Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating

by Christina Lauren

  His frown deepens and he reaches down, touching me. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No?”

  He looks up. “Okay. You sure?” He holds up his fingers. “You’re bleeding.”

  ··········

  Don’t panic.

  Don’t panic.

  I grabbed my phone on my sprint into the bathroom, and am now sitting on the toilet, madly Googling bleeding in pregnancy.

  The results are reassuring. Apparently it’s common. Apparently it happens in about one-third of all pregnancies. And especially early.

  But it can also be a sign that something is wrong,

  and it wasn’t a little bit of blood,

  it was all over my sheets,

  and I can’t breathe.

  I dial my doctor’s after-hours number, and speak as softly into the phone as I can.

  Yes, nine weeks.

  Yes, I saw the doctor yesterday.

  No, there isn’t any cramping.

  After a few words of quiet reassurance, I’m told to do my best not to worry, to rest, and am scheduled to come into the office tomorrow morning.

  I end the call just as Josh’s voice comes through the closed door. “Haze?”

  I look up and try to sound as calm as possible. “Hey. Yeah, I’m okay.”

  Oh my God, what do I do? He loves me. I mean, I don’t think he’ll be angry that I’m pregnant. Instinct and my intricate knowledge of Josh Im’s brain tell me he’s actually going to be really happy. He wants a family. But what if I lose it? I know this sort of thing happens all the time, so is it worth telling him and getting his hopes up that everything might be okay if I’m going to lose my monster? Oh God, I want to shred the walls just thinking it. What if I lose it what if I lose—

  I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.

  “Hazel.” I hear his head thunk against the door. “I’m so sorry.”

  I take a deep breath, standing to splash some water on my face. “It wasn’t you,” I croak.

  Silence. And then, “I mean, I’m pretty sure it was me and the hard sex we just had.” He pauses. “Can I come in and, um . . . ?”

  Oh crap, that’s right. He’s got blood on him. I open the door and he slips in, kissing me. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m totally fine!”

  “Okay, good.” With one more kiss, he leans past me to turn on the shower.

  I stand and press my face to his back, between the bulk of his shoulders. “Sorry.”

  Josh turns, tilts my face up to look at him. “For what?”

  “Bleeding on you. Sprinting out of bed.”

  His brows pull down. “I don’t mind that. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  Tell him.

  Tell him.

  Talk to Dr. Sanders first.

  “I’m okay.”

  He bends, kissing me slowly, and then steps into the shower, pulling me in after him.

  Steam fills the room as he lathers the soap in his hands, rubbing it first over my shoulders and breasts, and then gently between my legs and along my thighs before washing his own body.

  Staring up at him as he washes his stomach, cock, and chest, I note the way the drops of water build on his eyelashes and then fall, like rain. “You said you love me.”

  He looks up, blinking away the water. His lashes are long, and clumped together. He is so beautiful.

  Josh leans forward, kissing my nose. “I did.”

  I stretch, and his mouth is slippery against mine, his tongue tastes like water. His hand slides over my backside, slipping between, stroking, feeling, and then slides up my back, down between my breasts, like he’s acquainting himself with every tiny curve.

  Josh Im loves me.

  “I love you too, you know.”

  His kiss turns into a smile. “Yeah?”

  “I’ve probably loved you longer.”

  A trickster grin. “Probably.”

  I pinch his splendid ass for that and he growls, pressing into me.

  “We don’t have to make love again,” he says quietly into my neck. “You just feel so good, all wet and soft.”

  After wanting him for so long, I can’t quite wrap my brain around the fact that he’s here, using words like love. Having Josh naked against me isn’t for tonight only. This could be a very, very addicting problem because my desire for Josh is a clawing, impatient, frantic energy: I want him again and again and again.

  I push the panic into a tiny room in my brain, and narrow that down to a closet and a shoe box and a tiny drop of throbbing light in the background. There’s nothing I can do tonight. I just need to breathe.

