final tug, and this time, the momentum propels me with it. Alex drops the book, his hands catching me around the waist, and we go down in a tangled heap of limbs.

I land across his chest, our legs twisting together like bed linens. The breath heaves from Alex’s lungs, sending my hair skittering away from my face before falling back like a sheet around us. His hands are still on my hips, and I can’t tell whether they’re pushing me up and away or keeping me pinned there.

My heart is beating hard enough that I know he has to feel it against his chest. Time slows and quivers, not holding its shape around us. Like it’s frozen, waiting.

Alex’s eyes are solid black as he holds my gaze. “I won’t look at it if you don’t want me to.” His voice is a smooth, buttery whisper.

I don’t move for another long moment, unsure why, before finally rolling off and landing on my back next to him on the bed. The lengths of our bodies are pressed together on the twin-size mattress as I reach for the book, flipping through to the pages seared in my memory.

Turning my head, I glance at Alex. “Be gentle.”

“Always,” he says, fingers brushing mine as he takes the book from me. I watch him as he looks at the photos on the page. My tiny seventh grade class at Fontana Ridge Middle School. There’s one of me with my hair falling in terribly styled waves around my head, wearing a coral pink Aeropostale shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts. Assorted colorful bracelets line my wrists, and only the top layer of my hair is crimped. In another, I’m proudly holding up an absolutely terrible butterfly drawing I did in art class. Only my bright yellow rain boots and my painfully awkward soft smile show from above and below the giant canvas.

I expect Alex to laugh, but he just rolls his head across my floral-printed pillowcase, a smile stretching his lips, those dimples peeking out on his cheekbones, his thumb lightly swiping over one of the photos on the smooth paper. “So you’ve always liked butterflies then, huh?”

A relieved breath startles out of me. “Always,” I say, mimicking his soft tone from before.

“I, for one, think that middle school Hazel was incredibly cute.”

I reach for the yearbook and look at the pictures once again. “I showed my high school boyfriend this yearbook, and he told me he was glad his family didn’t move here until I was hot.”

Alex’s brow wrinkles, and a muscle in his jaw flutters. “I really hate your ex-boyfriends.”

For some reason, this makes me laugh, although it only serves to make Alex frown harder. “I kind of hate them all too.” Rolling onto my side, I shut the yearbook and press it tight against my chest. “This is why I need you to find me my next one. I suck at picking good guys.”

Alex’s eyes leave my face, fixing on the popcorn ceiling. “Glad I can help,” he says, his voice sounding flat.

I nudge his thigh with my knee. “Would it make you feel better to chew out my ex-boyfriend? He owns the hardware shop.”

He glances back at me. “I think that would, in fact, make me feel better.” The faintest grin lifts one corner of his mouth.

Our gazes lock and hold for another long moment before he pushes up from the bed, walking around my room once more. I stay where I am but sit up and lean on one hand, watching as Alex makes his way around my childhood bedroom and pauses to inspect every little thing. His fingers trail across the surface of my dresser, the purple paint chipping to reveal a dark teal underneath. It’s been painted every shade of the color wheel at one point or another, and I never took the time to sand away the old layer, meaning every new chip or dent exposes a past life, a past mood, a memory.

Alex points to one of the pictures shoved into the trim around my dresser mirror. “What’s this?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me.

Standing to my feet, my arms still banded around the yearbook and holding it to my chest, I make my way to him.

“Oh, no,” I say, pressing a hand to my face as soon as I see the photo he’s referring to. It’s Stevie, Wren, and me at the public pool, neon swim caps plastered to our heads, circular indents around our eyes from where our goggles had been moments before.

“Swim team?” Alex guesses, his voice lifting with amusement.

“I wish. What you can’t see are the mermaid fins our moms let us purchase online.”

A laugh rockets out of him, bouncing off the walls. “Mermaid fins?”

I nod from behind my hand, my cheeks hot under my palms.

Alex tugs at my wrist, pulling my hand away. The smile he gives me is wide, unfettered. One corner of his mouth is hitched higher than the other, just like it was that first day we met, when I thought he looked like a British rake stepping out of a period drama.

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