The Romantic Pact

by Quinn, Meghan

  “They’re not little.”

  “The bratwurst? I didn’t think they were.”

  “No, my . . . uh, man bits. They’re not little.”

  In an exasperated tone, she says, “You’re such a man, always needing to defend the size of your penis.”

  “You were defending your boob size,” I point out.

  “Uh, because you said I didn’t have any. It’s not as if I offered my condolences to you for not having a dick.”

  “I’m too tired to defend myself right now, and you’re too witty. I’m taking a shower.”

  She kicks her feet up on the coffee table. “Smells like a good idea.”

  * * *

  I take a deep breath, feeling refreshed, and emerge from the shower. Hazel pushes me into the wall and runs to the toilet, shamelessly pushing down her pants.

  I turn away just in time.

  “Jesus, take a long enough shower? I really had to pee.”

  Slightly stunned, I grip the towel that’s wrapped around my waist and say, “You could have gone to the bathroom before I took a shower.”

  “I didn’t have to go then, and thanks to your supreme modesty, I didn’t want to barge in on your man time.” She sighs in relief. “God, I would have been humiliated if the first thing I did in Germany was pee my pants.” She gives me a smooth once-over and says, “Nice muscles.”

  I glance down at my bare torso and then back at her. “Uh . . . nice thigh.”

  She smooths her hand over her exposed thigh and says, “You like that? I have two of them.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  Fucking ridiculous.

  “I think we’ve reached a new level of our friendship.”

  “Never seen a girl pee before?”

  “Probably my mom when I was small, but recently, no.”

  “Ah, well”—she motions to her body—“soak it all in. A real sight to behold. But I’ll tell you this, I would appreciate some privacy while I wipe. Don’t need you watching the intricacies of drying off my crevices.”

  “Jesus, don’t call them that.” I turn away and head to the living area, where I lift my suitcase onto the bed and fish out a clean pair of boxer briefs. I slip them on under the towel, then whip off the towel and drape it over my head, tousling my hair. I turn toward Hazel. “Did you—"

  “Uh, excuse me,” Hazel says, hand thrown across her chest as she sits on the toilet now topless and her pants still around her ankles.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “About to take a shower. What does it look like?”

  “I don’t know. You’re still on the toilet. For all I know it’s some weird woman ritual where you sit on the toilet topless.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re that clueless about women,” she counters.

  My back toward her, hand in hair, I say, “I’m not. I just wasn’t expecting you to be topless. I swear, and I really mean it, no lies—I didn’t see anything.”

  “I know you didn’t. I heard your mammoth stomping on the way over here. You’re not a silent walker, Crew.”

  “You’re not very subtle, Hazel.”

  “Have I ever been?”

  No. She hasn’t.

  Relaxing, I ask her, “Why are you topless, though? I know you’re going to take a shower, but do you usually undress on the toilet?”

  “Killing two birds with one stone, Crew. While I attempt to drip dry—”

  “Never mind.” I shoot away from the bathroom and call out, “Did you order food?”

  “Yes, sheesh. I’ll be quick. Don’t worry.”

  The shower turns on, and I take a seat in one of the captain’s chairs. What the hell was Pops thinking? Sharing a hotel room, a bed? It almost seems as if he’s trying to work some magic from beyond the grave.

  I glance up at the frosted bathroom glass and regret it immediately as I catch the silhouette of Hazel’s body. There’s no definition, just smooth curves, an outline of a woman’s curves—but what a fucking body. She’s standing next to the shower, waiting for it to warm, and she’s running her hand through her hair, her breasts sticking out, the curve of her back leading to her ass. Hell, Hazel really has grown up.

  Thanks a lot, Pops. This should be a real joy for the next week.

  * * *

  “I can’t stop smelling my hair.” Hazel is wearing one of the hotel robes, her wet hair hangs around her face and shoulders, and I have to keep reminding her to tighten her robe because it continues to gape open too much.

