Page 54 of Just Friends

Just the sight of her relaxes me. She may have spent the evening with Parker, but she’sminethis morning. “Hi.”

Her nails are painted white and tap against the plastic menu as she peruses it. I remember how they looked last night, wrapped around Parker’s hand, and I want to crush something. Preferably the part of my brain that holds on to memories.

Maybe it’s that stab of jealousy the mental image produces that makes me ask, “How was the date?”

I’m not sure I want to know. It was good enough for her to ditch ice cream and go out with him after the lessons. The studio was huge, with bright lights and lots of room to move around. The bars downtown are the exact opposite. They’re dark and loud, so you have to get close just to hear. The dance floors are cluttered with bodies jostling you into one another. It’s honestly perfect for first dates, when intentional touches can feel too forward, but close proximity forces your hand. It makes everything feel looser and easier, with pressure and inhibitions lowered.

Hazel’s eyes flick up to me, dark blue ringed in gold. “It was fun. Did you and Rayne do anything after?”

Rayne asked, and I could tell she was interested, but a weight had settled in my gut as I watched Hazel and Parker slide into his truck, heading downtown. When Rayne asked for my number, I didn’t give it out just to be nice, the way I did with Chloe. I learned my lesson, and although it had been awkward to explain that I wasn’t looking for a relationship right now, it felt good not to lead her on.

So while Hazel and Parker extended their date, I went home and tried to go over my options. The truth is, I don’t know what to do anymore. I almost want to call in an audible and end this whole thing. The blind dates are working against me now, and I can feel Hazel slipping away like water between my fingers.

“No, I just went home,” I finally tell her, pushing a hand through my hair. “What did you guys do?”

We’re interrupted by the waitress, a woman who could easily be a Dolly Parton impersonator, coming to take our order. But after she leaves, Hazel slides her menu behind the napkin holder and glances up at me before looking away again, focused on the cooks at the grill.

“We went downtown for a while and then ended up at that donut place that has all the board games. We stayed there until it shut down.”

There’s a lump in my throat, so thick and heavy I almost can’t swallow it down. “Sounds fun.” Even to my own ears, it sounds dispassionate and flat.

Hazel meets my gaze, her eyes narrowing as she searches my expression. I don’t know what she reads there, and I don’t think I care. At this point, would it be so bad for her to know? It can’t be worse than this—her tromping all over my heart without even knowing she’s doing it in those worn white cowgirl boots she wore last night.

Her finger traces circles on the sweating glass of water I ordered her. “It was.” She hesitates, meets my eyes. “I think I’d like to go out with him again next week.”

I’m not surprised by the comment, so it shouldn’t feel like a kick to my gut, knocking the wind out of me. But it does. At least with Sebastian, I already knew Hazel was taken, that she was happy and off the market. But no one prepares you for how devastating it is to watch the person you’re in love with fall in love with someone else.

She’s still watching me, so I school my features into something I hope isn’t a grimace. “Sounds good. Parker is a great guy.”

Her lips curve into the barest of smiles, and it’s an anvil to my chest, a brutal attack on my emotions. “Yeah, he is. He talked a lot about Adam. I didn’t realize they were friends.”

“Yeah, me neither,” I grumble, shifting in my seat.

Hazel’s eyes are still tracking my every movement, noting the way I can’t sit still, how my fingers drum against the table, and my foot bounces below it. I fear she can seeeverything.

“Do you want to go out with Rayne again?”

“No.”

Her brows crinkle. “Really? You guys seemed like you were getting along well.”

“I’m pretty sure she broke my toe.”

Hazel watches me for a long moment, spinning her plastic cup around on the worn laminate table. “So she can nurse you back to health, then.”

“No, thanks.” The words come out more toneless than I intended, but I can’t bring myself to care.

“So you want a new date for next week?”

I don’t want to go out with anyone ever again. “Yes,” I say, and then tack on, “Please.”

“Okay,” she says, her gaze fixing on my tapping fingers. I stop, shoving them under my thighs. “I’ll start looking.”

I’mgrumpy,andmymother can tell. It’s why she’s been pestering me all through our monthly family dinner at the most bland Italian restaurant in town. I’ve been eating soggy chicken parmesan and watery spaghetti noodles here once a month since Adam moved out of the house and into his dorm at college. You’d think I’d branch out and try something else—and I have—but this mediocre entrée is the best thing on the menu.

“Alexander, how is work?” Mom asks. She’s the only one who has called me Alexander since I started kindergarten, but I know there’s no use in correcting her. She’s always said that if she had wanted my name to be Alex, she would have putthaton the birth certificate.

My knife scrapes against the white porcelain plate as I cut through the last of my chicken. It’s so soggy I could probably use my fork, but then Mom would comment on my bad manners.

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