by Ellie Hall
I’m moving to another country. Disappearing forever with my newfound powers of invisibility. Leaving town...? Only one of them is true, but all three spring to my lips. I go with an honest answer. “I have to be there for Polly’s sessions. She’s one of my top clients.” If I canceled because I didn’t want to be in the same place as Maxwell, I’d lose her.
“That’s a happy coincidence.” He snuggles closer.
Maxwell makes something in me go all squishy and wobbly. I forget things like sense and remember things like how I was supposed to meet Lottie for coffee yesterday. Oops. Bad, Hazel.
I’m resisting him the best I can, but he’s holding me close and I feel like I might crack. Break my rules. Go to Vermont with him.
He winks. “Is Polly nice? Maybe you can put in a good word for me.”
She is the opposite of nice. If it weren’t for high oven temperatures, she’d freeze everything she cooks. I keep this to myself because I don’t want to spoil Maxwell’s excitement.
His smile warms the curve that connects my neck to my shoulder. There’s a name for it used in yoga, but I can’t think of it right now. I can’t think period.
“Just kidding. I don’t want any special treatment. The baking schedule will keep me busy during the day, but the brief says that I’ll be free by four p.m.”
“I have the private yoga sessions with her early Saturday and Sunday morning.”
Why am I encouraging him?
His arm snugs more tightly around me. I’m loathed to admit it’s better than the truffles and you know how I feel about sweets. I melt a little more.
“We could hit the slopes after my events and then have dinner,” he suggests.
“What about dessert—?” I cut myself off because it’s as if I’m revealing enemy nuclear codes. My kryptonite. The missing dragon scale armor.
“I promise to save you some of whatever I make. I’m still deciding on what I’ll bake.” His fingers splay and he presses his against mine, gripping my palm.
Warmth flutters then rushes through me. I lean my head against his chest.
Maxwell abruptly lets go, leaving me chilled, and makes for the door.
He swallows thickly whether because he put himself on the line and feels rejected or this is moving too fast, I’m not sure.
For me? Both. As per usual.
“I, uh, better—” Mew follows Maxwell to the door and stops just short of following him down the hall.
Me too, Mew. Me too.
If I wasn’t all melty and goopy and loopy over this guy, I’d explode. I pray he never gets the bright idea to attend one of my yoga classes. My students will lose their respect for me when I stumble over words and say something incomprehensible like, Move the thing attached to your torso over there by that other thing...
Which is exactly what happens the next day. After breakfast of leftover pastry, I have a roomful of level three yoga students in a flying crow pose variation. I’m also balancing on my forearms, fingers spread, pressing into the mat, my chin inches from the floor. My hips lift, one knee presses into the back of my arm with my foot locked against the other. The other leg extends long and high off the ground. It sounds complicated because it is—just like the way I’m feeling.
I’ve been called graceful by famous clothing designers, lithe by top yoga teachers, and agile by the guides that brought me to some of the world’s highest peaks, but the face plant that comes next as my cheek smooshes into the mat and my feet bang into the wood floor suggests otherwise.
Twenty-seven pairs of eyes land on me in a mixture of confusion and concern.
“What? A guy asked me if I wanted to go away for the weekend?” I say matter of fact. “I can’t say no because we both happen to be going to the same location.” I give the briefest explanation.
“It happens to all of us,” one of my well-meaning students says, indicating my fall, but which one, I’m not sure. Out of the pose or into... the L word. No. No way.
My palms sweat and I take a long sip of water. “Now for the other side,” I instruct after they lower down.
I don’t even bother demonstrating the other side because my arms are like limp spaghetti.
What did I get myself into?
Dream Catching
Maxwell
What did I get myself into? I’m referring to the baking competition, not inviting Hazel to join me in Vermont for the weekend.
Okay, fine. Both.
She hasn’t left my mind, but her sapphire eyes, full lips, and expressive brow appear front and center in my head.
I’m in my office with the vista of the East River, the piers, and the ferries going back and forth. Butter, sugar, and Hazel distract me. Back to work, Maxwell.
My email dings with a notification, a check-in from UUniversity. The self-paced program contains four modules. The first is daring (we have a week of “Daily dares” to complete—enough with the dares already!), the second uncovering, the third dreaming, and the last becoming.
An email arrives each day with reminders, inspiration, and action steps. Today, the note says, Success comes from acting with intention each day. I read the overviews so I know what to expect in the next few weeks, not that I’m going to do it, but it’ll be useful when I share with my colleagues.
The daring module is about moving past comfort zones and understanding that we created boundaries to keep ourselves in a safe, familiar place. It says, Pushing our edge, while it might be uncomfortable, will ultimately make it so we live bigger, more satisfying lives. The word daring reminds me of Hazel.
Uncovering, is about exposing our perceived limitations and revealing our deepest desires. Dreaming encourages getting specific about what we want from our lives. And the fourth, becoming, is all about taking action.
I don’t have time for immersing myself in the course but get the gist. However, I can credit it with encouraging me to enter that baking contest. It’s entirely out of character but so is baking, to begin with as well as sitting on Hazel’s couch night after night, talking about our lives, dreams, and desires.