  I haven’t seen anything, but we’ve had a few close calls. It’s difficult to reconcile the curvy woman with my scrawny friend, Hazel. Maybe if it hadn’t been months since I’ve been with anyone, I wouldn’t find her shape so distracting. Or be tempted to allow the gaping.

  There’s a knock at the door, and before I can attempt to move, Hazel pops out of her chair and goes to open the door. A gentleman in a white button-up shirt, black vest, and black tie pushes a cart into the room. “Where should I put this? In the sitting area?”

  “That would be great,” Hazel says.

  He hands her a black folder and says, “Could I grab your signature, Mrs. Smith?”

  Instead of correcting him, Hazel goes with it this time. “Of course. Newlyweds, you know.” She nods toward me. “This old ball and chain is showing me around Germany for our honeymoon. What a guy, huh?”

  “A nice man, ya?.”

  Hazel quickly scribbles on the receipt, then snaps the black folder shut and hands it to the guy where he waits patiently at the door. “Have a good one,” she says, waving her hand.

  He nods and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

  “Old ball and chain?” I ask, one brow raised.

  “Oh yeah. You have ball and chain written all over you. Clingy and needy—you’re the definition of a ball and chain.”

  “When have I ever been clingy and needy?”

  She takes a seat and lifts up the food cloches, revealing . . . what looks like worms in a yellowish sauce.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, remember our pact on the airplane? Trying new foods? Well, this is Käsespätzle. I looked it up and it’s supposed to resemble mac and cheese to us uncultured Americans. Thought it was an easy first step.”

  “I thought you were going to order bratwurst.”

  “You have all the time in the world to snack on wieners. I went with something a little more surprising. Now, shall we eat first and then read the letters, or read and then eat, or do it at the same time?”

  “Eat first.”

  She unfolds her napkin and lays it across her lap, but her eyes stay fixed on me the entire time. “You know, for someone who just lost his grandfather, I thought you’d be more interested in the trip he planned on his death bed.”

  The comment hits me harder than I expected, and when my bleary eyes glance at her, she catches my trepidation.

  “That didn’t come out right,” she says quickly.

  “No, it’s okay. I know what you meant, and yeah, I’m avoiding opening anything right now.”

  She picks up her fork and spears one of the worm-like noodles. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. Just the same old bullshit of not wanting to let go of something that’s already left my life.”

  “That’s not bullshit. That’s a valid feeling. But unfortunately, you’re on a trip with me, and I’m not going to let you hide from your feelings.” She smiles at me, and then, from her side, she lifts the white envelope we were given at the front desk.

  “Why do I feel as though you’re about to rip off a Band-Aid?”

  “Because I am.” She comes to take a seat on the arm of my chair.

  “You can’t hide from the loss of Pops, but you can start to learn to accept it, and there’s no time like now to do that.”

  She tips the envelope over and a letter falls out, along with a picture and a map. I pick up the picture and immediately smile. It’s a picture of Pops and his wife, Gloria, who I ne
ver got to meet, but I’ve heard about many, many times.

  They’re standing in front of a Christmas tree. Pops proudly has his arm around Gloria, and they’re both smiling at the camera.

  “Oh my God. Look at Pops’ plaid pants. Those are killer,” Hazel says.

  I chuckle. “I never knew he had it in him to pull off something so stylish.”

  “You think that’s stylish?”

  “Back then, I believe they were.”

  Hazel leans in. “Gloria is so beautiful. She reminds me of your mom so much it freaks me out.”

  “She does,” I say softly. “They look really happy in this picture.”

  “They do,” Hazel agrees and then picks up the map and unfolds it. It’s a printout of the Christmas market and the best way to visit each stall. “Well, this is well thought out.”

  “I wonder how much time he worked on this.”

  “Let’s see.” Hazel looks in the envelope and then gasps.

  “What?” I ask.

  She slowly pulls out a wad of Euros. “Uh, he just had this sitting at the front desk?”

