There’s hesitation in her eyes and I want to address the elephant in the room, the thing that we were probably both thinking the minute we saw each other, but before I can do that, she leans forward and pulls an envelope from her backpack. The familiar handwriting on the front says The Plane.
“Is that—” I swallow hard. “Is that from Pops?”
She nods and fans her face with it. “Yup, I’ve been entrusted with the letters. Apparently, Pops didn’t trust you to not read them all at the same time.”
“There’s more?”
She nods slowly. “Oh yeah, there are more.” Her head tilts to the side. “How much do you know about this trip?”
“Practically nothing. Just that we’re going to Germany.”
“Well, I don’t know much either, but what I do know, I’m excited about.”
“What do you know?”
She taps her chin.
I’m in a good mood from her exuberance and the familiarity of having Hazel Allen in my sights again. It’s like running into a warm hug when you see her. Positive, encouraging, always smiling and laughing—she’s a breath of fresh air.
Damn, looks like Pops knew exactly what I needed.
An old friend.
“You know, I think we should just enjoy this flight and catch up. Let the letters lead us.” She winks and then holds the letter up between us with two fingers. “Want to read it together?”
Hell, I’m not sure I’m ready, but then again, knowing Hazel, she’s going to open it either way. Another reason why I think Pops planned out this whole thing. He knows Hazel’s going to push me outside of my comfort zone. She’s going to challenge me, and we’re going to have one hell of a time doing it.
Nodding toward the letter, I say, “Open it.”
A satisfied smile passes over her glossy lips as she tears open the envelope and unfolds a piece of notebook paper.
I never thought I’d see his writing again. It makes me feel more connected to him as I stare down at the familiar chicken-scratch scribble. In my mind, I can see exactly what blue pen he used, too. The same pen he used for everything. A classic Bic with the blue top, a top he always tended to lose.
Where the Franklin Pierce did I put that blasted thing?
The memory of him slamming his head on the kitchen table while ducking under to look for the pen cap flashes through my mind, putting a smile on my face.
“Want me to read it out loud, or should we read it to ourselves at the same time?”
“Read it to ourselves,” I say.
She holds it between us and I prepare myself.
Hey Kiddos,
So, you made it on the plane. My guess is Hazel, you packed up immediately and waited by the door, ready to take off as soon as you found out. And Crew, you put up a bit of a fit, only to be dragged to the airport while your mother cried the whole time, am I right?
My nostrils flare and Hazel snorts while looking at me. “Oh my God, did you throw a fit?”
I shift in my seat and say, “I wouldn’t call it a fit.”
She laughs out loud and reaches over to grab my hand. “Oh, Crew, always so unruly.”
She turns back to the letter while I try not to curse Pops out in my head.
Sure, I gave my parents a bit of a hard time, but then again, I had my reasons . . .
Either way, you’re both reading this now (you better be) and you must be wondering why I’m sending you on a trip to Germany. It’s simple . . . you’ll find out along the way.
I shake my head. Typical Pops.
But until you can piece the puzzle together, I’ll say this. I love you both and I wish I could physically be there with you while you travel the beautiful countryside of Germany. Just know, I’m up above, laughing my rear end off at you two nitwits as you try to figure out how to drive the German roads and understand their signs.
Hazel chuckles next to me and so do I.
Attached is an itinerary. When you reach your first destination and check into your hotel, the staff has been given another itinerary to hand to you. There’s no straying from the itinerary. I’m spending my final days putting this together, so you better not go rogue on me.
All I ask is that you sit back, breathe in the moment, and truly enjoy yourselves.
I love you both. Stay tuned for more.
Forever Your Pops,
Bernie
Fuck.
I suck in a sharp breath and lean my head back against the airplane headrest, a bout of emotions traveling through me like a wave of despair. I hold back the tears that start to well in my eyes and attempt to turn toward the window, but Hazel catches me before I can hide myself.
“It’s okay to cry, you know,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Just as long as you’re not snotty and crying the entire trip.”
That makes me laugh. I turn toward her and she reaches out and wipes away a tear from under my eye. “I’m glad you’re here, Haze.”
“Me too.” She gives me a soft smile.
“Can I get you something to drink before we take off?” a flight attendant asks.
“I would love a Sprite with a touch of cranberry juice, please,” Hazel answers. “And just a regular Sprite for the big guy over here.”
“Sure thing,” she answers before weaving expertly through the boarding passengers.
“What if I don’t want a Sprite?”
“Who are you kidding?”
Sighing, I lean back in my chair. “Yeah, you’re right.”
* * *
Once we’re up in the air and the fasten seatbelt sign is off, Hazel unlatches herself and turns toward me. “So, tell me everything.” She props her elbows on the console between us and rests her chin on her hands, her eyes batting at me, waiting for an answer.
One thing I know about Hazel is that she’s the master of avoidance. If she doesn’t want to talk about something, she will divert, she will change the subject, or she will shift the focus. And that’s what I feel she’s doing right now.
You don’t go nearly four years without talking to each other and act as if nothing happened, unless you’re Hazel Allen.
