by Ellie Hall
Minnie doesn’t squeak this time. She screams.
Hazel, a tall and seemingly capable, confident woman, leaps into my arms and I’m cradling her.
Colette stands on a nearby chair, shouting, “Mouse, mouse.”
Tyler gazes wistfully at Minnie.
Hazel huffs. “No, not Minnie. A mouse just ran across the dining room table.”
“Go get it, Mew,” Lottie hollers, appearing with a broom.
Hazel’s eyes lock with mine as if we momentarily forgot about the chaos in the room.
She opens and closes her mouth as if to say something.
“I got this,” I say and gently set Hazel down, but not before taking note of how perfect she felt in my arms. Her soft skin, her long legs, the way she gazed at me. Okay, maybe she was terrified, but I felt like a regular Captain America.
I empty a bowl of popcorn dotted with candy hearts, grab one of the stiff placemats, and take control of the situation.
“Please, don’t kill it,” Minnie says, her voice small.
“Catch and release,” I say, waving my makeshift tools in the air.
The cat has the poor creature cornered. I angle the bowl over it and then nudge it with the placemat before making a seal to contain the mouse.
The girls cheer. Hazel looks relieved.
Tyler and I, the heroes of the hour, march outside to the park across the street and let the little mouse go.
We bond as we head back in.
“That really worked up an appetite,” Tyler says, mock-flexing his arms. “Thanks for doing the heavy lifting though.”
I chuckle because we both know there is nothing heavy about a small rodent.
When we return to the dining room, the girls cleared the table. “Where is the food?”
Colette shakes her head. “Mickey Mouse contaminated our brunch.”
“We called for takeaway,” Lottie says.
“Thank you for saving the day,” Hazel says as she slouches on the couch.
“I have two sisters and they’re not overly fond of things that creep, crawl, or scamper. The number of spiders I had to rescue,” I say, throwing air quotes, “should gain me nothing short of sainthood if there is such a thing in the spider-world.”
“There isn’t,” Minnie mumbles.
I shrug, glancing around at the forlorn faces.
“Hang on,” I rush down the hall to my apartment and return with another plate of cookies. These are a tiny bit browner than I’d like around the edges, but by the sound of cheers in the room, this doubles my hero status.
Hazel gives me a look. I can’t tell if she’s more grateful for rescuing her house from the mouse or if she’s thankful that I had a second cookie supply.
“It really helps to have friends who bake.”
“Speaking of...” Lottie starts talking about her favorite baking contest reality show.
They all chat while Tyler and I bond over how manly we are. Actually, not really. We discuss our fantasy football teams. The guys at work coaxed me into participating, not realizing I have an uncanny knack for picking winners whether it comes to investments or athletes...or women.
Rather, a woman. Because the gal across the room has somehow captured my candy heart...and apparently kept my contact page open on her cell phone. Does that mean she was going to invite me over for this Galentine’s Day soiree or for some other reason?
After I joined the clean plate club, learned that Lottie also loves to bake, Hazel loves to eat and that Mew, Hazel’s cat, loves me, I reluctantly leave. Hazel shoos us all out of her apartment because she has to get ready to teach a yoga class early this evening.
I clean up my baking mess and then log onto my laptop to review a few things for work. I slide over to my fantasy football team and get an advertisement for a baking club. Then another for a pastry cookbook and a third for the baking television show Lottie was talking about. I click on it and go down a rabbit hole of deliciousness.
I’m not ready to turn in my certified stud card for one that says something along the lines of baking nerd. I figure I’ll stop soon. The thing is, I’m hooked. They say caffeine, nicotine, and sugar can be addictive. They don’t mention measuring, mixing, and kneading as equally so...or the girl next door.
It’s creepy how the internet knows what I’ve been up to. Probably because I was looking up what brown sugar versus white sugar does to a cookie. Need answers? The internet has them plus some you probably don’t want.
After I see an ad for a program that promises to transform dreams into reality three times, I finally click on it to see if there’s a complaint form or something I can submit to make it go away.
The banner says UDream, UDesire, UDo @ UUniversity.
The tagline underneath says A program for people who want to awaken their inner spark, discover their dreams, harness their desires, and go after them—and have fun while doing it.
I chuckle at the internet’s empty promises. Nonetheless, I keep reading.
Feeling stuck?
Now that you mention it. Maybe?
I scroll down.
Uninspired?
Sometimes.
I continue to scroll.
Confused?
Hazel’s image pops into my mind and my chest lurches. Uh, huh.
Know there is potential in you and talents untapped, but not sure how to access them?
This website isn’t speaking my language, but I can’t bring myself to click away. It has a certain charm, charisma, confidence. It’s the kind of stuff I learned on the job. What if I’d had this when I was just out of college, made more mistakes than I’d like to admit, and routinely made a fool of myself by trying to prove something to the higher-ups at the office.
I found my innate confidence, but curiosity about how others might find it too leads me to continue to read. My grandfather used to say, “A rising tide lifts all ships.”
When I get to the bottom of the page, I read that same quote in big blue letters.
Coincidence?
