“Is this another intervention?” Crew asks, annoyance in his voice.
Porter and Marley laugh. “No,” Marley says. “We want to visit the farm, visit with Hazel, see how the trip went, and see where things go from there.”
See where things go from there?
What does that mean?
It clearly doesn’t strike a chord with Crew, because he says, “Okay, sounds good. Well, we’re going to crack into some Schneeballen.”
“Oh, babe, remember those?” Porter asks. “So good. Enjoy.”
We all wish each other well, then Crew hangs up and tosses the phone on the bed, only to turn toward me and say, “You’re wearing far too many clothes for my liking. I demand you put my shirt back on and take off your underwear. I’m going to need easy access for the rest of the night.”
Before I can say anything, he lifts me up and tosses me on the bed, only to hop on top of me and start ravishing my body once again.
Chapter Fourteen
CREW
Hey Kiddos,
This is the second-to-last town you’ll be visiting. After this, it’s one more place, and then you’re back to Munich, where you’ll be flying home. I’m sad just thinking about the trip coming to an end, but trust me when I say I left the best for last.
Today, you’re on your way to Augsburg. Augsburg is the third-largest city in Bavaria, with a housing complex referred to as Fuggerei. It was built by the wealthy Fugger family and houses 147 small apartments, and the rent is—get ready for this—one dollar a year. Yes, you read that right—one dollar. But the stipulation is, you must be poor or homeless to live there, and three times a day, you must stop what you’re doing and say a prayer for the Fugger family. For one dollar a year, I think I’d say a prayer every hour, on the hour.
Since this is your second-to-last place, I didn’t plan anything for you to do, in case you just want to walk around and enjoy the long rows of historic facades, see ornate buildings—some of which have been standing for nearly one thousand years—or visit Schaezlerpalais for the lavish art collections. I know it’ll be cold, but try to people-watch, to feel a part of the city. But I do ask that you visit one place for me: the Volgetor. It’s a four-story tower that was built in the Middle Ages. The man who built it got into an argument with the city coffers, who were running low on funds. They claimed the tower wasn’t built straight, so they refused to pay. Legend has it, the builder was so furious that he decided to prove them wrong. He went up the four flights of stairs, pulled down his trousers, stuck his rear end out the top window, and defecated. His feces never once hit the side of the building, proving how straight the tower was.
I know what you’re thinking—“What on earth?” I thought the same thing when I read about the Volgetor. I didn’t get to visit the tower, and it would fulfill a dream of mine if you would please go to the tower, go up the four floors, stick your bum out the window, and defecate. Who knows what kind of wind or other natural variables might have gotten in the way of the original defecation . . .
I’m just kidding. Please don’t poop out the window of a tower in Germany, it’ll ruin this wonderful trip. But at least go stand next to the tower and make up your own mind about whether it’s straight or not.
Have fun. Love you both,
Pops
* * *
“I can’t stop laughing,” I say as we walk toward the tower. I dab under my eyes, trying to get ahold of myself. “I just can’t imagine using my own bowel movements as a way to prove something is straight. That would never even cross my mind.”
Hazel laughs next to me. “Now you will though, right?”
“It most likely will cross my mind.”
The tower is built of gray stone and set off by a burnt-red roof. It’s square in shape, taller than I expected it to be, with an arch at the base for people to walk through. My eyes immediately go to the windows, and I try to picture a Bavarian man knocking down his lederhosen and dropping a deuce.
I chuckle some more.
“This might be my favorite landmark.”
“Because of the poop?” Hazel asks, a cute scrunch to her nose.
“No, because it’s a symbol of insolence. ‘You’re not going to pay me? Well, I’m going to shit out a window and prove you wrong.’ I’d never have the balls to do something like that. I’m the person who thinks of doing something extreme, but never pulls the trigger.”
“Me, too,” Hazel says. “I wish I could say what’s on my mind most of the time, but I’m not that person. I’m a people pleaser.”
“Bullshit,” I challenge. “You’re always telling me what’s on your mind, especially when it busts my balls.”
“That’s different. That’s just joking around. I’m talking about confrontation. Think about it, if I really spoke my mind when it came to confrontation, you’d have heard from me a lot sooner during our time of no speaking, because I would have found your phone number and given you a piece of my mind.”
I pause and think about it. “Why didn’t you do that?”
“Because you clearly didn’t want to talk to me. I wasn’t about to go all psycho on you.”
“Did you want to go all psycho on me?”
“Very much.”
I pull her against me, lift her chin, and press a kiss to her lips, knowing I’ll never get used to doing that. “Well, I’m glad you stuck your hand down my pants and made the first move.”
Her lips still and her hand falls to my chest. “I did not make the first move.”
“Yes, you did.”
She takes a step back now. “No, I didn’t.”
“Uh, care to explain why you don’t think you made the first move?”
“Easy. You wrapped your arm around me.”
“What?” I laugh. “Hazel, I’ve wrapped my arm around you on several occasions. That never led you to stuffing your hand down my pants.”