“Everything?”
She nods. “Start with the good stuff.”
“Uh, and what would be the good stuff?”
“You know.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “I want to know all about the women in your life.”
Why the hell would she want to know that? Not what I was expecting when it came to conversation, but then again, Hazel has always been slightly off the wall. She used to ask me the strangest questions when we were cleaning out the barn or feeding the animals, just to pass the time. Questions that always came out of nowhere. Her approach might be abrasive to others, but at this point, it’s comforting because I’ve missed this girl so damn much.
I laugh. “Yeah, no women in my life.”
“Liar.” She pokes me now. “You’re telling me, big man on campus, Crew Smith, doesn’t have girls knocking on his door every night?”
“You fail to remember just how bad my season was this year.”
“Oh, I remember. It was painful looking at the number of interceptions you threw, but you’re still a handsome mother effer. Pretty sure girls aren’t looking at your stats.”
I shake my head. “No girls.”
“Ugh.” She pushes back. “You’re no fun. I was hoping that would fill at least a good portion of our trip.”
“What kind of sex life did you think I have?” I ask.
“A vibrant one. Clearly I was wrong.”
Very wrong.
“What about you?” I challenge her with a nod her way.
“Oh, you know how it is living the farm life. Once you wipe the stink off, you’re exhausted and barely have enough energy to go to the local bar and flaunt your goods.”
“You paint quite the picture.”
She chuckles. “I was dating this guy, but he turned out to have a foot fetish. It was fun at first, but then it just got creepy when all he wanted was my f
eet touching him. I passed.”
“He wanted you to touch him with your feet?”
She nods slowly. “Oh yeah. He’d pay for me to get pedicures and then I’d rub my feet up and down his chest. Fascinating to see how hard he’d get.”
I study her. Truly study her as I try to process what she’s saying. “I don’t believe you,” I finally say, knowing Hazel well enough to understand when she’s trying to pull my leg.
“Okay, fine, he didn’t have a foot fetish.” She rolls her eyes. “But he was kind of weird and I did touch his penis with my foot once and it leapt in excitement, which was cause for concern.”
“You’d be surprised what can get a penis going,” I say, keeping my voice down.
“Do you have a list of things that makes you hard?”
I pause. Hazel has always been outgoing, a bit of a neat freak, and very organized. She’s a hard worker, has no problem getting dirty when she needs to, and is very loving. Her relationship with her grandpa mirrors mine, and it’s one of the reasons I always felt drawn to her when visiting Pops. That and her ability to just have fun.
But this side of Hazel, this . . . sexual side. Call me a prude, but I never expected it from her.
Ehh, scratch that, I didn’t expect it that quickly.
Umm . . . hmm . . . maybe I should have. Yeah, this actually almost feels right.
Have you ever masturbated?
Do you think pigs have crushes?
Why do you think they call it a hoof?
Her questioning falls in line with her personality.
She pokes my side. “Don’t go shy on me now.”
“Not going shy, just think I need something stronger than a Sprite for this conversation.”
She laughs. “You might be right.” She takes a deep breath and exhales, then picks up the menu showing food options for the first-class passengers. “Wow, duck on an airplane? Bet it tastes like rubber. Where’s the pizza?”
“Back in economy, probably.”
“Pops would have scoffed at duck.” Setting the menu down, she continues, “This is supposed to be about Pops, so let’s talk about him.”
“You know, I don’t really want to talk about Pops right now.”
“Why not?”
“Not something I want to dive into on an airplane.”
“Fair enough.” She reaches for her backpack and pulls out an old, tattered notebook and two pens, one purple, one green. She playfully hands me the green pen and says, “Are you up for the challenge?”
“A green pen?”
“Not just a green pen, but THE green pen.”
“Are we about to take a trip down memory lane, Haze?”
“I mean, if we take a detour down memory lane while on our way to Germany, then why not?”
Chuckling, I nod at the notebook that’s seen its fair share of better days, the same notebook that Hazel used to carry around the farm, looking to best me. “Did you print out game boards, cut them up, and tape them inside the notebook?”
“I’m not a monster,” she replies, flipping the notebook open to a new section full of empty gameboards.
“You really have thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Would it even be visiting with each other if we didn’t play Dots and Boxes?”
“It wouldn’t.” I pick up the notebook and flip through the pages. Game after game of purple and green fill the notebook. I turn to the front page and chuckle. “Remember this, the romantic pact we made?”
She leans over and takes a look at it. “Oh God, I don’t.”
Hell, I do. I remember this pact vividly, especially after that kiss. The kiss that caught me by surprise. My mind immediately went to this pact and how we just broke it.
How she broke it.
How I was shocked that she did.
Because if anyone was bound to break the pact, I swore it would have been me.
Angling the notebook toward her, she reads out loud. “Hazel Allen and Crew Smith agree to never get romantically involved ever and swear to be best friends forever.” She chuckles. “Look at your signature. Oh my God.”
