Chapter Nineteen
It was late when Hazel returned to her father’s house. She’d stayed at Ash’s through board games, dinner, and a movie. When they’d finally ventured up to his room, he’d held her just like he said he wanted to, his body fitted to the back of hers, arms tight around her. If he’d rolled his hips, if his lazy finger strokes on her arm had ventured anywhere else, if his affectionate nuzzling on her neck ever turned to kissing, Hazel would have reignited like dry kindling. But she followed his lead, and after a while, an odd combination of sensations enveloped her, like falling and being caught, a sinking rock settling into a soft seabed. She’d snapped a photo of them on her phone, wanting to hold on to the feeling. “Proof of life?” he’d murmured, and although she didn’t intend to send it to Sylvia, that phrase had been exactly, perfectly right.
She was still thinking about Ash’s soft flannel comforter that smelled like him and his low, sleepy-rough voice in her ear, talking about small things—parts of campus they both liked, local events they’d attended, movies they’d seen, though none of them together—when she let herself through her father’s front door.
The alarm chirped. It hadn’t been set, and she wondered whether she should tell someone she was back or try to set it herself. Then, the panel beeped, and a flashing alert told her the alarm was reactivated—a keypad in the master bedroom, probably. In which case, her father or Val was aware she was sneaking back in at nearly one in the morning.
Did Lucy or Raf ever come home after curfew and tiptoe up the stairs to their room, mindful of every creaky place on every step? Hazel mused. Was it Val or Hazel’s father, or both, who waited up to lecture them? A door opened. She lurched out of sight, only to catch her toe on a potted plant and fall hard to her knees on the tile floor.
“Hazel?” her father asked from his bedroom door across the living room.
She could crawl to her room. In the dark, she’d just be a weird shadow, and then she’d be gone. But if he saw her crawling away, that would be far more awkward than saying a quick hello and slinking off to bed.
“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry.”
As she struggled to right the plant she’d taken down, the foyer light flicked on. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t know if he meant right at that moment, hoisting the heavy pot back onto its flat bottom, or if he wanted to know what she’d been doing. Or was it a broader question, some fundamental confusion about her as a person? She wasn’t sure how to answer, which he apparently took to mean something was wrong because he eased the weight of the pot out of her hands and held her by the shoulders to get a good, concerned look at her.
Oh God, did he think she was drunk? She’d never once had this experience as a teenager, but now, as an adult, she was going to have to convince her father she hadn’t broken any rules he’d never set.
“I’m out late a lot at school,” she said defensively. “College towns don’t really sleep.” Suddenly, it felt imperative not to apologize. No one had asked her to be back by a certain time.
Hazel’s father nodded at the throbbing knee she was absently massaging. “Do we need to amputate?” Maybe every dad told this one, even the ones who stepped back from the job of parenting, but she had clear memories of him saying it while she fought tears on a playground, a soccer field, beneath the big tree in their old backyard. It always broke through the pain, made her huff a little laugh.
“I think I’ll live.”
“Just in case, I know what will help.”
The words came out before she even thought them. “Ice cream?”
“You still like mint chip?”
Part of her wanted to hug him. But then, remembering her favorite ice cream was a pretty low bar, wasn’t it?
He offered her whipped cream and sprinkles, and she declined because she wasn’t eight years old, but she relented to chocolate syrup because a third no felt like it would mean something. Was he as hyperaware as she was of all these tiny, unspoken negotiations? Was he making them, too, or was it completely one-sided?
She sat in the dining chair that had been unofficially assigned to her. He took the one beside her, Lucy’s usual place. Then they ate in silence. Just didn’t speak. And she didn’t actually want ice cream, not all by itself.
Ash had asked why she’d come back here. It was true enough what she’d told him, that it hadn’t felt like a choice. She’d resisted coming, but it was empty resistance. Ash didn’t realize all those other usual times people their age visited home, she hadn’t been asked to come, hadn’t had to say yes or no. So, when her father sent a formal invitation to the occasion of his wedding, it felt like a big deal. If she said no to that one, another invitation may never come.
But now, eating ice cream too quickly to escape this silence, she knew some small part of her had hoped for something. She couldn’t quite name what.