She holds up her finger while smirking. “Firstly, I didn’t stuff my hand down your pants. I didn’t even make contact with anything. And secondly, you were shirtless, in bed. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Uh, what you did every other night we were together—not stick your hand down my pants.” She shakes her head and I laugh, pulling her into my chest. “Just admit you made the first move.”
“I didn’t.”
“Technically, if you want to dig deep here, you really did make the first move because you were the one who first kissed me years ago.”
She gasps and then a sly smile spreads across her gorgeous and playful face. “Oh, so you want to dig into the past? Fine. You’re the one who made the first move because you tried to cop a feel when we were younger.”
Shit.
I clear my throat. “You know, actually, I’m just talking about this trip.”
Her head tilts back as she laughs. “You’re so full of shit.” Pushing off me, she walks toward the tower. I chase after her and pick her up in my arms. I spin her around and she laughs, but then I trip over a crack in the walkway and we both tumble into a snowbank.
We laugh, and I can’t think of a moment where I’ve felt more carefree, looser, happier. I don’t think I’ve felt this way in a long time.
Years.
Probably since I last saw her.
And this feeling I have with her? I can’t lose it. I can’t lose Hazel. With the combine, the farm’s future in question, how the heck do I do that, though? And more to the point, does she want it, too?
* * *
“This was fancy, Crew,” Hazel whispers over the secluded table we have by a warm fireplace.
“And you look beautiful.”
We decided to step out for dinner rather than eating in the hotel. The concierge was kind enough to book us a table at one of the finest restaurants in town and then we both dressed up in clothes we brought for such an occasion. She’s wearing a beautiful, deep-green dress with long sleeves and a deep V in the neckline that is making it hard for me to keep my eyes attached to hers. I opted
for a pair of slate-gray chinos and a navy-blue button-up shirt. My mom told me to pack one nice outfit, just in case. I’m glad I did.
“Thank you,” Hazel says, her cheeks blushing under the candlelight. “You’re very handsome yourself. I had no idea a button-up shirt could cling to arms like that.”
I chuckle. “It’s hard to find shirts that make room for the muscles, and I don’t mean that in a douchebag way. It’s just true.”
“I believe it. I’ve seen professional athletes on Instagram, walking into the stadium, their suits skintight to their bodies. It’s hot.”
I raise an eyebrow. “It’s hot?”
“It is.” She smirks.
Since we’ve already eaten our food and paid, we’re simply enjoying the fire and finishing our wine.
“And what would you think if you saw me in one of those Instagram pictures, heading into the stadium?”
Her smile falters for a second before she picks up her glass of wine and she says, “I would think . . . meh.”
“Why do you find it necessary to constantly lie to me?”
“Keeping you grounded, Hollywood.” She sets her wine down, and I sense a change as she plays with her fork on the table, moving it up and down, her eyes downcast. “So, yesterday, on the phone with your mom, what do you think she meant when she said: ‘We’ll see where things go from there’?”
“What?” I ask, confused.
“When she was talking about visiting. She was like ‘We’ll visit the farm, talk about the trip, see where things go from there.’ What do you think she meant?”
“Uh, probably just, you know, keeping it casual. See where things go, maybe we order pizza, maybe we don’t. Who knows? Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Are you going to drop it?”
“No.”
She sighs and leans back in her chair. “Figured.” She pushes her hair behind her ear. “I’m just nervous about the farm. I feel like we’re going to find out what happens to it when we get back home.”
“Why?”
“I just have a feeling, is all. Mia texted me this morning that there were some investors coming up this week from New York City. They’re staying at the inn, and Brenda, the inn owner, asked her for some fresh winter arrangements to replace the Christmas one before they arrived.”
“Pops would never sell the farm,” I tell her reassuringly.
“You don’t know that. He could. It might be easier for everyone to sell. Everyone involved.”
“You can’t worry about that,” I say, picking up my wine and taking a sip.
Her eyes widen. “I can’t worry about that? Are you kidding? This is my livelihood, Crew. This is my life. That farm is my life. I don’t have a fancy college degree or a future playing a professional sport. I have the farm, and that’s it. Of course I’m worried about what’s going to happen. When we get back, you’re going back to school, you’ll get drafted, and I’m going back to the farm, wondering if I’ll ever have to sink to the level of my mom to put food on the table.”
“Hey,” I say, feeling my brows crease. “You have me.”
“What does that even mean? I have you? That sure went well the last time.”
“That’s not fair. I said I’d never do that to you again, and this time things are different.”
“How are things different, Crew?”
Is she really asking that? Confused, I say, “Because we’re together.”
As if I slapped her, she rears back in her seat. “We-we’re what?”
“Together,” I answer, wondering if I’m missing something here. “You’re my girl.”
She blinks a few times and then shakes her head. “No, I’m not.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, feeling my voice grow with irritation.
“What do you mean, I’m your girl? What are you expecting to happen after this trip?”
