* * *
“Oh, sweet Jesus, these are good,” Hazel says, humming over a German puddingbrezels we picked up from one of the stalls outside of the hotel. Berdine told us before we left that we had to grab one for the road. Being that we’re going with the flow, we bought a few, along with a cup of heiβe schokolade, also known as hot chocolate. We learned that it’s not made from a powder or a mix, but rather an actual chocolate bar melted in milk. Hazel couldn’t order fast enough.
Still familiarizing myself with the car, I pick one up from the box and take a bite, ready to put it back down, but think twice when the flavors hit my tongue. Driving can wait. I need to eat this now.
“Holy shit, they are good.”
“Dare I even try the hot chocolate? The guy said there’s an entire chocolate bar inside. I’m not sure you’re ready for Sugar High Hazel.”
I laugh. “As long as you don’t turn into, as you like to call it, Sicky Belly Hazel from eating too much sugar.”
“I can’t be held accountable for what happens today with my consumption of food. If later you find yourself lying next to me on our new bed, rubbing my stomach while I cry tears of sugar, then so be it.” She takes another hefty bite of her puddingbrezel and moans softly. “I really think I might start crying now.”
“I might drop the whole football thing and go for food-and-travel blogger instead.” I take another bite of the puddingbrezel, savoring the flavors.
“I think I’ll join you in that endeavor. We could pitch a show to the Travel Channel. Who wouldn’t want to watch Hazel and Crew travel the world?”
“Crew and Hazel,” I correct her, putting my name first. “My idea, after all.”
“Ugh, don’t be that guy.” She takes a sip of the hot chocolate and her eyes widen in surprise. She lets out a long, drawn-out moan.
“You know, the moaning doesn’t have to be part of the eating process.”
“Are you insane? Of course it does. That’s how you express how great something is . . . you know, like sex.” She grants me a beaming smile, and I just shake my head.
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t be moaning.”
She licks some of the pudding out of the pastry and asks, “Are you getting turned on, Crew?”
“Why did I know you were going to go there? Oh yeah, you’ve turned into a pervert.”
Arms spread as far as she can in our small car, she says, “This is how I am. Take it or leave it.”
I pick up the hot chocolate as well, and before sipping, I say, “I guess I’ll take you as I can get you, and that’s only because I’ve missed this—missed us.”
“I’ve missed us too.” She smirks and then we both clink our cups.
Together we sip and then . . . moan.
Shit, this is really fucking good.
She eyes me over her cup. “See? It’s totally moan-worthy, but you don’t seem ready to pull my pants off and bang it out.”
“Why are you the way you are?” I ask.
She pauses, giving it some thought. “Honestly, I think I spent too much time with the chickens. The hens chip-chirping all the time does something to your conscience.”
I shove the rest of the puddingbrezel in my mouth before starting the car. Once I chew and swallow, I say, “At least you can recognize where the issue might have stemmed from.” I nod toward the radio. “Hook us up with some tunes, Haze. We’ve some road to cover.”
* * *
When Hazel said she made us a playlist, she wasn’t kidding. Back in high school, we used to send each other emails that consisted of songs we needed to listen to. Hazel tended to drift toward Indie music I’d never heard of, whereas I would pull up oldies that my mom and dad always played on Sundays when we’d clean the house together as a family. I was the only kid in my school who spent Sundays cleaning. Everyone else had a cleaning service that cleaned their house every week. Even though Mom and Dad easily have the money, they always kept things “normal” with me. They said I would thank them later.
Haven’t found that gratefulness for dusting just yet.
“I can’t get enough of his voice,” Hazel says. She pulled her legs up to her chest earlier on in the car trip and has kept them there ever since. She’s small enough and flexible enough to fit curled up on the seat. I would look like a buffoon if I tried to mimic her position. As it is, my chair almost hits the backseat, it’s pushed so far back.
“I remember the first time you sent me a Lumineers song. I was skeptical initially since it was once again another band I’d never heard of before, but the moment I heard Wesley Schultz’s voice, I was sold.”
“I had such a big crush on him.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah.” She nods as the melodic sound of one of my favorite songs by the Lumineers, “Nobody Knows,” plays in the background. “It’s the voice that captured me.”
“Did you have a poster of him on your wall?” I ask, and then something strikes me. “You know, I’ve never seen your room, actually. Isn’t that kind of weird?”
From the corner of my eyes, I catch her shake her head. “No, it was planned that way. Mom and I didn’t have much when it came to a home, and I actually slept in a blanketed-off section that was supposed to be a dining room. I never had anyone over.”
“What? Seriously? Did Pops know?”
She nods. “Oh yeah. He tried to get my mom and me to live with him quite a few times. Grandpa Thomas—my dad’s dad—didn’t have any room for us in his cabin, or else he’d have helped us out. Mom wouldn’t take Pops’s help because she didn’t ever want to take charity. There were a few nights, though, when Pops would have me stay the night because I was working late. Those were my favorite nights, because I felt such comfort in the bed—” Her words stop short and I can see her start to retreat.
