Chapter 4 Hazel
HAZEL
I wake up the next morning with a throbbing headache.
I need to leave tonight in the past?
I groan into my pillow. Why did I have to say that to the one good thing about yesterday?
And because my brain can’t help itself, I run through my other mistakes like a mantra. The layoff. My lost bracelet. The fortune reading. Kissing a stranger.
But if I’m honest with myself, kissing Logan didn’t feel like a slipup. I’m just going to chalk it up to the way he gently took care of me in my weakened state. He was a spot of sunshine in a shitty day. I wanted to bask in that warmth for as long as I could. I wanted one good thing.
I mentally edit my list. Kissing Logan wasn’t a mistake. Leaving him at that bodega was.
And okay, maybe walking away from millions of dollars was, too.
It’s that last part that makes me doubt any of it happened at all. Winning the lottery? Yeah, right.
If not for the Hello Kitty Band-Aids on my arm, I’d think yesterday was one big disaster of a dream. One that could do without analyzing. I trace my fingers along the outline of Kitty’s face, remembering how Logan’s rough fingers felt against my skin.
The fact of the matter is that I should not know how strangers taste. Or how this particular one’s mouth feels on mine. I also should not know that he has exactly three crinkles next to each eye when he smiles or laughs. Which is often.
And I really should not know that he’s someone who can quickly unnerve me in a way no one ever has.
Maybe I was low enough to think I could change the prophecy by doing the opposite of what I should do. Or I was trying to throw what’s written in my future off its tracks.
I glance at the clock on my nightstand: 9:46 a.m.
Shit! I’m late.
I jump out of bed in a panic and realize halfway through washing my face that I, in fact, actually have nowhere I need to be. That the routine I’ve been following all these years is no longer relevant—Wait. Wasn’t the pipe broken yesterday?
As I towel my skin dry, I walk out to my bedroom–slash–living room–slash–kitchen. A room divider between my bed and couch helps break up my studio apartment. It’s a tight fit in here, but it’s rent controlled. Which means I can afford to live alone.
I test the kitchen sink. That works, too. Then I see it: a white slip poking under my door. I freeze. A rent increase? Something else that’s broken?
I grab the slip. Building management brought someone out early this morning to fix the pipe.
Huh.
That’s shockingly fast. Last winter, I went for a whole month without heat because the superintendent was on an extended vacation and refused to check emails or phone calls.
That’s one problem solved. Now I need to fix another. It’s time to job hunt. Applying is all I can control right now.
But first, I need fuel. I finish washing up, get dressed, and head back to Sweet Escape.
The woman- and Asian-owned candy shop is a gem on the Lower East Side, close to where I live. Too close. Ever since the shop opened, I’ve been here every week, stocking up on candy for myself, usually after work. I have to imagine I’ve been their most loyal customer.
The outside door and window frames are painted a tangerine color.
This place looks like a treasure box with souvenirs from international travels lining the mandarin-orange walls.
Glass biscotti jars hold candy from all around the world.
Small silver scoops and tongs are placed neatly on hand-painted ceramic dishes next to each jar.
“Back again?” Emma Chen says as the silver bells above the door tinkle. According to the shop’s website, Emma quit her job as a lawyer at forty-two to open this place.
I offer a tight-lipped smile. “Didn’t get enough yesterday.”
I grab a clear bag with the shop’s name printed on it and do my usual loop to see what calls out to me. I pass by salted butter caramels from France, sour kiwi gummies from Spain, and Crown Churroz from South Korea. I stop at the jar filled with White Rabbit candy, grabbing a few.
A door to the back room opens, and Gloria comes out with a box with black licorice laces written on the side.
Gloria Van Asten is the spitting image of Helen Mirren but without the accent.
From conversations I’ve overheard, she’s a seventy-one-year-old purse designer who lost her Upper East Side apartment in her highly contested divorce.
Apparently, she still got a good amount of money from her ex-husband right before he died two months later.
“He was already dead to me,” Gloria once told a customer.
“We’re almost out of licorice,” Gloria tells Emma now. “It’d be good to have for Halloween.”
