by Ellie Hall
“That’s incredibly clever...and devious. I’m sorry Maxwell.”
“Yes, we were young, but as you said, our lives were enmeshed. It crushed me. I told myself I’d never, ever get serious with someone again.” I hobble over to a drawer and pull out a little black book. Slapping it on the table I say, “Evidence that I kept my word to myself.”
Her eyes widen. The book is thick.
“Until you. Everything changed. I will keep my word to you. I will never cheat on you. I may forget to run an errand or miss a special occasion or not get how you like the towels folded right, but I will be true to you, Hazel.”
Liquid drips from her eyes.
“I say this from the most loving place, but all that stuff that happened with your dad, that was a long, long time ago now. You’re not your mother. I’m not your father.” I pause. “That would be weird. But I think you know what I mean.”
“But you don’t know the whole story.” She looks away.
“Can you tell me?”
“Can I trust you?”
“Your program helped me find the courage to be a baker and a banker. To be my independent self and be in a relationship. You can be scared and you can trust me. It can be both.”
The edges of Hazel’s lips move toward a smile.
“You’re a smart, strong, courageous, and drop-dead gorgeous woman. You have so much insight and I think it’s because you know yourself so well. You just got stuck in a story from the past. You don’t have to tell me. But you can. I’m learning to walk again. Maybe I can help you too.”
“That’s just it. I already had to learn to walk again.” Hazel sits down on the couch and holds her head in her hands.
Promises Promises
Hazel
“What is the real reason you’re afraid?” Maxwell asks, his eyes not wavering from mine. He gently squeezes my hand.
Metal crashes against metal. Tears spring to my eyes. I’m free falling. There is no net. No safety from this crash.
“As I said, I’m afraid because my father cheated on my mom.” I’m shaking and tears quietly flow from the corners of my eyes.
“Hazel, like I said, I would never do that to you.”
My chest rises and falls with a deep breath. “When I was nine, my family and I were driving home from a fancy party. I sat in the backseat. It was a snowy, magical night. Or so I thought. The snow sparkled as it dusted the windows of the car. As the storm got worse, my parents’ conversation in the front seat got more intense.”
“I’m so sorry you had to drive back from Vermont.” Maxwell’s eyebrows crowd each other as he learns the source of my nerves.
I nod. “I am too but not entirely. What you were saying before about me being strong? Well, I proved that I could do a difficult thing—probably my second biggest fear. My first being you.” I say that part lightly.
“When it comes to you and me, I don’t want you to be afraid.”
“Back to that night. The gist of their fight was while at the party, my father flirted with one of his former flings. Understandably, my mom wasn’t happy about that. They hurled words like unfaithful and temptation between them. The snow turned to icy rain and pelted the windshield. Their bickering continued. ‘I didn’t intend to upset you. I didn’t mean anything by it. Why can’t you just get over it? It’s not like those women mean anything.’ It took me a long time to understand that last one.”
“Do you think he was still cheating?”
I nod. “Maybe? Probably? I’d like to think otherwise. 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.”
Maxwell’s arms are around me so quickly, it’s like he’s bracing me, holding me fast, not letting me fall.
And for once, I don’t. I remain in his arms. Holding him tightly. I sniffle a few more tears, but then they stop.
“I am so sorry, Hazel,” he whispers.
“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? Doubtful. I hated him for dying because I’ll never know. I’ll never know if he was remorseful or if he truly loved her.”
Still safe inside Maxwell’s hug, the drumming under his ribs is a steady, assuring beat. It tells me what my father couldn’t tell my mother. Maxwell cares. He truly cares.
Still clutching me close he says, “If you’ll consider being with me, I’ll always talk to you about us. For instance, I’ll admit it’s my fault when I forget to pick up the dry cleaning. I’m also rubbish at putting down the toilet seat. I do take out the trash, put the cap on the toothpaste, and prepare the coffee maker the night before. As it turns out, I’m also a great baker. But I have flaws too.”
I snort a little laugh.
“If we fight, I’ll try hard to remember it’s about an issue we have and not take cheap, potshots. My mother was the queen at telling my father that he’d become a fat cat, emphasis on fat when they’d argue about money. No offense, Mew,” Maxwell calls in case the cat can hear through the wall. “I will always hug you when you need a hug, hold you tight when you’re sad, give you space when you need to breathe. I’ll put you before work and technology and distractions. And I will never, ever cheat on you.” The last he says with such forcefulness, I sit up straighter.
“Can you really keep that promise?”
“On my life and every cookie I’ve ever baked.”
It’s hard to picture him in a relationship, but because he and I were so much alike, I’d imagine he’d be the one doing the heart breaking. Not the other way around. The story about his college girlfriend makes me stew.
He bites his lip then says, “Back in college, I’d even been looking at engagement rings. I thought about how I was going to ask her parents. I had dreams for the future. And it all came crashing down. But I realize now, as awful as that was, it was a warm-up. A way to teach me how fragile hearts are and how to handle them with care. To know what to look for in engagement rings and how to approach parents...” Maxwell wears a funny smile. Even after all this time, looking at the past isn’t easy.