“Feel comfort in what?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head. “It’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not. What did you feel comfort in?”
“It’s going to sound really stalkerish.”
“Try me,” I say.
Sighing, she says, “Felt comfort in knowing it was the same bed you slept in when you were visiting.”
“How is that stalkerish? I mean, unless you were trying to smell the pillow to find any sort of essence I might have left behind.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
I laugh and nudge her leg. “Seriously, though, you said it yourself—I was a comfort to you, especially during the summer. Why wouldn’t you want to cling to that, especially when you were going through a lot of shit at home?”
“I know but saying it out loud feels creepy.”
I reach over the console between us and take her hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. “It’s not creepy, Haze. It makes sense.”
“Thanks for getting me.”
“No need to thank me. We’ve gotten each other for years.” Instead of removing my hand from hers, I continue to hold it, not just because I want to, but because I feel as though she needs it right now.
I came into this trip thinking I was the only one needing to find acceptance with losing Pops, but it seems we both have to accept his passing, but in different ways. Pops was my cheerleader, my inspiration, my guiding light. A best friend.
But to Hazel, he was more than just a second grandfather—he was a safe place, a shelter, someone she could rely on when things got hard. And from listening to her on this trip, it seems as though things were hard often.
Which brings me to think . . .
“What are you doing now?”
“Uh, sitting here, listening to the Lumineers.”
“No, I mean, on the farm, in life. What are you doing? Are you still living with your mom?”
She grows silent and I glance her direction to catch her looking out the window. She slowly lets go of my hand and shifts in her seat.
“Um, right now, things are kind of hard.”
“What do you mean?” When she doesn’t answer right away,
I say, “You can talk to me, Hazel.”
“I know. It’s just hard to talk about, is all.” She takes a deep breath. “Around June, Pops asked me to go to the house in the morning to have a conversation about the farm. I thought it was going to be about the upcoming fall season. But that’s when he told me he was sick with pancreatic cancer. Stage four.” She grows silent again and I can hear her sniffle. “I wasn’t expecting it. I had no idea he was even sick. I felt stupid for not recognizing the signs and overwhelmed with what was going to happen to the mini empire he’d built with the farm.”
“I can’t believe he told you and not me.”
“He didn’t want to ruin your season,” she says softly. “At least, that’s what he told me.”
Well, it was ruined anyway.
Continuing, she says, “He brought me in to talk because he wanted me to start taking over operations. He then asked me to take up the guest room as well, to help him around the house.”
“You helped him while he was sick?”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
Hell. Hearing that, knowing that she was making things easier on Pops during his final days, it changes something in me, almost as if I’m seeing Hazel in a completely different light, and it’s confusing and alarming, all at the same time. If I’d kept in contact, would she have told me? Even though Pops hadn’t wanted me to know? Would Hazel have given me the chance to say goodbye to him?
I clear my throat. “So, is that where you’ve been staying?”
“It is. I’m not sure for how long, though. Grandpa Thomas said things might be changing when I get back from the trip and after the New Year. He wasn’t quite sure since Pops left a will, but he hasn’t heard any details yet. Not sure if they plan on selling or leaving the farm to your mom. I started thinking about what I was going to do for a job, you know?”
“If the farm is left to my mom or Uncle Paul, you know they would never make you get a new job.”
“Maybe not, but I can’t count on it. I’ve been working pretty hard on woodworking, which has always been a passion of mine. But that doesn’t make a lot of money—”
“Wait, you’re into woodworking? You made that charcuterie board for Pops. You made more?”
“Yup.”
“When . . . oh, let me guess. Something you learned while I wasn’t talking to you?”
“Had to keep my wandering mind busy with something. Do you know those wooden bowls your mom got from Pops last year?”
“You made those?”
“Yeah. Took me forever, and Pops definitely overpaid, but, yeah, I made them.”
“Hazel, those are my favorite bowls. They’re my popcorn bowls.” I laugh.
“Well, looks as though I’m going to have to make you some for when you become a big football player. You can eat popcorn and remember the simple days.”
“Not sure I’m going to be a big football player.”
“One season isn’t—”
“No, I’m not sure if it’s what I want now.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, shifting toward me now and turning down the music. “You’ve worked so hard, Crew. Why wouldn’t you pursue it?”
“I don’t know. This past season didn’t feel right, and with Pops gone, it doesn’t feel the same. You know, it was his dream first and it quickly became mine. But with him no longer with us, it almost feels making it pro doesn’t even matter anymore.”
“What would you do if you didn’t go pro?”
“That’s the problem. I’ve no idea. All I’ve known is football, so I’m not quite sure what I would do other than that.”
“When is the combine?”
“February.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was that soon.”
“Yeah, it is.” I sigh, thinking about how soon it really is.
“Well, you’ll have some time. But I’m guessing that’s not something you want to talk about right now.”
“Not really.”