Several paragraphs describe the program led by someone named Professor Loves-Her-Life, emphasizing the importance and power of tapping into the truest, rawest, deepest inner desires to manifest a life from which the student doesn’t seek escape.
This might be the kind of thing to introduce to the members of the junior finance team, my assistant, heck, even my sisters. But I could never suggest something without trying it first.
I read several testimonials and reviews from graduates of the program and it all seems encouraging and legit.
One woman left her dead-end job and now earns six-figures selling a product she’d whipped up to reduce ingrown hair. She says helping people brings her joy and satisfaction.
Using the method, a tech guy from Silicon Valley revamped his life, shed unwanted weight, left a lousy relationship, did volunteer work in South America, and renewed his passion for his job.
A third was unemployed and now operates a non-profit with an amazing team of big-hearted folks.
I chuckle. Rarely do I hear the words job and joy in the same sentence. That’s just it. So many of us, often myself included, think of work as soul-sucking instead of life-giving. This program seems to help people reframe their perspective.
My curiosity grows. This could help the junior team I’m mentoring. I press the tab that says Ready? There’s just one paragraph in the center of the screen.
Being stuck, uninspired, and confused isn’t your destiny. Chances are you’ve tried to think your way out of your situation, but can’t figure it out. The solution is to get out there and live more. If you’re anything like me, that’s easier said than done, but if you trust me and more importantly, yourself, you can do anything. I am your guide for four weeks, reintroducing you to yourself, to the sources of your happiness, pointing you toward joy, helping you reveal your deepest desires, and giving you the tools to take action. I invite you to take this journey with me. The worst that can happen is you’ll make a huge transformation an
d be well on your way to living the life of your dreams.
Mostly, the desire and confused parts resonate with me. But this is purely for research purposes for the junior team. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. My finger hovers over the buy now button.
I’m not going to lie, my heart desires the girl next door, which is confusing because I’m single by choice. If for some reason I wanted more, I don’t think I’d have the guts to do anything about it.
Click.
Flirting with Danger
Hazel
I still occasionally wake up to the screech of metal, heat rushing at me, tears already in my eyes even though I didn’t really know what was happening at the time.
I’ll be walking down the bustling streets of Manhattan, hear a cab crunch against another car and my stomach dips and flops and that feeling of free fall makes me dizzy.
At random moments, like when I’m having a coffee with a friend or upside down in a yoga pose, blam, my world turns upside down too.
Even now, the tears are the same: metallic, hot, and constant.
When I was nine, I was in a terrible car accident. My father didn’t make it. My mother was in a coma for three days. I was told I’d never walk again. I was determined to learn how to walk again because my big plans in life required mobility—at the time they involved being a prima ballerina and then someday scaling Mount Fuji, Whitney, and Kilimanjaro. They sounded so exotic and impossible; of course, I had to reach the peaks.
Most people know that I routinely do the daring, impossible, the what is she thinking kinds of things but not why. They don’t know the details before the accident—my parents had been arguing while on our way back from a holiday party. I was in the backseat, trying not to listen, but how could I not?
My father cheated on my mom, regularly. This was a secret—something we never talked about. But she and I both knew. The gist of their fight was while at the party, my father flirted with one of his former flings. Understandably, my mom wasn’t okay with that. They hurled words like unfaithful and temptation between them.
The icy rain pelted the windshield. I didn’t intend to upset you. It didn’t mean anything. The tires slipped. My father demanded to know why it mattered. It was in the past. My mother was crying by then. The arguing escalated.
Then the car slid. The streetlights glinted through the glass. My parents went silent. I remained quiet. The car spun and then we were weightless before I screamed.
Crash.
That was the last thing I remembered aside from my mother saying, “Please don’t do it again.”
He didn’t answer. Was there an apology on his lips in those final moments? Doubtful. I hated him for dying because I’ll never know, but the most brutal thing is, I turned out just like him.
Well, I’m not married and I don’t cheat. Never. Ever.
However, I DO NOT commit. Ixnay on the ommittment-cay. One date and I’m done, baby.
Dinner? Check.
Movie? Check.
Call me tomorrow? Nuh-uh.
My mother always called me her baby gazelle—not to be confused with Gisele of supermodel fame—though later, we did share the same talent agent for a time. I run from guy to guy to guy, but never more generous with my time or attention.
When I started regaining strength after the body cast and showed promise of regaining mobility, my physical therapist told me, “Walking is falling but catching yourself with every step.”
If love is anything like walking, well, I’m falling and, um, I’m not catching myself. Not catching myself at all. You see, I have to learn how to love again because I’m also just like my mother, a romantic at heart, but shh don’t tell anyone.
Fortunately, my heart was never broken, not like my best friend Catherine. I’ve been with some lousy guys, but never got close enough to feel the sting of a tough break up. There isn’t another tragedy that marked my teens or early twenties with tubs of ice cream and empty tissue boxes. (Well, a few, but none of them involving my heart.) Although, in my teens, a certain well-known cosmetics company discontinued their bacne (that’s back acne for those unfamiliar) treatment spray—the struggle is real, okay!
No, I’ve always kept love out of the game. That, right there, is my problem. Guys, dating, and all it entails have become a game—Catherine’s Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare for example.