We hug and kiss and comfort each other. We assure each other. We decide to go on a date. I’ll wear my new high heels and take it from there. Then…
Then I poot. It’s not-quite silent. Certainly not like Polly Spoonwell. But all the same, it’s a horrible sound and my cheeks go red and I dive under the couch pillows.
Maxwell doesn’t run off or tease me. Instead, he goes after me, fingers tickling under my arms and behind my knees. I giggle, writhe, and laugh some more. Thankfully, I don’t pass gas again.
It had been brewing for a while. I blame it on the hardboiled egg I had with lunch. It was the kind of poot that sneaks up unexpectedly. That just demands release without any warning. Don’t even pretend as if you don’t know what I mean. Now, I’m humiliated. A burning, hot flush runs from my mascara-streaked cheeks, across my chest, right into the deepest depths of my ego.
I wiggle away, crawling toward the door.
Maxwell goes still. He wears a neutral mask. Switzerland embodied. No judgment. No conflict. An architect’s dream of planes and intersecting lines and intrigue. I try to hold it in, I do, but then the laughter returns. Long and loud. Louder than the poot. Mrs. Hess down the hall is going to complain.
Maxwell joins me and we laugh so hard I start crying again. In a relationship, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with getting a little silly too.
We talk about the episode of Friends with the fart.
We laugh until our bellies ache.
Eventually, I return to my apartment with my own promise. I’m going to get honest with myself and figure out if we can move forward. I already know my answer but have to convince that stubborn voice in my head.
I curl up w
ith Mew and think about what it’s going to take to make us work: courage, clarity—me really thinking about my wants and desires.
I’ll have to clean my dishes and not nitpick about the laundry ending up next to the basket instead of inside it. I might even have to poot in front of Maxwell from time to time. Like every twenty years, if we’re lucky enough to last that long. No pressure or anything.
I bury my head in my hands. Seriously, who have I become? Mew nudges his head against my hand. I scratch behind his ears and then stroke his back until he’s purring.
I told Maxwell everything. I laid my fears bare. I pooted in front of him. It wasn’t so bad, but it was also the worst. What am I going to do? Come home, alone, to Mew for the rest of my life? Run from date to date? From demons of the past that I’ve allowed to ruin the present? From true emotional intimacy?
If that’s all there is, I don’t want it.
I want something real. Even the pooty parts.
I call Catherine. With the time difference, she should be well into Sunday brunch over there in Italy. When she answers, her voice is cheerful. Traffic and tourists jibber in the background.
“I ordered the same kind of coffee at least three days in a row. I’ve lost track. Vanilla lattes.”
She’s quiet a moment as though trying to make sure it’s me on the other end of the line.
“Does this have anything to do with Maxwell?”
“Yes.”
“Did he give you the look?”
“The one that melted my heart or the one that says in a room full of women and other distractions, I only have eyes for you? If so, both. Passion and intimacy in the eyes. Full on, tractor beams, drawing me in hook, line, and sinker.”
“I had a feeling. I’ve been making wishes in fountains all over this country. Love is in the air.”
“Though we haven’t been in a room full of beautiful women unless you count Lottie, Colette, and Minnie.”
“All beautiful. All women.”
“But I’m a mess.”
“What else is new?” By the lightness in her voice, I can practically see Catherine’s smile, bright under the Italian sun.
“I’m a blubbering, crying, laughing, I-don’t-know-what-ing mess.”
She laughs. “If you recall just a few months ago I was feeling much like you. Now I’m happier than ever.”
“So it’s going well with Kellan?” I interject.
She answers with a brief digression about romantic Rome, Kellan, and how mad they are for each other. Then she says, “Why are you resisting? Is he secretly married? A criminal? Wait, is it because he was part of the Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare?”
“No. It goes further into the past than that.”
“Do you want me to make a pros/cons list for you?” Catherine is big into lists.
“That could take a while and...” My body hums electric, a magnetic pull drawing me toward the wall Maxwell and I share.
“How about the abbreviated version? Is your excitement to see him overwhelming? Do you visualize a future with him in it? Do you feel distracted and can’t stop thinking about him? Do you feel giddy? Fuzzy inside? Swoony?”
“Mushy. Very mushy. As for the rest? Check and check and check. But also afraid and cautious and like I’m fighting an inner battle with the woman I’ve been for a decade.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Catherine asks, exasperated.
“I could turn out like my father.”
“You’ve already broke that mold.”
“How so?”
“You’re one of the most honest people I know. Sometimes to a fault.”
“I could turn out like my mother.”
“Nope. You’re on your own journey. And if one of you ends up with a broken heart, the great thing is that means you got to experience love. And you don’t have to worry; I’d be there for you in a minute...with cookies.”
“About that...” I tell her about Maxwell’s passion for baking.
“Looks like you found yourself a keeper. I tell you, my grandmother’s cookie recipe is magic.”
“But what about him? What if I break his heart?”
“I’m not even going to answer that because you don’t have to play the worst-case scenario game. It’s not a productive use of your time.”