  His hand makes a slow journey over my breasts and down my navel, drawing little swirls and circles with the soap. I’m so full of emotion that I’m not surprised when a single tear slips down my cheek, lost in the spray from the shower. I take the soap and do the same for him, savoring every second of this until we’re all clean and the water has started to run cold.

  “Okay, Haze.” He leans in to kiss me, eyes shining as he shifts away to turn off the taps. “Let’s go to bed.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  * * *

  JOSH

  In Hazel’s bed, I sleep like a rock. I don’t think I even dream, or if I do, it’s just a series of nebulous flashes of her body, and her laugh, and the unreal heat of her wrapped around me all night.

  We wake up to the blast of her alarm, entangled, with the covers kicked to the floor. I’m naked, she’s wearing only underwear, and although I come into consciousness slowly, trapped in a syrupy warmth I’m not quite ready to leave, Hazel sits up after only a few breaths into awareness and looks down at me, eyes blurry. Her eyes stay unfocused for a few seconds before she blinks, clearing them, and bends, kissing me in a soft peck. “You’re still here.”

  In a wave of happiness, I wonder whether we’ll move in together . . . and when.

  Hazel pulls back and her attention is snagged over my shoulder. She grimaces at the sheets in the hamper in the corner, the ones we pulled off the bed and replaced before falling onto the mattress in an exhausted heap. As if remembering, she stands, and moves quickly out of the room and to the bathroom, closing the door down the hall with a solid click.

  Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve encountered blood during sex, but maybe it was for her? I can hardly imagine that, but it seems to have shaken her more than I would have expected.

  Rolling to sit, I perch at the side of the bed, blinking down at Winnie where she stares adoringly up from the floor. “Morning, sweetie.” I rub her head and can tell the restraint it’s taking her to not jump up here and join me, but thankfully she resists. Being naked in bed with Hazel is bliss. Being naked in bed with her dog would be awkward.

  In the kitchen, and inside one of Hazel’s Muppet canisters, I find just enough coffee beans to brew a pot. By the time she comes out—still dressed only in her underwear—I’ve got two cups poured, and reach for her sleep-rumpled form, pulling her between my legs.

  “You left,” she mumbles into my neck.

  Her chest pressed against mine is distracting enough to make her words slow to process. So instead of replying with anything witty, I just suck on her neck and ask, “What time do you have to be at school?”

  “Normally seven thirty, and I’d be so late that I’d probably put my clothes on backwards. But I’m going to stop by my doctor’s before I head in. They know I’ll be a little late today.”

  Her doctor? I’m not sure how to ask about what happened last night, so I go for vague. “You okay this morning?”

  A tiny hesitation, then, “Are you kidding? I’m amazing.”

  She is amazing—creamy skin, the maddening freckle on her shoulder, the full swell of her breasts—and the thought that she’s mine, and I’m hers, rolls around in my head. A burst of light cuts through me, a flash of joy, and I reach for her, gripping the back of her neck and pulling closer.

  The minute our lips touch, my mind quiets but my body seems to ta
ke off, ramping toward that place where I can’t think, can only feel. My fingers graze the exposed curve of her throat down to her collarbones. Her hands come to my waist immediately and I feel her push up onto her toes, closing any distance between us and stretching, eager for one kiss, and another.

  It’s chaste, but it’s not simple. Nothing with Hazel ever is.

  I tilt her head, kissing her bottom lip, her cheek, her jaw.

  I glance over her shoulder to the illuminated clock dial on the front of the stove. It’s 7:18. I take a breath, silencing the need to make up for lost time.

  My mouth settles on hers and lingers. She smiles.

  “Good morning, Josh Im.”

  I kiss her chaotic hair. “I’ll say.”

  I let myself savor this, the simple joy of standing in the bright light of her kitchen, arms wrapped around each other, and knowing that I don’t have to hold back now. But it’s the way she’s holding me—the way she clings with her face pressed to my neck—that gives me pause. She’s not playfully gnawing on my shoulder, or threatening to suck giant hickeys into my skin. She’s not asking if I want to go roller-skating to the bagel shop before work. She’s just so quiet.