But for me, it’s more like how not to fall in love. I’m naturally competitive. I’m a born winner. However, suddenly, I feel like I might be losing and honestly, only part of me minds. But that other part, she’s tough as nails and she’ll fight me to the death to win. So really, I’m playing against myself.
That’s confusing. I should take some of my own advice. Goodness knows I give enough of it out.
I wage an inner battle between my heart and the chick that’s been running the show for the last decade and a half. Fine, three-quarters, but who’s counting?
This is why I avoid love. It gets too complicated, and the truth is, I never want to cry myself to sleep like my mother did on nights when my father was “working late” or away on a business trip. The solution? I keep hearts out of it completely.
Except now. I smell butter. Sugar. Chocolate.
He’s baking again.
At it every night.
Teasing me.
Tempting me.
Oh, sweet buttery, sugary, confectionary delight.
I walk to the door leading to the hallway. My hand grips the knob. Mew weaves in and out of my legs and begins a rumbling purr. I take a deep breath.
Step away from the door, Hazel. Step away.
“Want a treat, Mew?” Yes, I talk to my cat. Don’t judge because you know you do it too. And what does he sound like when he answers? A cute little Frenchman if you must know. Yes, I do voices for my furbaby.
The leftovers from the Galentine’s Day party are slim, but Tyler’s box of pastries didn’t make it to the dining room to be tainted by the mouse.
I don’t need Maxwell’s sugar.
Nope.
The smell of freshly baking chocolate chip cookies overpowers the fishy, gamey odor of the little kibbles Mew eats out of my hand. I go to the sink, inhaling the lavender soap and scrub.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Maxwell is pumping my apartment full of chocolate chip cookie fragrance. No, wait. I’m mistaken. I’ve caught a whiff of something like caramel. I sniff again. Caramel, cocoa, and something else. Mint?
My stomach does a little swoopy, diving thing and not because I’m hungry—I powered down a burger and fries for dinner after the yoga class, thank you very much. I’d fallen asleep on the couch, reading. What can I say, Catherine has quite the library in her room. Also, we’re getting another snowstorm—a record for Manhattan. I can’t help but be slightly jealous of Catherine gallivanting around Italy with her real-life Romeo.
But oh! That smell! It’s heavenly. Divine. Help me.
I lift the pastry box lid and bite the inside of my cheek. Hmm. They look a little past their prime.
Fine, maybe just one cookie or whatever it is Maxwell is baking for a late-night snack.
I step into the hall, closing the door behind me. I take another deep breath and steel myself. I will resist the man candy. I will resist the man candy. This is my mantra. I’m a yoga teacher who’s all about empowerment.
I lift my hand and knock delicately. Maybe he won’t hear me. The war within rages.
Heavy footfalls approach.
It’s not too late to go back. I can make it to my door in four long strides if I sprint. I’ve counted.
The door whooshes open.
A red apron hangs loosely around Maxwell’s neck. He wears a fitted white T-shirt that highlights what must be an ample amount of time spent at the gym.
Mayday
Mayday.
For the love, please save me.
The smirk slays me on the stoop. Or carpet. Whatever. I grip the doorframe, staring at his knockout biceps, his strong, toned fo
rearms, and hands that look capable of more than rolling out dough.
His eyes flit from my mouth to my eyes. I fear we objectify each other—amounting to little more than the sum of our parts. Two people are attracted to the other’s appearance. That’s normal. I graduated with a Ph.D. in theology and women’s studies. It’s considered acceptable if it’s mutual. Right?
My hair is in a messy bun, my oversized sweatshirt hangs off one shoulder, and my leggings leave little to the imagination. Also, I kicked off my slippers and have on snow boots. Way to complete the cute look, Hazel. Maxwell must think I live in pajamas and yoga clothes. I was once a top model and have a closetful of clothing to prove it.
One of our first conversations, when I blathered on about getting married someday, rushes at me like a freight train down a church aisle.
No. This level of intensity isn’t normal.
“Hey, there.” Maxwell’s voice is low at this late hour.
Run, Hazel, run while you can!
“Did you come over for a cookie?”
I make a non-committal noise. Catherine would call it the sound of longing. I just want a cookie, I tell you! Or a brownie or whatever it is he’s baking.
Maxwell steps out of the doorway to let me in. My hand brushes against his bare arm.
I fan myself. The cranking oven has nothing on my temperature spike. I tell my stupid heart to stop thundering in my chest. I need a distraction.
Then a loud boom sounds from somewhere outside. The lights go out. Like with the mouse, I shriek. Once more, I launch myself into Maxwell’s arms.
The Weather Outside is Frightful
Hazel
Once more, I’m held aloft in Maxwell’s arms. During my dancing days, I was dangerously slender because of the pressures befitting the ideal ballerina size. Now, I’d say I’m fitness model substantial. I can hike, bike, and swim long distances even though my preferred state is, as it turns out, right here. In Maxwell’s arms.
I’ve gone mad. Nuts. Off the rails.
The first time, I blamed the mouse. This time, well, the weather outside is frightful.