“But I’ve been doing that my whole life, jumping from success to success because I’m afraid I’ll fall.”
“Hazel Loves, if you fall, you’ll get right back up. Well, after eating some of this chocolate I picked up at an adorable little market. I promise. And if for some reason you can’t find your footing—in this hypothetical scenario—, I’d help you. So would Lottie and Colette, all of us.”
It’s true. They would. But I realize something else. If I fell, I’d be able to pick myself up. After all, I am Professor Loves-Her-Life.
“Okay.” I stride to the door.
“Okay?” she asks as though convincing me was easier than she expected.
“Yes.” I turn the knob.
“You’re going to see him now?” she asks knowingly.
“Yes. I’ll talk to you soon,” I whisper and leave the phone on the little table under the buzzer by the door.
Maxwell is waiting in his doorway as if expecting me. “Hazel, I want to be your Sunday morning, not just your Saturday night.”
Like in a movie or one of Catherine’s romance novels, I rush into his arms.
We hug and hug and hug and I realize this is a kind of intimacy too: letting him know he’s wanted and that I want him even if there are risks involved.
“Wait, I have something for you,” I say.
I turn back to my apartment, get a little wax bag from my jacket pocket, scoop up Mew, and close the door behind me.
I pass him the bag. “It’s more than a few days old and mostly just crumbs now, but I saved the other half of my cookie for you. If you don’t want to eat it you don’t have to. It’s more of the idea. I always want to share my cookies with you. Big ones, small ones, burned ones. Perfect ones.”
His smile lights up the dim hallway. “In that case, I’d like to invite you over tomorrow for cookies.”
“You know my love language.”
“There’s a reason for that, you know.” Maxwell’s lips quirk.
“And what’s that?”
He brushes his thumb by my bottom lip. I shiver.
His almost-brown eyes hold mystery. A secret. “It’s because I love you, Hazel.”
My heart skips a beat. Because it wasn’t a secret. Not at all because I knew it. My heart knew it. But I’m not sure he knows the truth of my heart.
I take a deep breath. “I love you too, Maxwell.”
“Hazel Loves Maxwell. Has an interesting ring to it,” he says running my first and last name with his.
“Well, it’s true. The truest thing I know.”
At that, we kiss in the hallway, until Mrs. Hess’s door opens and closes and the dog barks.
Strange, this is exactly where we met.
Victoria Sponge Cake
Maxwell
My ankle is nearly healed and I’m looking forward to going back to work, hitting the gym, and sweeping Hazel off her feet.
Also, I’m looking forward to wearing regular pants instead of joggers.
Hazel is supposed to come over after she teaches her class. I could make a cake. This feels like an occasion to celebrate. My sponge cake recipe is nearly perfect. I turn up the music and get out all of the ingredients to make Catherine’s grandmother’s famous cookie recipe instead because it’s guaranteed she’ll like them.
I should probably come up with a new name for the cookies. Catherine’s Grandmother’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe is a mouthful, especially if your mouth is full. Also, I add a sprinkle of flaked sea salt on the top, so I’ve officially made them my own. I have Polly Spoonwell to thank for that trick. The salt enhances the flavor of the chocolate. Also, I use dark chocolate chips because Hazel prefers them so it really am
ps up the cocoa content.
On the top of the piece of paper with the recipe, I cross out the title and write Hazel Loves Cookies then in parentheses I add Hazel Loves me. I’ll never forget the moment I told her I loved her and when she replied with the same. It was a turning point. One door closed on the past. Another opened for our future.
I scan the recipe to make sure I have everything. Catherine’s grandmother’s secret ingredient was cream cheese and my mouth waters anticipating taking a bite fresh from the oven.
I’m about to cream the butter, cream cheese, and sugar, when I measure it and come up short. How can I be out of sugar? I check the little bowl by the coffee maker, but it’s empty.
I hobble down the hall and knock on 1G. Rabid barking pounds through the door. I call, “Mrs. Hess. Are you home?” The dogs claw at the wood. “It’s Maxwell from down the hall.”
I try the other guy’s door, but either he’s not home or can’t hear me over the barking. I pass the window to the fire escape as the wind whips the icy snow off of the pane. I hope Mrs. Hess isn’t out in the nasty weather—it reminds me of Hazel’s story about the accident.
My stomach drops just thinking of it. I suit up, prepared to head to the market to get sugar when I hear laughter from behind Hazel’s door. I didn’t think she was home.
I knock. Wearing a button-down shirt that looks startlingly familiar, leggings, and her fuzzy slippers, Hazel wrings her hands.
“I thought you were teaching.”
“Class was cancelled because of the weather.”
From Hazel’s back, a woman appears who is almost identical, but a couple of decades older.
I suddenly wish I had on my suit pants and the button-down.
“You must be Maxwell. I’m delighted to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Victoria.” Hazel’s mother also has a British accent, but it’s more refined. Also, her skin is a shade darker.
Hazel lets out what sounds like a long-held breath. “Mum, meet Maxwell. Maxwell, Mum.”