Chapter 2
HAZEL
The morning always looks brighter when you’re in downward-facing dog. Even this morning, when I’m exhausted from working on my dissertation late into the night to make up for lost time after the noise in the apartment above me distracted me all evening.
I take a deep breath and switch positions on my yoga mat, reminding myself that I can deal with a little extra noise for this floor to ceiling window in a luxury apartment.
I could never afford a place with a perfect view of the Golden Gate Bridge on the meager pay I receive from my research assignment, so I'm grateful for this long-term house-sitting gig my boyfriend’s aunt and uncle offered me.
Jeffrey and Violet are the best, aside from their questionable choice of pets.
I take a moment to relish the gorgeous view.
The sunrise is peeking just above the water in the Bay, casting streaks of pink and orange across the water and the sky.
I perform a few more stretches before glancing at the time on my wristwatch.
My hour of allotted yoga time is over, and now it’s on to the next step of my routine.
Sticking to a perfectly mapped out schedule is the only way I’m going to survive my arduous PhD program in Social Welfare at UC Berkeley.
Could I have simply gotten my master’s degree and been done with it?
Yes. But I’m a bit of an overachiever, and I like that, with a PhD, I’ll have the option to go into policy someday if I want to.
Each morning, I wake up at 5:30 and do an hour of yoga, followed by a shower and my four-step skin care routine, after which I eat breakfast promptly at seven.
I eat the same thing every morning, an acai bowl. Then I feed Fluffy, which is my least favorite thing in the world, but worth it to live here rent free. Fluffy is the bane of my existence—she has that in common with the tattooed man who lives above me, although he is nicer to look at.
Much as that pains me to admit.
Luckily, as long as Fluffy behaves, the horrifying process of feeding her only takes a few minutes, and then I’m either researching, writing my dissertation, heading to Berkeley to meet with my advisor, or working at my field placement, Safe Harbor.
I’m busy, so my time is precious and I must be vigilant in managing my schedule to stay on track.
Today, however, there’s a hiccup in my meticulous routine.
Last night a Berkeley acquaintance, Sasha, texted asking to meet for coffee.
I wouldn’t normally stray from what’s in my calendar, but I’m trying to be better about making friends—seeing as my boyfriend is the only person I really know in California.
I finish with my shower, hair, and makeup before I get dressed in a white long sleeve shirt, brown corduroy jumper dress over the top, and my favorite tights to keep my legs warm.
During the entire getting ready process, I find myself growing annoyed at how much extra time this coffee date is taking out of my day.
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself for the millionth time that it’s important to have work-life balance.
I’m ready to head out, but I haven’t fed Fluffy yet—something I always put off until the last minute. Not only am I creeped out by Fluffy, but she eats an exclusive diet of crickets and cockroaches, which is disgusting.
Bracing myself, I move into the kitchen and extricate the container from the fridge that contains her meal.
I hold the jar of crickets as far away from my person as possible as I tiptoe into the guest room where her heated cage resides.
I brace myself as I look through the glass to find her.
She’s hiding beneath her arched rock thingy.
“Hi, Fluffy,” I say in what I hope is a pleasant and not disgusted tone. “I have your crickets for the day. Yum, yum!”
The tarantula scurries from beneath her rock and stares at me with her eight eyes.
Are all eight eyes on me? I’m not sure.
I study her, trying as always to understand why Jeffrey and Violet think she’s so adorable…but I stare too long, and a shiver rolls through me.
Opening the top of her cage, I drop the crickets in through the opening and close it quickly. “There you go; have a lovely day.”
Her fangs twitch, and I pretend it’s a friendly wave.
Twenty minutes later, I arrive at the coffee shop a few blocks from my apartment.
The small business is cozy with dark colors and tartan pillows.
A fireplace is blazing in the center of the room, casting every nook in warm light.
All the furniture looks old and antique, with plush armchairs and sofas scattered about.
This coffee shop always looks so comfortable, like you can make yourself right at home.
I come here often to write when the doofus above my apartment is too loud.
Sasha is already seated on a worn leather sofa by the front window with a coffee cup in hand.
She smiles and waves, but there’s something tense about her movements, and the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
My hackles rise, but I smile back, wondering for the thousandth time why she wanted to meet today.
We don’t know each other well, and we’ve never met up or texted about anything other than coursework before.
I order an Americano, then cross the space and sit beside her on the sofa with my steaming mug in hand.
“Hey, Sasha,” I greet her.
She’s all curves compared to my somewhat gangly figure—something that makes me a bit envious.
Sasha also has the most perfect blonde hair, always smooth and shiny.
I wouldn’t have the first clue how to get my frizzy curls to look like that.
Sasha is one of those girls who’s so sweet you can’t help but be drawn to her, but also so stunning I find myself feeling a little insecure sitting next to her.
“Hey, good to see you,” she says, tapping her fingers nervously on her cup.
“I’m so glad you texted. I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s your research going?”
She relaxes at this, her fingers ceasing their tapping. “Good, but exhausting. Yours?”
I sip my Americano before responding. “I’m struggling to find people to interview, but it’s going well besides that.”
She nods, a perfect coil of hair falling over her shoulder. “Yeah, finding resources is challenging.”
An awkward silence lingers between us for a few moments before Sasha opens her mouth to speak but then closes it again.
She takes a deep breath. “So, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Sasha says, finally breaking the silence.
I raise my eyebrows and take another sip as I wait for her to continue.
She clears her throat. “You don’t happen to know Chadwick Weatherby, do you?” Her cheeks turn bright pink once the question leaves her mouth.
My eyebrows scrunch together as I wonder why she’d bring up Chadwick. Is she a secret hockey nut? A Firecats fangirl looking for an autograph?