I laugh out loud. “It doesn’t look like that anymore.” I flip through the pages some more and review games claiming a purple victory and some claiming a green victory. Even have a few with the label “Cheater” written across the top in Hazel’s handwriting. “I still think the jury is out about these games where you assumed I cheated.”
“You did,” she fires back. “You cheated multiple times, distracting me with Funyuns and then adding an extra line when I wasn’t looking.”
“You think I would sink so low as to cheat at Dots and Boxes?”
“Uh . . . yeah.” She folds her arms across her chest. “You couldn’t stand losing to a girl, especially a scrawny ass like myself.”
“Not true.” She eyes me and I laugh. “You were pretty scrawny.”
But she isn’t now.
I always saw her in the summers. Christmas time, she flew to Indiana to be with her mom’s side of the family, so we always missed each other during the winter.
So, it’s been a few years since we’ve spent time together. But she’s . . . uh . . . matured. A late bloomer—she was always scrawny, flat-chested, and very innocent looking.
Now, she has some curves, her lips look plumper than I ever remember, and her brilliant red hair is woven through with blonde highlights that creates a wave of color my hands are crazily itching to touch.
And those eyes of hers, now highlighted by a coat of mascara. They’re large, almost doe-like, and bright, full of life and excitement. She’s . . . hell, she’s beautiful. The kind of sun-kissed beauty that comes naturally with her well-placed freckles and warm-toned skin. But it’s that smile that’s endless and mesmerizing, a smile that has always been a solid comfort in my life.
So why did I stop writing to her?
Because I’m a self-absorbed ass.
Because I was scared.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
“Scrawny on the outside, huge muscles on the inside.” She attempts to flex her arm, and through her tight-fitted long-sleeve, I see a tiny hill in her bicep, but that’s about it. “Can’t judge a book by its cover. Remember, I almost beat you in a hay bale throwing contest.”
“Uh, almost beat me is a stretch.”
“We were neck and neck there for a while. I can still hear Pops’s booming laughter over his grandson losing.”
“Once I figured out how to use my hips, I beat you.”
“Took you far too long.” She smiles.
“Doesn’t matter, I still beat you.” But she did give me a run for my money. I was out of breath by the end of the competition. And I thought it was going to be a cakewalk. Boy, was I wrong.
She flips the notebook over to the front page and reveals our running tally of wins. “Despite your attempts at cheating, looks as though I’m in the lead. Care to play some Dots and Boxes?”
“Same rules?” I ask.
“Would we ever play differently?”
I uncap my pen and say, “Not at this point. Let’s go, Allen.”
A huge smile stretches across her face as she flips to an open game. “Rock, paper, scissors to see who goes first?”
“Obviously.” I hold my hand out, and together we say, “Rock, paper, scissors,” and throw down.
I go in with a classic rock and she tumbles over me with paper.
“You’re so predictable.” She grabs my fist with her “paper” and uncaps her purple pen. “Okay, get ready to lose, Smith.”
She makes the first mark and then, in silence, we go back and forth, connecting the dots with lines. Boxes start to form, strategic moves are made, and we don’t say a word to each other, the white noise of the airplane surrounding us.
With every move she makes, I counter, culminating in a long, narrow section that will make or break the game. I count ahead, looking at the marks I have to make in order to score the most boxes and . . .
&
nbsp; Fuck.
She must realize it at the same time because now every line she makes has an extra sass to it, a little gusto to her pen strokes.
“Shit,” I mutter, making the final line, which grants her access to make enough boxes to not only take the lead, but take the win.
“Ahh, look at all these purples boxes,” she says, rubbing it in as she scribbles purple all over the gameboard until all the boxes are filled. When she’s done, she looks up at me and says, “As per the rules, I’m allowed to ask you anything, and you have to answer.”
“I think we should revisit those rules.”
She caps her pen and shakes her head. “No way. You agreed to the terms before we played.”
“That’s because I didn’t think I was going to lose. Now that I lost, I want to revisit the rules.”
“Warm towel?” a flight attendant asks, standing in the aisle with a tray of warm towels.
“Uh, sure.” Hazel accepts a towel, then hands it to me and quips, “Something to wash away your shame?”
Together we wipe our hands, really unclear about the whole towel thing.
“You know you’re living the fancy life when you’re given a towel to wipe your hands off before a luxurious meal of airplane duck.”
I chuckle. “Good thing we asked for a pizza from economy class.”
“Food choices are much better back with the peasants,” Hazel whispers. “Pringles and pizza—sign me up.”
When the flight attendant came around to ask what our choices were for our three-course meal in first class, Hazel and I asked if we could get a pizza and Pringles instead. The flight attendant gave us a wink and said, “No problem.” Thank God, because the “escargot” the gentleman across from us is eating looks less than appetizing.
The flight attendant retrieves the towels and hands us our drinks and mini-cans of Pringles. We each pop them open and take a bite. I catch the man next to us give us a look, and I’m pretty sure I see jealousy in his eyes as his attention falls back to his escargot.
“Okay, how many games do we plan on playing?” Hazel asks before popping a chip in her mouth.
The Romantic Pact Page 3