Page 53 of Just Friends

Hazel is twenty-three minutes late, and I haven’t heard from her since I sat down and texted her and got a response saying she’d overslept and would be here soon.

In unrelated news, it feels like ants are crawling under my skin and my muscles are pulling tight to the point of pain.

I flip over my phone, checking for the thirty-seventh time to see if Hazel has texted back. When there’s nothing on my screen but a notification reminding me to pay my credit card bill, I drum my fingers against the sticky table.

Finally, unable to stand the angry stares of people desperate for my table and a plate of smothered hash browns, I text Adam.

Me:You up?

Adam:Why would I still be sleeping at 10AM?

Me:I don’t know. I figured you must have had a late night since you REFUSED TO TALK TO ME.

Adam:I was on my own date. I can’t babysit yours too.

My heavy breath hisses through my nostrils as I press my lips into a thin line.

Me:I never ask you for anything

Me:I thought you might be there for me in my one time of need

Me:My bad

Adam:There hasn’t been a day since your birth that you haven’t asked me for something. The first eighteen months of my life were so peaceful.

Adam:What do you need?

I push a hand through my hair, some of the tension leaving my shoulders. As much as I want to wring Adam’s neck 72 percent of the time, I know I can count on him when I really need him.

Me:Hazel bailed on our ice cream debrief last night

Adam:Yeah, Parker told me.

Me:WHAT

Me:YOU TALKED TO PARKER BUT YOU WOULDN’T TALK TO ME?

Me:WE ARE BLOOD

Me:WE SHARED THE SAME WOMB

Adam:Please never mention our mother’s womb again.

Me:You seriously blew me off last night but answered PARKER?

Adam:No, we got breakfast this morning.

Me:Oh

Me:WHAT DID HE SAY

Me:HOW DID IT GO

My phone vibrates in my hand with another text from Adam just as a harried Hazel slides into the booth. I slap my phone down on the table, hoping she didn’t see the screen.

Her hair is piled atop her head, short pieces sticking out of her haphazard bun. There’s no makeup on her face, just a smattering of pale freckles and a natural pink tinge to her cheeks. She’s wearing loose, flowy cropped pants and one of her tiny tank tops that’s held by straps thinner than my self-control.

“Hey,” she says, sounding a little out of breath, like she’s been hurrying since I texted her.

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