Chapter 8 Logan #2
“Or to anyone who promises to double your money in ninety days,” Hazel says, making a goofy face.
I laugh. “No way.”
“So no yacht or five-star hotel vacation?” she asks, poking her spork into the chicken skin.
I consider this. “Have you heard about those yearlong cruises? A guy I used to work with once told me that after his brother-in-law’s cousin came into money, he bought tickets for him and his wife. He paid in full for a suite, but even with discounts, I think it was, like, $110,000 per ticket.”
Hazel tilts her head. “Let me guess. It ruined their lives and their relationship.”
“Apparently, but it wasn’t the money that got them. It was the nearly three-hundred-day trip and being trapped on a boat together.”
“Maybe that’s the true test,” she says.
I grip the side of the rowboat. “Are we being tested now?”
Hazel smiles softly. “Can you imagine three hundred days in this thing?”
With her? Happily.
“This might surprise you,” Hazel says, “but I think I would love that.”
“Yeah?”
“Being around all that water sounds amazing,” she says, and I realize we’re talking about very different things.
“This is doing it for you then?” I gesture toward the lake.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Her shoulders come up with the corners of her mouth, like her whole body’s smiling. “Since moving to the city, I haven’t been able to swim. I feel like a yearlong trip would have to allow time for that, right?”
“Maybe a lap or two.”
“And the trip itself… I haven’t been out of New York since college, and that was to visit my brother. We rarely took trips when I was a kid, and when we did, my dad took us to Atlantic City or Mashantucket.”
I adjust my hat. “What’s in Mashantucket?”
“One of the largest resort casinos in North America,” Hazel says, her eyes dropping. “My travel budget is slim. Nonexistent, really. Between rent, bills, student loans, and”—she waves her spork around—“everything else, I wanted to save whatever was left, not spend it.”
“Everything else?”
Hazel meets my eyes, but she’s quiet. She seems to be deciding whether she wants to share something. “I want to keep my grandparents’ lake house in the family,” she finally says. “I pay for half of the mortgage to help my dad. My grandpa built the house himself.”
“Seriously? That’s a dream of mine, to do something like that.”
Hazel’s face lights up. “Really? You’ve got all the skills for it, I’m sure. What kind would you build?”
“Honestly, I think a lot of that depends on who I’m building it for—or with.”
“Like your special someone?” She says it with forced nonchalance.
“Exactly,” I say, holding back a smile. “But there’s not—I don’t have… there’s no one special in my life. Other than Toffee, of course.”
This doesn’t feel truthful. I’m practically living in an oil painting right now with a beautiful woman who cares about me enough to help me increase my luck. This feels pretty special. She feels pretty damn special.
“Yeah, well, special someones are hard to find these days,” Hazel says.
“Are you going to pay off the house with the winnings?”
Her chewing slows. “Oh,” she says, swallowing.
“I don’t… the total mortgage is more than I would be able to cover with the annual payments.
At least for right now.” She sets her spork down.
“Do you ever feel guilty about winning? Like it was too easy? Money isn’t this easy to make.
” She watches another boat pass us before speaking again.
“It feels like, I don’t know, a dream or something.
The money. The fortunes. This. All of it.
” She peers up at me through her lashes. “Meeting you.”
“Your life can change in a second,” I say. “Doesn’t mean you change just as fast.”
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
We float into a ray of sunlight, and Hazel’s eyes brighten as her dark hair takes on a reddish hue. She’s as picturesque as the trees and skyline behind her. Winning the lottery might not feel real. This, though. This doesn’t either.
I can’t help but feel the spark of luck again. It’s too good, being here with her.
“But I… yes,” I say on an exhale. “I do know that feeling.” Of guilt. Of pressure.
In fact, I know those feelings a little too well.
“Do you feel like you need to give the money to anyone? To family?” Hazel asks, her eyebrows furrowed. She sits up straighter. “Sorry, oh my god. That’s such an intrusive question.”
“Hazel, we won the lottery together,” I say. “We’re bonded for life.”
This gets a small smile out of her, and I think, maybe, relief?
“But to answer your question, no,” I answer. “They don’t need it.”
Hazel twists her spork into the chicken breast. “Mine’s the opposite. My dad is bad with money. Whenever money came in, it went right out. We’d go from having a nice dinner one night to eating frozen pizza seven nights in a row.”
She doesn’t elaborate, so I say, “That’s a really big swing.”
She nods. “I don’t trust the lottery money. This game has been such a disaster for my family. And now it’s part of my life forever.”
“Or at least until the annuity runs out.”
“Right, I’ll have that annual reminder,” she says with a half smile.
“It’s just surreal being on the other side of it.
I really can’t gripe with money coming in like that every year, but I also can’t just ignore how I’ve felt about gambling for basically my entire life.
” She lets out a huff of air. “I’ll use the money for my brother’s emergency.
But otherwise, I want to pretend like the money doesn’t exist.”
“Some things in life we’re allowed to do, or keep, just for ourselves,” I say, this time more seriously. I mean it.
I see the moment my comment lands as Hazel’s mouth twitches in surprise. Her eyes lift to meet mine. “Ahh!” She ducks and reaches for her shoulder.
“Wait!” I say, grabbing her hand. “That’s…”
Her eyes widen. “No.”
“Bird poop,” I say, pressing my lips together. “Hold on.”
I tip my sparkling water into a napkin.
“On me and not you?” she asks excitedly. “I knew it was a good thing you held on to the horseshoe.”
At the mention of it, I remember the weight of it in my coat pocket. “Birds pooping on you is supposed to be a good sign. You didn’t need a fortune teller to confirm your luck. Life’s doing it for you.”