  Of course, it’s okay for Hazel to be quiet sometimes, but this feels different. It feels like a silence that’s full of something—a worry, a question, maybe an uncertainty.

  I search my brain for something to say. I want to ask her if she knows about Emily being pregnant. I want to ask her whether she’ll stay at my house tonight, and every night after. I want to ask her to say the words one more time before she leaves for work, the quiet I love you too, you know.

  She turns her luminous brown eyes up to my face. “What are you thinking?”

  “I was wondering what you’re thinking,” I say with a grin.

  “We have big things to discuss,” she says quietly. “Remember?”

  “Still? I thought the ‘I love you’ covered it. What else is there?”

  She stretches, kissing me. “You love me?”

  “I do.”

  “And you’re free tonight?”

  I run my hands down her body. “You don’t want to talk now, while you get ready?”

  She shakes her head and it drags her lips across mine, back and forth. “Tonight.” With a smile, she steps back and turns to walk to her bedroom.

  There’s a stack of mail on the counter, a Harry Potter coloring book, and a receipt under a pile of change. Three letters stand out to me.

  e.p.t.

  Nothing sinks in right away, but the letters are like a dissonant chime. Almost distractedly, I lean in, pushing aside a quarter to read the entire line.

  e.p.t. first respo . . . 5 @ $8.99 ea

  Pregnancy tests? Did Hazel buy the tests for Emily?

  Confusion laces my thoughts together, but my heart starts pounding pounding pounding as the row of dominoes tumbles.

  The blood last night. Hazel’s panic. Big things we need to discuss tonight.

  My eyes snag on the dark corner of a photo under her keys. I’ve never held one of these, but I know what it is.

  When I pull the ultrasound photo free, I already know what I’m going to see, but it knocks the breath out of my chest anyway.

  Bradford, Hazel

  November 12

  9w3d

  And, in the very center, a round body, a head, two tiny buds for arms, two tiny buds for legs.

  My own legs nearly give out and I sit heavily on the barstool, staring at the photo in my hand. I know Hazel hasn’t slept with anyone but me in . . . well, a long time. And the first night we had sex—drunk sex, floor sex, I might be falling for you sex—was two months ago.

  Emily isn’t pregnant—Hazel is. She’s been pregnant this entire time, and we had no idea.

  I stand, unsteady, and put the photo back beneath her keys, tilting my face to the ceiling. It isn’t panic. It isn’t dread. It’s shock—yes, definitely this is a surprise—but . . . I close my eyes and I can see it. I can see Hazel pregnant. Can see how it would feel to crawl into bed next to her, put my head on her belly and listen. I can see my parents losing their minds, Emily going overboard with gifts. In this moment, with these thoughts running wild through my brain, I grow nearly light-headed. And I understand completely Hazel’s panic last night.

  Holy shit, she was bleeding.

  I come up behind her while she’s brushing her hair and balance my shaking hands on her hips.

  “Hey, you.” She leans back into me and then turns in my arms, stretching to kiss me.

  Shock has left a metallic tang in my mouth and numbs me, making me feel like my hands aren’t mine. “I want to go with you this morning.”

  Her face furrows in confusion. “To school?”

  “To the doctor.”

  She shakes her head. “You don’t need to do that. I know you have a busy morning, too. It’s just routine—”

  “I want to be there.” I think my choice of words jogs something in her, because when her eyes meet mine, she searches for confirmation there. Reaching up, she cups my face in her hands, her gaze flickering back and forth between my eyes. “Don’t you think I should be there?” I ask.

  She swallows, and her eyes are soft with guilt. “You know?”

  “The ultrasound was on the counter.”

  At this, her face absolutely crumples. It hurts, the answering reaction in my chest. It’s like being punched. I pull her to me, cupping her head and holding her as she breaks.