  “Holy shit,” I say, thumbing through the bills. There has to be at least eight hundred euros in here. “Why would he give us so much money?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I nod at the envelope. “Is there anything else in there?”

  She looks in the envelope. “Nothing. Oh, wait—duh—the letters are in my backpack.” Hazel runs over to her backpack where she sifts through the letters and then holds one up in the air. “Here we are.” She takes a seat next to me again and hands me the envelope. It’s labeled “Munich. Letter #2.” Hazel nudges me with her shoulder. “Read it out loud.”

  “Not making this easy on me, are you?”

  “Nope. Come on, time to rip.”

  Sighing, I open the letter and unfold the paper. I instantly take comfort in seeing Pops’ very familiar handwriting.

  Clearing my throat, I read the letter out loud. “‘Hey kiddos, glad you made it to Munich—at least, I hope you did. How was the drive? Crew, I hope you took the wheel. Knowing Hazel’s track record, you two could have ended up in a ditch.’” I laugh out loud while Hazel protests.

  “It was one time. Good God, you can’t hold that against me for life.”

  “I think we can,” I say before turning back to the letter. “‘Anyway, welcome to Munich at Christmastime. It’s unlike anything you’ll ever experience, and this is where your road trip starts. Yes, road trip. Did you think I would send you on anything else?’” I look up at Hazel. “Told you.” She just rolls her eyes. “’You’re probably wondering why I sent you on this trip, and the answer is . . . something you’ll find out later, but the real road trip hasn’t started quite yet. This is a small detour until you get up to the starting point. For now, I want you to take the night—don’t let sleep take you over—’”

  “Ha, told you.” Hazel nudges me.

  “Congratulations, you were right about one thing.”

  “Uh, I was right about you opening this letter.” She pokes my cheek. “See? You’re smiling and enjoying it.”

  Damn it, I am.

  Ignoring her, I go back to the letter. “‘Immerse yourself in the holiday culture today. Spend time walking through the stalls, taking in the intricacies of all the handmade works. Buy yourselves a trinket, something to remember these moments by. That’s what the cash is for. That and food and drinks. Find things that mean something to you, things that will remind you of each other, of me, of your families. Munich is about reconnecting.’”

  Hazel drapes her arm over my shoulder and gives me a good squeeze.

  “‘You might have thought I didn’t notice, but I did. I noticed how you two grew apart. Don’t worry, Twigs, I place all the blame on my idiot of a grandson.’”

  Hazel laughs, and I chuckle as well, imagining Pops’ look of displeasure over me ignoring Hazel’s emails. He’d have smacked me on the back of the head and asked, “What the Abraham Lincoln were you thinking?” And honestly, I wouldn’t have had an answer for him.

  “‘Some of the greatest moments of my older years were watching you two get together during the summer and goof around. I always thought there was a deep-rooted connection between you, and to see that connection slowly disappear to the point that, Hazel, you didn’t even know some of things I told you over the last year about Crew . . . it hurt my heart. As we know, we’ve such limited time here on Earth, which means you need to make the most of the moments you have together.’”

  I pause and take a deep breath. Glancing up at Hazel, I say, “I’m really sorry, Haze.”

  “I know you are.” She bites her bottom lip, something I’ve seen her do when she’s holding in her emotions, trying not to cry. God. She taps the paper. “Keep reading.”

  “‘Munich is that moment to iron out any of the wrinkles you might have in your friendship. To clear the air, to make sure that, going forward, you’re both on a clean slate. I would love for you to go through the Christmas stalls, but if you instead think you should stay in the hotel and work out any differences you might have, do it, because for the rest of the trip, I want you to be able to enjoy your friendship. Got it? I love you both. Pops.’”

  I sigh and set the letter down as Hazel goes back to her seat and picks up her fork. Silently, she pierces the dumpling noodles and takes a bite. I study her the entire time, wondering if there’s any resentment toward me left in her heart.