The last line of the email says, Take your time with this process and go through each module individually, but also look at the big picture about what you want your life to be about. Themes for this include love, freedom, faith, family, relationships.
Hazel, Hazel, Hazel.
I glance up as Conrad, one of my colleagues, enters my office. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “You alright, man?”
In my world and for most guys, this isn’t a question commonly asked, hence the “man” cushion at the end.
I blink a few times. “Yeah, fine. Why?” I discretely glance around. Everything in my modern and sleek office appears to be in place. My suit was laundered and pressed. Not a button or a hair out of place.
Conrad wrinkles his nose. “You’ve been acting funny. Bringing in all those baked goods. Hitting the gym more.”
“I told you, my neighbor, Mrs. Hess, is a cookie factory. She’s a widow. I don’t want to be rude.”
“Yeah. Mrs. Hess. My gran belongs to a bridge club at Sunsets Senior Center on East thirtieth. Maybe Mrs. Hess would like to join her.” The way he emphasizes her name makes it sound like he doesn’t believe there is a Mrs. Hess. She’s real, but she’s the opposite of sugar and nice.
“You haven’t been to Javier’s in a couple of weeks.”
“Yeah. I’ve been swamped. Lots of research and development.” Not exactly a lie, but less focus on finances and more on the culinary arts.
He lifts his eyebrows. “Yeah. Both of us.”
Both. Hazel. I scrub my hand through my hair.
“And you’ve had a look about you.” He sits down with the kind of obstinacy that tells me he won’t leave until I make a confession.
I swallow thickly.
Hired at the same time, Conrad and I have been stiff opponents in getting top commissions, but it’s driven us each to be better. And we have. But we’ve also kept animosity out of it because
we have a lot in common. Or did until he got engaged over the summer—they met at Javier’s.
He steeples his fingers. “I think you’ve fallen.”
“That was one of the guys from the twelfth floor. They have to salt the sidewalk better under the awning. It sure does get icy.”
Conrad gives me a sideways look. “Not what I meant.”
I let out a long-held breath. Of course, I know what he means.
“So, what’s the problem?” Conrad asks, adjusting his cufflink and then glancing at his watch before leveling me with his gaze.
I recognize the power move. The cufflink bit was a display of his success and proof that he’s a valuable resource who can get things done. The watch, a reminder that he values his time and I should too if I want to take advantage of his generosity and expertise. Then the gaze says, Last chance buddy. Invest with me and reach your own level of success. If not, I’m moving on.
In this instance, I already have invested wisely and have more financial abundance than I’ll use in a lifetime. What he’s offering is friendship. Someone to talk to. An opportunity to come clean and figure out what’s going on.
I tell him I’d asked Hazel to join me in Vermont for the weekend. “Things with Hazel started out easy because that’s what I do, easy. No repeats, no relationships, no second dates. I’ve gleaned she’s the same way. We make the perfect pair.”
“And you’ve been seeing her for a few weeks, meaning it left the realm of how you keep things casual.”
“We’re neighbors.”
“Hazel Hess?”
I wave my hands. “No, different neighbor. And much different women.” Thank goodness. “A trip with her feels a little like a commitment.”
“One that you suggested,” Conrad rightly observes. “And that’s a problem because?”
“We’ll be trapped in the car for hours. Then the same resort and—”
“You do realize that sounds super romantic. Dinner by a crackling fire, no choice but to keep each other warm—”
I interrupt his musings. “Who are you, Conrad Stevens? You know I don’t do romantic.”
His laugh is practically a squawk. “Love changes you, man. When it’s with the right person, it’s the best thing on the market. For the record, you so are a romantic. Just look at these doughnuts.” He points to a recipe I tested, I mean Mrs. Hess gave me.
“Chocolate sprinkles, strawberries and cheesecake, Nutella, and this one here has candy hearts on the top.”
“Hazel hosted a Galentine’s Day brunch, and they were leftover.”
Conrad wears a Cheshire smile.
“Okay. Fine. I’m the baker.” I come clean about the baking. But not the other thing.
He spins around so we’re both facing the laptop. “Kylee and Conrad—the future Mr. And Mrs. Stevens. Buttercup and Wesley, Daisy and Gatsby. These are some major power couples. I know exactly what kind of research and development you and I need to do.”
I peer over his shoulder as he pulls up an online dating website.
“No. No way.”
He’s already typing at lightning speed. “What kind of woman are you looking for?”
Tall, silky brown hair, curves for days...
I don’t answer, but when his stare makes me feel as though a nuclear attack is imminent, I say, “I’m not looking.”
Conrad laughs. “Any particular taste in appearance? I’m going to assume you’d prefer she has good hair. Hmm.” He taps her chin. “Vocation? Look,” he points, “There are all kinds of filters.”
I reach for a doughnut drizzled with chocolate and red velvet crumbs.
“Maxwell, we’re doing R&D. I’m not suggesting you meet any of the women that pop up. Maybe if you considered what you’d like in a relationship, you’d realize that maybe the one you want is right in front of you.”
“Who said I’m looking?”