I place my hot mug down on the wooden table beside me and force a smile.
“Chadwick is my boyfriend, actually. We’ve been together for a year.”
Sasha blows out a deep breath. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to tell you straight. I met Chadwick a few nights ago at a bar in Sacramento.”
Something about her tone has my stomach bottoming out like I swallowed a boulder. “Go on,” I say.
“He made it sound like he was single, and he flirted with me all evening…and then, I spent the night with him.” Her chin quivers.
“Hazel, I’m so sorry,” her voice breaks on the last word.
“I had no idea you were together until I saw the background photo on his phone lock screen the next morning. I thought it looked like you, and my stomach sank! I obviously would never want to hurt you like this.”
Tears are freely streaming down her face.
Bile rises in my throat as the betrayal sinks into my stomach. My mind floods with all the little incidents I’ve ignored or Chadwick explained away with ease, acting like I was paranoid.
The time he smelled like perfume, and he said his teammates pranked him by replacing his cologne with perfume.
The time I found a hair tie in his bathroom, and he swore it belonged to a teammate with long hair.
And the time he was photographed with a woman on his lap and claimed she sat there without consent, and the photo was snapped right before he stood up and pushed her away.
He even went on a whole rant about how women sexualize hockey players, and I felt bad for him.
I trusted him.
I’ve known Chadwick since we were kids. Our fathers went to college together, and have been friends ever since…maybe that’s why I ignored so many red flags. It’s difficult to reconcile the sweet boy I grew up vacationing with to the womanizing man he apparently turned into.
I realize I’m staring at Sasha, and she’s still crying. Shaking my head, I try to calm myself down.
“Sasha, you have nothing to be sorry for. You had no idea he wasn’t single, so this is obviously Chadwick’s fault entirely. Thank you for telling me.”
I have to force the words out, because I can barely look at her.
I know she did nothing wrong, but thoughts of them together flood my mind.
My handsome boyfriend, who I’ve known since we were kids, spotting this beautiful woman across the bar, charming her, inviting her back to his place to the same bed where he and I have slept in each other’s arms. The urge to either throw up or black out is strong. All I want to do is get out of here.
“I need to go,” I blurt out. “Thank you for your honesty.”
I stand, and so does Sasha. She’s still crying.
“Hazel,” she says, reaching for my arm like she’s going to try to keep me here so she can explain further.
Holding my hands up in front of me, I step out of her reach and carefully keep my voice as calm as possible as I say, “No, it’s fine. I just want to be alone, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” she says again, so low I can hardly hear her.
I nod and rush from the coffee shop as fast as possible.
When I get outside into the cool January air, I gasp for breath, and then the tears begin to flow freely.
I run all the way back to my apartment building, letting go of a sob once I’m in the elevator.
Finally, I reach my apartment and let the door slam behind me as I sink to the floor and clutch my head in my hands.
“That lying, cheating…scoundrel!” I yell, the sound of my voice startling me as it echoes around the empty apartment.
Which of course reminds me that Chadwick is the only person I know in this state—besides Sasha, but that friendship likely isn’t going to go anywhere now.
It’s only been a year since I moved here for my PhD program, and I was relieved Chadwick lived nearby, as it felt comforting to have a family friend close.
He asked me to get dinner the week I arrived in California and it was the first time we’d spent any time together as adults without our parents present.
We connected right away, our chemistry undeniable.
So instead of forming friendships at school, I spent my limited free time with the man who I thought loved me.
Now I have no one to talk to, no one to lean on…
even my family lives all the way across the country.
Not that I could talk to my mom or dad about this right now, anyway.
They love Chadwick and think the sun shines out of his backside.
I don’t think they’ve ever been as proud of me as when I told them we were dating…
so they’re probably not going to take this news well.
Crushing sadness washes over me as I realize I'm totally alone in this. It feels like too much to bear right now, so instead of breaking, I steel myself against the tears welling in my eyes and reach for my next available emotion—rage.
I should channel my anger at being cheated on into yoga, but not even an extra hour of yoga could fix the anger inside of me.
Picking myself up off the floor, I stomp inside the master bedroom closet and find Chadwick’s prized possession, a signed Wayne Gretzky jersey with the Edmonton Oilers logo slapped across the front. I yank it off the hanger and walk toward the balcony which overlooks the busy street below.
He brought it here because he wanted me to frame it for him—apparently that was something he didn’t have time to do, but he assumed I did—clearly, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
Grabbing my phone out of my purse, I pull up my camera app and start recording as I walk across the living room and throw open the French doors to the balcony.
I dangle the jersey over the railing for a moment, and then I let it fly.
The orange fabric slowly floats through the breeze and onto the street below…
where it’s instantly run over by traffic.
I smile as I stop recording, and then, I send the video to Chadwick.
Hazel
Oops! Guess my hand slipped and I accidentally destroyed this jersey. Kind of like the fly of your jeans slipped open and you accidentally cheated on me.
My phone immediately starts ringing and I look down to see Chadwick’s name on the Caller ID.
Bile rises in my throat again, as the temporary high of letting out my anger wears off and reality creeps back in.
I cannot believe I did something so unhinged—it’s not like me to be so rash. Chadwick will be devastated…
No, wait. Forget that.
Why should I care about his feelings? Chadwick cheated on me.
He doesn’t love me. He probably never did to begin with. Our families—who were so excited we got together—will be heartbroken.
I turn off my phone.
As I walk back inside, music from the loft above me starts to thump rhythmically.
The vibrations from the base rattle Jeffrey and Violet’s expensive art on the living room walls.
If I wasn’t already having an existential crisis that has completely derailed my routine today, I’d go up there and give Playboy—er, Penn—another piece of my mind.
But I simply can’t muster up the energy to deal with another idiotic manchild right now.