Page 46 of Just Friends

Stevie transfers the fried eggs to a plate and says, “Maybe a Nigerian princess you meet online who needs access to your bank account and social security number.”

I nod sagely. “That’s exactly what I’m waiting for. Something special.”

Iwasworriedthatin the light of day, without darkness as a safe cover, things would go back to normal between Hazel and me. That this little bud ofdifferentblooming between us would die out before it got a chance to flower.

But as Cam steers his SUV into Hazel’s driveway that evening, the setting sun slicing through the windshield, the tenuous changes still feel present. Hazel’s knee bumped against mine somewhere just over the Tennessee state line and stayed like that. And when I told her the design she was working on for a client on her iPad was stunning, a pretty pink blush, delicate as a rose, colored her cheeks.

“Thanks for the ride,” I tell Cam as he helps pull our bags out of the trunk.

“No problem, man.” He turns to Hazel, holding her bag out in front of him. “Want me to carry this up for you?”

“I can get it. I’m going up,” I tell him.

Cam’s eyes narrow as he hands me the bag, his gaze darting between me and Hazel’s retreating form. “Ah,” he says, brows arching, a smug look crossing his features.

“What do you mean ‘ah’?” I ask, but I glance over my shoulder to make sure Hazel is out of earshot.

“Ellie told me something was going on between you two.”

My irritation is growing, because at this point,everyone but Hazelknows, and that’s a recipe for disaster, especially with someone as skittish as she is.

“Nothing’s going on.”

Cam’s smile widens. “Okay.”

I shove his shoulder, and he laughs. “Get out of here. I still haven’t forgiven you for the scene at your mom’s shop.”

His head falls back now, the laughter growing louder, and I shoot him one more glare before following Hazel’s tracks up the stairs.

The door to Hazel’s upstairs apartment is open, the cool blast of the AC blowing out into the sticky, humid heat of early summer. The bag she carried up is in a heap on the floor right over the threshold, so I drop the two bags in my arms down next to it and follow her soft humming through the apartment.

I find her in the bathroom, washing her face. A grin, small and almost shy like the ones she’s been giving me since last night, curls her lips as I lean against the doorframe.

“I always feel really gross after traveling and have to wash my face as soon as I get home.”

I thought I knew everything there was to know about Hazel, all of her little routines and funny quirks, her milk-to-coffee ratio and how she can never stick with one perfume. But I’m realizing there are so many bits and pieces I’m missing, intimate details that no matter how close our friendship is, could never fill in every gap. Like how she washes her face after road trips, whether she flosses before bed like she’s supposed to, if she hogs all the blankets or seeks the warmth of the person lying next to her.

“That’s cute,” I say, and wish I could pull the words back until her blush grows deeper, the exact pink shade of my favorite cotton candy ice cream.

Her back is an arched line as she bends down to rinse. My palms itch to smooth down each bump of her spine, to feel the curves of her hips, the silkiness of her skin.

When she stands back up, face dripping, I hand her a washcloth, then resume my stance against the doorframe, arms crossed over my chest. I could watch all her mundane tasks all day and never get tired of the show.

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, blue like the deepest trenches in the ocean. “Want to order a pizza?”

I nod, and she turns around, dropping the washcloth onto the counter. She stares up at me, a grin flirting with the edges of her lips. “You going to let me out of here?”

No. No, I’d much rather pick her up by those thighs that have been haunting my dreams and set her on the counter so we’re at eye-level. So she can watch how much she’s destroying my control. So she doesn’t have to stand on tiptoes to reach my lips. So I can run my hands up and down every exposed bit of skin until my mind is a swirling mess and all that’s left isHazel.

My feet shuffle back, allowing her the tiniest amount of room to escape, and her body brushes against mine as she leaves. It’s an exquisite torture, and hope spears through me at the tiny hitch in her breath as we line up for one instant before she disappears down the hall.

I’m unraveling, but I think she might be too.

The pizza arrives thirty minutes into the movie Hazel picked out—13 Going on 30. I pay the delivery guy and settle back on the couch next to Hazel, the open pizza box balanced on my lap.

Her shoulder leans into mine as she lifts a slice from the box, and a warmth spreads through my middle when she doesn’t pull away, her body stuck to mine like Velcro.

The pizza disappears slice by slice, but I don’t dare move the box and risk Hazel slipping back to her corner of the couch. Sitting this way feels so right, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back to our bodies being on opposite ends with our legs stretched out under a shared blanket.

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