“Oh, right,” Hazel mumbles. “What’s with me and birds lately?”
“Can I get it for you?”
“Please.” She leans forward, and I lift the droppings off her shoulder with a dry napkin, wiping the spot clean with the wet one. Every time we see each other, we’re touching in little ways. It feels natural, like it’s an inevitable part of our day.
“You’re all good,” I say, feeling the curve of her shoulder beneath her sweater.
“Thanks.” And as though she’s used to stuff like this constantly happening to her, she continues eating. At this point, we’ve made a good dent.
“There!” Hazel says, tapping something with her spork. “The wishbone.” She digs it out of the chicken and sets it on a napkin next to her. “It needs to dry before we break it.”
“You thought of everything.”
“I take my responsibilities seriously,” she says. “Especially because of all the good things happening for me. Another recruiter reached out.”
“Hazel, I want the very best things for you.”
“You hardly know me,” she whispers.
“But I want to,” I tell her. Because it’s true.
I do. I want to know everything about Hazel.
I want to know which countries she’d look forward to most on a yearlong cruise.
I want to know why she got a tattoo of Mickey Mouse.
I want to know what her grandparents’ house looks like and what season of the year she loves it most in so I can know what she loves.
Those all feel like more intimate questions somehow, so I start with a basic one.
“What made you want to become a data analyst?” I ask, remembering the role the recruiter mentioned in Hazel’s email. When we drift too far into the shade, I grab the oars and row us around the lake, guiding us toward the Bow Bridge.
Hazel looks out over the water. “Data is chaos I can control,” she says.
“My dad was always analyzing stats and numbers for the games he watched. I didn’t see them as numbers, though.
I saw them as stories. If you can hear past the noise of all the data that comes in, you can understand what it’s really saying.
We use that chaos to interpret and forecast future trends. ”
I don’t even try to hold back my grin.
“Why are you smiling like that?” she asks.
“You’re like a data fortune teller.”
Hazel challenges my statement by making a face.
“Maybe you going to a fortune teller makes a lot more sense,” I reason. “You had data, you wanted a forecast.”
Hazel laughs once through her nose, like she doesn’t believe me. “Yeah, well, sometimes the data doesn’t tell you that you’re about to get laid off.”
“Or that the cat you’re walking is going to change your life.”
There’s a shift in the way Hazel looks at me. I don’t know if it’s the way the sun slants against her face or the glow of the vibrant trees behind her, but she seems more relaxed.
We float under the iconic Bow Bridge that spans the lake, passing rocks on the other side of it. Hazel points to one with five turtles lounging. “Look! They’re part of today’s operation. Turtles are supposed to protect you from evil and are good luck.”
I pull the left oar harder against the water. “Great, grab one. Check it off the list!”
“I was kidding, but sure. Let’s steal a turtle,” she says. “The only downside is that I’ve heard that turtles being low maintenance is a marketing ploy. And they’ll probably outlive you.”
“Before I die, I’ll make sure to drop it off here,” I say. “On this very rock, where these turtles will still be sunbathing.”
“Don’t say that!” Hazel says. “Take it back. You’re not going to die.”
“Ooookay, I’m not going to die?” Hazel glares at me, and I say it again without a lift at the end of my sentence.
“Thank you. It’s a Chinese superstition. We don’t like to talk about… that.” She waves her hands in front of her. “Not that I’m superstitious. But it’s better to be safe.”
“Not touching that one.”
She looks down, remembering the wishbone. “You have one more chance.”
I make a dramatic show of stretching out my neck, arms, and fingers in preparation.
“Put your thumb up closer to the top, okay?” Hazel instructs, holding the wishbone up to the sky to analyze it. “Take this side. It’s bigger.”
“Does the wish count if it’s rigged in my favor?” I ask, reaching for the bigger side of the bone. As I do, a bird swoops down and plucks it out of Hazel’s fingers.
“No!” she calls after it.
I stand to reach for the wishbone, but the bird is faster. It’s got the wishbone in its beak, hovering in the air before it flies past my head. I lean back to avoid getting struck, the boat wobbling with my movements.
I wave my arms around to steady myself, but it’s a useless attempt. I’ve leaned too far back.
And then everything goes dark green.
The lake isn’t as cold as I thought it would be. Or I’m in shock.
When I emerge from the water, Hazel’s hand is clasped over her mouth.
“Can you swim?” she shouts.
I rub my hand down my face as I tread water. “I’m rethinking the yearlong cruise!”
“I’m coming in.” Hazel quickly sheds her coat and starts to unzip one of her boots.
As much as I’d like to see where this goes, she can’t jump in after me. This lake is filthy.
I swim over to the side of the boat and wrap my arms over the edge. “Were you really going to save me?” I ask, grinning up at her.
Hazel zips her boot back up and lets out a mock-irritated sigh, but there’s a playfulness in her eyes. “Just get back in here, will you?”
“Sure, but steer clear,” I say. “There’s a chance I’m waking up tomorrow with the ability to glow.”
And that’s when Hazel’s whole face brightens. Her laugh feels like the exact moment when slats of wood that have taken hours to measure, cut, and chisel end up fitting perfectly. The sound of it is so satisfying, so rewarding.
I swish around in the water. “I think a fish just swam up my pant leg.”
She laughs more. I let the sound of it wash over me before slowly climbing into the boat, taking extra care not to tip it. I ring out my shirt, ditch my hat, and push the wet strands of hair off my face.
Hazel watches my every move. “So,” she says, amused, “rain check on the goldfish then?”