“Do you want her to share your interests? Baking for instance?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Favorite TV shows? Recreational activities, hobbies, future plans. Someone who makes you laugh. Independent and hard working.”
“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” I try to be casual. Uninterested.
As Conrad continues to fill out the dating profile, my thoughts drift to Hazel. My feelings are not casual. I am interested.
“Alright, I’m going to launch this thing. Maxwell Davis’ dating app profile is going live in three, two, one.” His finger hovers over the enter button.
“No. Don’t do it.”
Conrad stabs the air. “Ah ha. I knew it.”
He was testing me to see if I’d let him post it. If so, things with Hazel weren’t serious. If I stopped him, well, then achievement unlocked. He’s right. Still, I hedge. “We don’t know each other that well.”
He chuckles. “Watching you these last weeks is like stepping back in time to when I met Kylee. Think about it this way. When a company releases an IPO and you have the opportunity to buy in low, but don’t...”
“Major regret.”
“Right. So, if this feels like it could be a good thing don’t wait for the stock to open at a higher price.”
I completely get his meaning, but what if the stock drops? What if the business fails and I’m out of my investment?
Conrad raps on my desk then points at me. “Remember that love isn’t quite the same as trading stocks. You can always make a comeback if you don’t get a good return and wipe out your bank account. But most of us, if we’re lucky, only get one shot at love.” He gets up to leave.
“What makes you think I’m a romantic?”
“Those chocolate chip cookies. I could taste the love in them.” He laughs. “It’s just a weekend. It’s not as if you’re getting married and moving in together. You’ll have your own rooms to return to. A little buffer.”
“But we’re neighbors, meaning if things go wrong, I’ll have to see her if I want to leave my apartment. How do I get out of this?”
“You don’t. You go.”
I shake my head. “I need to hit the gym. Get a protein shake.”
“You’ve already been this morning and it’s, like, fifteen degrees out. You’ll get worse than a brain freeze.”
“Something hot and sweet then.”
“Sounds an awful lot like Hazel.” Conrad winks.
“I was talking about coffee,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah. Good talk. Let me know how unforgettable your weekend turns out. I’m going to meet with the Schmidt brothers now.” His smile suggests he doesn’t love schmoozing but reeling in the big whale investors is well worth the long lunch.
At the end of the day, I bundle up and step into the descending twilight and am careful not to fall on the sidewalk. Or fall in general. The only problem is, with every street I cross, I’m more convinced I have fallen. This means there’s only one solution. Cancel the baking contest. Call off the trip. I go back and forth.
I have to redecorate my apartment.
She’d want to help.
I have an emergency.
She’d want to make sure I’m okay.
I have… I have nothing except a bag full of ingredients for a recipe I have to test. Nutella hot chocolate topped with toasted hazelnuts, marshmallows, chocolate shavings, and bits of thin, homemade waffle. I’ll need two spoons.
No, I don’t need Hazel. I don’t.
But do I want her? That’s another question entirely.
The hall is quiet when I step off the elevator in my building. It smells like Mrs. Hess’s wet dogs and disappointment sinks my shoulders a measure when I don’t catch the scent of vanilla and citrus, meaning Hazel recently passed my door on her return home.
I hate that Conrad was right.
While the waffles cook, I check my email. I got another message from UUniversity. This one is a reminder to join the private group where students in the course can chat, ask questions, and support each other.
I’m not sure whether it’s research, curiosity, or something else (need?) that drives
me, but I click the link. The discussion in the group centers on what the students wanted to be when they grew up. I skim, reading that TrinaT wanted to be an actress. Another woman wanted to be a teacher. MarisaQ wrote that she wanted to be a famous pianist and is still working on it. No one divulges their true identities and it seems like they’re all women. ChelseaDigs comments that she wanted to be like her aunt—an archeologist.
The tone and content of the conversation suggest none of them achieved their goals. I didn’t necessarily aspire to be in finance, but what did I want? I think back. My best memories were at my grandmother’s house where she was either in the kitchen baking or playing board games with us kids. I also recall our time at the cabin with everyone in the family together, the smells from the oven, snow, and sunshine.
My fingers hover mutely over the computer keys but then my timer dings. I can’t help but think about how life has a time limit, dreams as well if we don’t take action...and maybe love too.
Two Truths and One Lie
Hazel
It’s Friday, which means I need to a) fake my own death and flee to foreign shores. But living in anonymity for the rest of my life because I’m supposed to be dead doesn’t sound appealing. I’m a social creature and a relatively well-known yoga instructor.
There’s plan b), which is to pretend I’m terribly ill and can’t go to Vermont. I’d have to cancel with Polly—totally blowing my sense of integrity and possibly career because she’s fickle like that. Maxwell would probably also want to check-in and make sure I’m still breathing. I fake a cough. No, not passable.
Or c) put on my big girl pants and go through with it.
I remind myself I’m a grown woman and pack my bag with the hope that perhaps he’ll change his mind about the baking and me, and cancel.
That possibility makes me feel suddenly hollow...and hungry.
I leave instructions for how to take care of Mew with Lottie, tote my bag through the hall, and go to work.
Omar waits for a client and with a nod to my bag he says, “You decided to go after all?”