Page 85 of Just Friends

Dangerous hope takes root deep in my belly, but I’m cut off from responding when my phone buzzes on the wooden display stand. I snatch it up, expecting a text from Alex, but my heart stops beating when I see the name on the screen.

Sebastian.

“What is it?” Mom asks, sensing the shift, like the air has dropped in temperature. A shiver races through me, and my throat works on a swallow, sucking air through my nose. “Hazel,” Mom says, her tone sharp enough to draw my attention this time.

“It’s Sebastian,” I say, staring at the phone in my hand. The image on the screen has me frozen. It’s one of us together, a selfie we took while lying together on a picnic blanket on one of those perfect days in LA. The sun was shining, and while I was looking at the camera, Sebastian’s attention was fixed on me. That perfect smile was on his mouth, the one that always seemed to drug me a little, the one that made me believe him even when things didn’t quite add up.

I’d forgotten I made this his contact photo, that even though I deleted it from my photo album and social media, it still lives on forever right here, waiting to come back and haunt me when I’m already on uneven ground. That photo makes me feel like the rug is being ripped out from under me, like I’ve been turned upside down, all the painful memories hitting me with their full force again.

The screen goes blank again before I can even decide what to do. Like thereisa decision to make. I’m certainly not going to answer.

“Hazel,” Mom says, her voice cutting through the fog in my brain. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say, but I’m shaking my headno, and I’m not even sure what the correct answer is. I can hear my pulse thrumming in my ears, feel myself shutting down. I can taste the copper tang of blood in my mouth that means I bit my tongue, even if I hadn’t noticed the sharp sting of pain.

I step back, bumping into the display, and Mom steadies me with her hands on my shoulders. Her face is creased with concern. “Hazel,” she says again, this time sharper.

“I think I need some air,” I say, and Mom nods.

“Let’s go outside.” She starts to lead me toward the door, but it opens before we can get there, and three women enter. From their Smoky Mountain T-shirts and brand-new hiking boots, they must be tourists.

Mom shoots me a pained look, but I wave her off. “It’s fine, really. I think I just need a few minutes alone,” I say, quiet enough that only she can hear. “Can you handle them?”

At her nod, I remind her to take it easy, and then I slip through the door, taking in deep breaths of the fresh mountain air. It’s bright today, and the sun immediately warms my suddenly chilled skin, making sweat prickle on my hairline and the back of my neck. The light breeze ruffles the hem of my skirt as I walk around the building, my hand sliding along the siding like I used to when I was a kid, sneaking out to climb onto my handmade wooden swing and watch the stars.

The swing is still there, swaying gently in the breeze from the gnarled limb of an old towering weeping willow. I push aside the dangling branches, sliding under the shaded canopy, and wrap my hand around the stiff fraying ropes. The swing groans as I settle my weight against it and push off, dust kicking up beneath my feet.

It’s hot today, the kind of sticky heat that clings to your skin and requires a shower morning and night, but the breeze as I swing is enough to soothe my frazzled nerves and cool me down. Slowly, my heart rate returns to normal in shades, the same way the sun slowly sinks below the horizon each night, until I’m finally breathing normally again.

When my phone vibrates in my skirt pocket once more, I drag my feet in the dirt, halting the swing. My pulse pounds in my throat as I pull out the phone, braced for that photo again.

But it’s not there.

This photo is of Alex. It was one he sent me early on in our friendship, back when I was still living in LA and our main mode of conversation was texting and the occasional phone call or FaceTime. In the photo, he’s holding up a cotton candy ice cream cone the size of his head, a wide grin splitting his mouth. He’d saidthe only thing I’ll ever love more than you, and I laughed it off, but now I’m wondering if he knew, all the way back then.

The FaceTime call almost clicks off before I remember to answer it. When my shaking fingers slide it open, he’s there, his real grin replacing the one snapped so long ago. But as soon as he sees my face, it dissolves.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is it your mom? Do I need to come down there?” He pushes up off his white couch, his apartment a blur in the background as he moves around. “I just need to pack a bag.”

Something warms inside me, like honey dripping from my heart and down into my chest. It’s tenderness like I’ve never felt before. A living, breathing thing that’s growing and taking shape. It’s overwhelming.

“Alex, everything’s fine,” I say, and at the sound of my voice, he slows. His apartment gains clarity behind him again, and his eyes focus on me.

“Something’s wrong,” he says, and he sounds so concerned that I wish he was here so I could wrap my arms around him and assure him I’m okay, that I’m always okay when I’m with him.

Swallowing, I say, “It’s Sebastian. He just called.”

Alex slumps onto his couch, the phone jostling before the camera sharpens on his face again. “Oh, what did he say?” His voice is strained, tight, and I suddenly wonder how often it’s been like that in the past, how many times I didn’t notice. It’s like now that he’s told me he’s in love with me, I can see the evidence everywhere, in everything he does, and I don’t know how I missed it for so long.

I kick off the ground again, setting my swing swaying. “I didn’t answer. I kind of freaked out.”

Concern replaces the dismay on his features. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay now,” I say, and I want to tell him it’s because of him. That in the same way that just seeing Sebastian makes me anxious, just seeinghimmakes me calm. Alex is the rays of sunshine peeking through Sebastian’s storm.

Alex is quiet for a long moment, studying me, and I take the opportunity to do the same. He’s dressed in that same threadbare gray tee that I gave him the night we were here in Fontana Ridge, when I ran into him naked. I can practically feel its softness against my skin, and I have the desperate desire to know what it feels like against his. To see what’s softer, the shirt or him, to see if it still holds his warmth after I peel it off.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Is there a reason you called?”

---