  “It’s okay, Haze.”

  She hiccups, pressing her face to my neck. “I just found out on Monday.”

  Two days ago. That must have been where Emily was—she was at the doctor with Hazel.

  “I saw the tests at Em’s house,” I tell her. “Actually, I thought she was pregnant.”

  When she flattens her palms against my bare back, I can tell they’re shaking. “I was going to tell you.”

  “I know.”

  Her sob rips through me. “I wanted it to be a happy moment.”

  “It still can be. We just need to make sure you’re okay.”

  “They said bleeding can be normal, but . . . I’m so scared something happened.” Another sob breaks her voice on the last word. “I’m already in love with this little monster, and I’m so scared, Josh.”

  I’ve barely processed what’s going on, but already my panic seems to swallow the words forming in my brain. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it, okay?” I pause, and I’m terrified of the answer to the next question. “Are you still bleeding?”

  “A little.”

  My heart drops, and I tighten my arms around her, catching my reflection in the mirror. I look wild. Hair a mess, eyes wide and bloodshot. My mouth is a harsh frown, my pulse is a hollow echo in my throat.

  ··········

  Beside me, Hazel’s knee bounces up and down. I reach over, placing a calming hand there.

  “I’m going to chew my nails off,” she whispers. Her eyes are fixated across the waiting room on the generic watercolor painting of a bouquet of flowers.

  I reach up, coaxing her hand back down and into mine. My heart is lodged somewhere in my throat; it seems like we could both use an anchor.

  To fall in love, to be loved. The reality that we are together now is enough by itself to make my breath grow tight and hot in my chest. And to be here, with an ultrasound photo clutched in my hand . . . The mind, it reels.

  But this is Hazel. We’re so much bigger than this moment, no matter what happens behind the wide white door leading into the exam rooms. Is it weird to think I’ve known for years that we would somehow end up here? Or is hindsight just the most convenient explanation for coincidence?

  I squeeze her hand and she looks up at me, expression tight.

  “You know,” I say, giving her the most genuine smile I can muster, “no matter what happens back there, we’ll be okay.”

  “I knew I wanted kids, but I don’t think I realized how much until this happened.”
<
br />   “We may not have seventeen, but we’ll get there.”

  She laughs. “I’m going to win you over.”

  “You will never win me over to seventeen children.” She growls when I say this, so I add in a compromise: “But how about this: after the appointment, we’ll go get milkshakes.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Cherry,” she says. “No. Wait. Cookies and cream.”

  “One of each.”

  Finally, I get a true Hazel smile. “You know what I keep repeating over and over in my head?”

  “What?”

  “ ‘I love Josh Im more than I’ve loved anything in my life.’ ” She bites her lip. “Don’t tell Winnie.”

  I lean forward and rest my lips on hers. Against my mouth, she’s soft, shaking a little. The kiss angles, and my hand comes up to her neck, where my fingers find her pulse drilling against her skin. I could get lost in the way she leans into me, I could drown in the feel of her. But then the wide door opens, and her name is called.

  EPILOGUE

  * * *

  JOSH

  When Hazel comes bounding down the front steps, she’s wearing orange tights, a black miniskirt, and a purple tank top. Her bun is hidden beneath a giant, wobbly witch’s hat. In the light from the porch, she’s nearly glowing.

  I glance down at my own outfit—black shirt, jeans, sneakers—and then back up again. “I feel like I missed an important text today.”

  “Halloween stuff was out at Target.”

  “It’s over a month away.”

  Shrugging, she moves to where I stand leaning against the car and slides her arms around my neck. “Just getting into the spirit.”

  I touch my lips to hers. “Because it would take you so long otherwise?”

  “Are you by chance taking me somewhere Halloweeny?”

  Every Friday night is date night, and tonight was my turn to plan. Last week, Hazel took me to a place where we painted self-portraits with our hands and feet, and then we had a picnic on the hood of my car. My date nights tend to be a bit more standard.