“What were you expecting to happen?” I ask her.
“I asked you first, Crew.”
Where’s this anger coming from? One second, we were ready to pounce on each other from across the table, and the next, we’re arguing. Am I missing something?
“I think we should take this outside,” I answer, draining the rest of my wine and setting the glass on the table. She does the same. She puts on her jacket and she heads out of the restaurant, me trailing after her.
When we reach outside, she turns toward me and asks, “So, what did you expect to happen?”
“I don’t know.” I drive my hand through my hair. “I just expected us to continue what we’re doing.”
“Do you have some sort of high-speed airplane that can take you across the country in a matter of seconds that I don’t know about?”
“You don’t have to be condescending. I guess I didn’t think things through.”
“Because I’m not a top priority in your future, Crew. Not that I’m asking you put me as a top priority, but you have a future, you know what you want, and you’re going to go take it.”
“You’re a priority, Hazel.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not. I’ve never been. Football is your top priority, as it should be. That’s what you’re good at. And you should continue to pursue that, but while you’ve been thinking about football or how you’re going to fuck me next, I’ve been thinking about what’s going to happen when we get home.”
“And what exactly do you think is going to happen?” I ask. I’m so frustrated with this conversation and angry at her for . . . hell, I don’t know what, pointing out the truth? For telling me that I put football first, which is the absolute God’s honest truth? I put it first over everything. Over Hazel, over my parents, over Pops. Football has always come first, and that’s a tough pill to swallow, especially when the girl you’ve fallen for points it out.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, please enlighten me.” Once more.
She folds her arms over her chest, striking a defensive pose. “We’re going to go home, we’ll have some visiting time with your parents, I’m sure we’ll sneak off and fuck somewhere because I have no restraint when it comes to you, and then when the time comes, you’ll go back to California for the rest of winter break where you can train, and I’ll stay in New York. When school starts back up, you’ll head to Georgia, try out for the combine, and then get drafted by some team that’s far enough way for you to forget anything ever happened between us. It’s not going to last. We aren’t going to last.”
“So, basically, you’re putting this relationship in a coffin before it’s even cold? How’s that fair to me?”
“How is this fair to either of us?” she asks, tears forming in her eyes. “It’s just not.” With that, she pushes past me and starts walking toward the hotel a block away. A light sprinkle of snow starts to fall as I catch up to her in the dimly lit street.
“Hazel, you’re not even giving me a chance to figure this out, to talk it out with you. It’s like you’ve already made up your mind.”
“As if you haven’t made up your mind. What do you really expect to happen when you leave? Do you expect me to wait around?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.”
“And that’s the problem right there, Crew. I don’t matter enough to think about.”
We reach the hotel, and she charges up the stairs rather than taking the elevator. I trail behind her, my mind whirling with what to say, with answers to her questions. Answers I don’t have.
When we get to our hotel room, she sheds her coat and tries to shut herself in the bathroom, but I stop her.
“You think you don’t matter to me?” I say, pushing the door open. “That couldn’t be further from the truth. You matter the most to me, Hazel. And I know I haven’t shown that in the past, but I’m showing it now. You matter to me. And I might not have answers about our future, but I’ll tell you what’s not going to happen.” I step in closer, pressing her against the wall of the bathroom. Her br
eathing picks up as she looks me in the eyes. “What’s not going to happen is you’re not going to push me away because you’re afraid of the unknown. You’re not going to push me away because you think it’s easier that way. And you’re not going to push me away because you think it’ll hurt less.”
I reach behind her back and unzip her dress, then peel it off her, leaving her in a pair of matching white lace bra and underwear. Beautiful.
“It’s not going to work, Crew,” she says, sounding deflated.
I unbutton my dress shirt, and her eyes fall to my chest as I push it over my shoulders and arms. And then I step out of my pants and let them pool on the bathroom floor. I quickly take my socks off and then take her to the bed, where I lie down and pull her on top of me.
“Let me figure things out, okay?” I rub my hands up her back. “A week ago, I didn’t even know I was seeing you. I didn’t know Pops was giving me this opportunity to rekindle our friendship, let alone become something even more. This is all new, and I’ve loved every minute with you.”
Her eyes well with tears, and they quickly spill over. I sit up against the headboard so we’re eye to eye, and I wipe away her tears with my thumbs.
I want to tell her how I feel. I want to let her know how much I’ve fallen for her, that I think I’ve always been in love with her, ever since we first met. But I’m pretty certain she won’t be able to hear that right now. She’s angry. She’s made up her mind about something I’ve not had enough time to process. Hazel is stubborn, always has been, so I need to somehow reassure her that she’s important and not forgettable. That although she was right about what has always been my focus, I’m starting to realize that the future might look different than what I’d previously expected.
I wipe away another set of tears that have fallen down her cheeks. “I’m going to figure this out, Hazel, okay? I’m not going anywhere, not without you.”
“How can you figure it out? I have to stay and help with the farm. No one knows what I know.”
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