Emma smooths a strand of hair back into her blunt bob. “Already? Shoot.” She makes a note on a Post-it and sticks it on the whiteboard behind her. I hope that’s not her inventory system. “We sold through those fast.”
Gloria points the box in my direction. “You, again!” she says cheerily. I don’t think she actually works here, based on previous conversations I’ve overheard. Yet she’s always around. Gloria joins Emma behind the checkout counter and removes a tray. “Darling?”
I look around, confused. There’s no one else here right now so she must be talking to me. She waves me over.
“Hi?” I say, making my way to her slowly.
“What’s your name?” Gloria asks.
“I’m… Hazel,” I say. “Why?”
Gloria drops one of the licorices into her mouth, the black spaghetti-like string dangling over her chin. “Because we’d like to greet you with something other than, Darling!” she says around the candy. “As nice as that sounds.”
“You’re in here all the time,” Emma says. “Might as well know each other. I’m Emma.”
“It’s nice to see you outside of your typical after-work pop-by. Almost didn’t recognize you in the daylight,” Helen Mirren’s doppelg?nger says. “I’m Gloria, but you can call me Glo.” This is information I already know from my research. She gives me another smile before going to refill more jars.
My gaze darts from her to a “We’re Hiring” sign placed beside the window display.
Emma watches me for a few seconds. “Are you on lunch break or something? Taking the day off?”
“I… no. I’m just changing things up,” I say, avoiding eye contact with her. I don’t want to get into this right now. Especially not with two people I hardly know.
Emma hums under her breath. “Well, if you were ever looking for work, I’m happy to see what we can do.”
This surprises me.
“That’s… very nice of you,” I say. “But I’m just on a break.” Or I’m in denial. Shock, maybe?
Emma hands me her card. “In case you change your mind.”
I’m confused. How does she know I’m not on my way back to work right now? I glance down at my dark grey sweatpants and crewneck with “Asian American Girl Club” embroidered on it. It’s a far cry from my typical work attire: dark jeans and blazers.
I set the bag of candy down. I need to get out of here. “I’ll just take this.” I remove my wallet from my purse, pulling off a piece of paper that’s stuck to it.
What is this—oh my god. The top of the ticket reads “New York Powerball” with yesterday’s date time-stamped on it.
I flip the ticket over. On the back is a phone number scribbled in blue ink. Logan must’ve written this when he went in to see the clerk.
I hate that this makes me grin. Even before the kiss, he must’ve felt enough of a spark like I did to want to give me his number.
As unbelievable as it sounds, I still can’t keep this ticket or accept half of the money. My stomach knots with anxiety and I’m… relieved? It’s a reassuring reminder that I’m still human.
Big money like that creates too much change. It draws the wrong kind of attention. In the rare times Dad won money, people I’d never even heard of would come knocking. It’s literally how I learned I had a great uncle who was still alive. Old debts need to be settled.
You have to get good at saying no. To gambling, to money, to the people asking for it.
Dad never mastered the art of no, always losing more than he gained.
I’m trying to learn this lesson for the both of us.
The pendulum swung enough when I was a kid.
I don’t want that kind of life now. Once I get another job, I’ll be back on track.
I toss the ticket and Emma’s card into my purse with a frustrated sigh and hand her my credit card.
“Let me give you some extra, on the house,” she says. The expression she’s directing at me is one I’d define as concerned. “We just got sour peach fish from Sweden. Maybe it’ll bring you some good luck.”
I had forgotten that fish symbolize abundance in Chinese culture. That was the candy I got last night. Maybe I should’ve visited before work.
“I already had those—” I start to say when Emma gasps. With the little tongs, she lifts something shiny from the jar.
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “That’s… my mom’s bracelet!”
Emma drops it into my hand. The latch is broken, which is how it must’ve fallen off. I can go get that fixed today. As for the charms, all but the bird is missing. I dig through the jar for them, but they’re not in there. At least I have the chain back.
Any good endorphins I gained from the returned bracelet vanish when my older brother calls.
I swallow, hesitating. What does Jerry want now?
“Sorry, I need to take this,” I say to Emma, who nods as she packages up the remaining fish.
I take a long, slow inhale through my nose in preparation. On the fourth ring, I answer.
“Have a sec?” Jerry asks.