Right now, she wanted him to speak, to fall into easy conversation, into teasing like Ash’s family did. She wanted this to be something they’d done a million times—late-night ice cream talks. She wanted him to ask questions—not to get to know her, but questions that came from knowing her, like how her final paper had turned out and whether she’d submitted her request to switch to Dr. Tate’s lab. She still hadn’t.
“Val wanted me to ask you about the Christmas Eve menu,” he said. “Which I suppose is also the wedding dinner.”
Hazel wished she’d taken her chances on crawling away earlier. “Whatever she has planned is fine.”
“Tomorrow night will be catered. Italian,” he went on, like this might help her form an opinion. She’d almost forgotten about his station holiday party.
“Val and her kids have always done enchiladas on Christmas Eve. I guess some families have traditional meals like that.” He paused. “I know one year your mom spent hours cooking a ham. I remember because I got called last-minute to the station before it was done.”
“I remember.” She didn’t add that her mother had protested cooking any big holiday dinners after that year.
Sylvia’s family barbequed brisket and ribs on Christmas Day. On Christmas Eve, it was chicken-fried steak and root beer floats, which had some elaborate origin story of a blind date and a car breaking down before the intended destination. Technically, she’d eaten that meal more than any other on Christmas Eve.
“Enchiladas sound great,” she said.
The last few years, when her father called on Christmas, that obligatory quick call not too early and not too late in the day, she excused herself to Sylvia’s childhood bedroom to answer. She would stare at herself in the closet door mirror while they talked, calculating back to whenever he’d last come through town and noting the small changes in her appearance as he might have. He always ended the call too quickly, at the first lingering pause. “Well, I’d better not keep you,” he’d say, like she was the one eager to hang up. She’d wait a few more minutes before rejoining Sylvia’s family so it wouldn’t seem too soon.
“I made Ash our famous pear and bacon grilled cheese today,” she heard herself say, then tensed because—what if he didn’t remember? Or, what if, like their real Christmas trees, he’d only let her think he liked it at the time?
“Those were dire times,” he said with a self-conscious laugh. “I’m sorry. You know, I’ve learned a few basic domestic skills since then.”
She did know. He’d helped with most of the meals since she’d arrived. Logically, she knew her parents hadn’t divorced because of all the dinners he’d missed, but it had certainly been one of her mother’s most repeated complaints. Ironic that the divorce had forced him into dealing with the tasks her mother had resented, and now, he was a more present and capable partner for Val. She would never mention this to her mother.
“Everyone likes the pear. My roommate—well, my old roommate—always used to ask for it when she was…” Hazel blushed. “Um, drunk.”
“This is Sylvia?”
Hazel smiled, pleased he’d remembered. They had lived together for all of college, but still.
“You said she’s in Houston now?”
Had Hazel told him that? Apparently so. “Yeah, she’s opening a new location of her family’s restaurant.”
“I’ll have to check it out next time I’m there. Maybe we could make a weekend of it.”
“Sure,” she said, though she wasn’t sure if he meant he and Hazel or he and Val.
Her father pushed his ice cream away and patted his stomach. “I’d better stop before I regret this.”
Hazel took their bowls to the sink. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to ask, “Do you ever do this with Lucy?”
“Can’t say that I have, no.” He stood up, coming over to the counter.
“Okay.” Good, she wanted to say. Like a child. Then, because she knew that was what she sounded like, she said, “It would be okay if you did. I was just wondering.”
Her father leaned back against the counter. He opened and closed his mouth, and she attempted to rescue them both from the awkwardness, tried to edge past, saying, “Well, good night! See you in the morning!” But he clutched her by the shoulders, steering her directly in front of him. “Kiddo. Hazel.”
He seemed not to know what to say after that. He looked determined and somber, and Hazel remembered Val, just that morning, recounting his proposal of marriage without ever having said he loved her. Finally, he asked, “Did I tell you how glad I am that you’re here?”
“You don’t have to…”
“Thank you for coming home. I am very glad you’re here,” he repeated, enunciating every word. It was different than his thank-you at the festival. Forceful and deliberate, like he’d practiced saying it. Like maybe he’d realized how painful that blurted thank-you had been, and he’d been waiting to get it right. Even if it was a little sad that her dad had probably rehearsed the line, he could have not bothered to say it at all.
“Sure,” she said, because every response that came to her felt phony—happy to be here, my pleasure, thanks for having me.
He opened his arms, and she stepped into them.