  She accepted my apology so easily. If I were in her position, I don’t think I would have been as forgiving as she has been.

  “Hazel?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you still hold resentment toward me? I know I apologized, but anger doesn’t just go away. And I know you. You laugh things off because it’s easier that way, but you still take them to heart. There are always the lingering effects.”

  I can tell that I’m right because she grows eerily silent.

  She twirls her fork around her dish now. “I just . . .” Her beautiful, light eyes connect with mine. “I don’t understand how you could just ignore me. I don’t know what I did wrong.”

  Okay, finally she’s ready to dig deeper. This is what I wanted on the airplane. But now that we’re alone in our hotel room, she seems more comfortable.

  “You did nothing wrong, Haze. Nothing. I honestly can’t give you a reason why I didn’t write back. I read each letter, though. I cherished each communication.”

  “Was it because of what happened the last summer I saw you?” She bites her bottom lip. “I told you it was an accident. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “It wasn’t—”

  “Crew.” She gives me a pointed look. “I kissed you, and you could not run fast enough away.”

  Fuck.

  I push my hand through my hair, remembering that moment. We were down by the horses. I’d just gotten into a fight with my dad about focusing too much on football and not taking a second to breathe. He told me I was going to regret not having fun during the few summers I had left to visit the farm, and I told him there was no way the professionals took breaks on their way up the ladder, so why should I?

  I was steamed, and I needed Hazel to lighten things up.

  But when I got to the barn, my fun, easy-going friend was gone, and in her place was a nervous, fidgeting girl. We were brushing Titus, one of the stallions on the farm, when I turned to Hazel for advice and she kissed me.

  I was shocked, stunned. I had no idea she saw me like that. That she had any sort of romantic feelings toward me. Hence the romantic pact she drew up for us. And like the coward I am, instead of talking to her, I backed away, trying to comprehend what the hell just happened. My mind whirled, my body froze, and then I felt it . . . I felt the rapid pound in my heart, the urge to press my lips against hers. I wanted more, and that fucking terrified me, so I ran.

  That was the last summer I spent at the farm.

  That was the last time I remember communicating with her
.

  “You know, we’re never going to get past it if we don’t talk about it,” she says quietly.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “So then let’s talk about it.” She shrugs, posing as the calm and collected one. “I kissed you. You thought I was a dragon. You ran. Okay, your turn.”

  “I did not think you were a dragon,” I answer, guilt swimming around me like a swarm of bees ready to strike.

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “That wasn’t it at all.” I grip the back of my neck, trying to figure out how I can tell her exactly what happened without making things exceedingly more uncomfortable.

  “Was it because I smelled like a horse? Did I smell like a horse? Honestly, I don’t even know at this point.”

  “You’ve never smelled like a horse, Haze. Always like flowers.” Summer flowers in a large field. When we were in high school, I’d take a whiff when she walked past me, committing the smell to memory.

  Still rambling, she says, “I mean, it wasn’t my best kiss in the world, but it wasn’t sprint-away worthy. There was literally fire coming out of your shoes you moved so fast.”

  “There wasn’t fire.”

  “You tripped over a rock and still ran.” Her brow raises.

  “I was testing out my balance and ability to catch myself.”

  “I’m being serious, Crew,” she says, annoyed.

  “Are you? Because it seems as though you’re cracking jokes to avoid the awkwardness, like you always do.”

  “Fine. You don’t want the jokes? Then here’s the truth. I kissed you. I was feeling something at the moment and foolishly acted on it when I shouldn’t have. You ran away, things were uncomfortable after that, and then I never saw or heard from you again. So, yeah, I might be feeling a little weird toward you even if I’m trying to laugh it all off as nothing. Even if I’m trying to pretend everything is okay when it’s really not.” Her eyes brim with tears and she bites her lip.

  Shit.

  “You didn’t have to run away. You could have just said you wanted to be friends, and just friends, Crew. But pushing me out of your life, that . . . that really hurt.”