“So, then tell me something about yourself that I missed these past few years. Something funny. We need to recharge the mood in here. It slipped into Depressedville and we’re supposed to be celebrating, right?”
“You’re right.” I shake out my shoulders, keeping my eyes on the straight road in front of me. Something that’s been surprising is how normal it looks here. I half expected to be driving down some medieval highway, but it looks like anything I would find in upstate New York, with snow banks and leafless trees on either side of the Autobahn. “Okay, something funny. You probably want embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing would be ideal. Utterly humiliating would be absolutely perfect.”
“Well besides my final season—”
“Enough with the season. You sucked; we get it.”
I laugh. “Okay, okay, no need to get angry. Hmm, embarrassing. Let me think on it for a second. You know, it’s hard to think something up because I’m so perfect.”
“Perfect, huh? What about that season?”
“I thought we weren’t talking about it.”
“Just tugging you out of the clouds, Hollywood,” she says with humor.
“Always there to ground me. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“So . . . embarrassing story.”
“Yes, okay. Uh . . .” My mind goes through a reel of memories as I try to think of the perfect story, and then it hits me, and I start laughing. “Oh, shit. I have the perfect story for you. It might be too perfect.”
Hazel rubs her hands together. “Oh, I’m here for it. Whatever it is, I’m here for it.”
“Okay, but this has to stay between us. You can’t tell my parents. They would never let me live it down.”
“That good, huh? Okay.” She holds out her pinky. “Promise I won’t say anything.”
Like old times, I hook my pinky with hers and we shake on it.
“It was my sophomore year in college, right after the season was over. At that point, everyone on campus knew who I was. My buddies, River and Hollis, thought it would be a good idea to hit up our favorite bar in town—it’s called The Truth is Out There—to celebrate. And normally, yes, this would have been a good idea.”
“Why wasn’t it a good idea this time?”
“I’m in a fraternity with River and Hollis, and one of our frat brothers was a baker. A really good baker. Well, we were at the house pre-gaming and he showed up with a batch of brownies for the crowd.”
“Uh-oh . . .”
“Yeah, ‘uh-oh’ was right. I was high as a fucking kite that night and didn’t realize it until the next day. The brownies tasted normal, really fudgy actually. I had three.”
“You had three?”
“The season was over, I was letting loose, and, like I mentioned, they were really fucking good.”
“So, you were high at the bar. Is that the end of the story?”
“Fuck, I wish it was.” I chuckle some more. “And honestly, the only reason I know this happened is because River and Hollis grabbed video of it on their phones. Don’t ask me how it happened or why, but I wound up wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs with little footballs on them.”
“Football boxer briefs? Of course you’d wear those. So douchey.”
“Hey, my mom got them for me.”
“Of course she did.” Hazel chuckles.
“Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”
“Yes, sorry. Please continue.”
Huffing, I grip the steering wheel and say, “So, I don’t know how I ended up in nothing but boxer briefs and socks, but there I was on the bar, thrusting my pelvis into the air while ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire’ played in the background.”
“Stop. Please tell me you were singing.”
“So off-key, you could hear dogs howl in the background. But that wasn’t the worst part.”
“No? Oh, please tell me the worst part.”
“So, this bar, it’s X-Files themed, and they have . . . paraphernalia all around. You know, like UFOs
and aliens and shit like that? Well, there was this alien head that was on the top shelf of the bar. I decided that it was my time to wear it.”
“Did you fall and break all the alcohol?”
“No, that would have been better, I think. I grabbed the alien head, put it on my head, and then proceeded to take the soda gun from the bartender, drop down to my knees, and shower myself in Sprite. And when I say shower, I mean I lifted the waistband of my boxer briefs and drenched my dick in Sprite while shaking my head back and forth.”
“Oh my God . . . does this video still exist? Because I’m going to need to see that.”
“I’m sure River and Hollis both have it saved on their clouds.”
“When we get to Nuremberg, you’re going to need to text them.”
“For you, I would do it.”
“Damn right,” she says with humor.
* * *
Crew: Do you have the video of me at the bar with the alien head?
River: I have it saved on my cloud and in my Google drive.
Hollis: I made multiple copies on a thumb drive and secured it in a safety deposit box at five different banks.
Crew: Can one of you send it to me?
River: Why would you need that video? Are you losing it, man?
Crew: Hazel wants to see it.
Hollis: Hold up. Who’s Hazel?
River: Hazel sounds like a girl name. Are you in Germany with a girl?
Crew: She’s one of my best friends from my childhood. She was very close to Pops. He sent us on the trip together.
Hollis: Sounds like a love connection to me.
River: Your pops is totally setting you up.
Crew: It’s not like that. We’re friends. Good friends. Friends that have to share a bed.
River: They’re totally going to fuck.
Hollis: Yup.
Crew: We are not going to fuck.
River: Is she hot?
Crew: What does that matter?
Hollis: It doesn’t, but it’ll help us understand the timeline of when you’ll fuck.
River: He’s right.
The Romantic Pact Page 9