Chapter 24 Hazel
HAZEL
You want me to do what with this pipe?” I ask Logan, who’s standing ten steps away from me.
He’s wearing a face shield, goggles, a helmet, gloves, closed-toed shoes, and a long-sleeve navy and purple tie-dye shirt and pants.
He looks ridiculous. Which means I also look ridiculous, because I’m basically in the exact same outfit.
“Swing it at that.” He points to what looks like a castle balcony. “Give it everything you got.”
When Logan asked if he could see me after work on a Thursday night, I didn’t anticipate we’d be going out to a New Jersey storage building filled with… old Broadway sets?
This place is the size of a six- or seven-car garage. There’s an open area, where we are, that’s surrounded by sets and props. Some are exposed while others are covered in drop cloths. It’s eclectic, but handwritten signs hanging above various areas of the unit create a sense of organization.
Under one of the cloths, the corner of a grandfather clock—or a coffin—pokes out.
“This feels like the start of a murder mystery,” I say. “And not a cozy one.”
Logan laughs. “This is the start of something, but not that.”
“It’s the start of my criminal record, isn’t it?” I look around skeptically. “Is this private property?”
“Yeah. But we can be here.”
“Who did you pay off this time?”
“Myself,” Logan says. “To make extra money, I run a storage and transfer business. Mrs. Walker and some other producers store their old sets here. Some haven’t paid me in years, and they don’t care about those sets anymore, so…” He gestures again. “Have at it.”
I hold the pipe up in the air and let it drop down on the balcony. If this were a murder mystery, I would not be very good at it.
“I left a mark,” I say, analyzing my damage on the railing.
Logan runs his glove over it. “I can hardly feel it. Try again.”
I bring my arm down with a little more force this time. The pipe nearly bounces back and hits me in the face. I do manage to take a little chunk of wood out.
I adjust my face shield. “Oops. I can fix that. A little wood glue, no problem.”
“That’s not the point of this.”
“What is the point of this?”
“To break it.”
“But it’s too pretty!”
And it is. Even after years in storage. The balcony’s curved front has an ornate vine-like pattern, the design underneath even more detailed. This balcony was made for a queen, for sure.
Logan doesn’t fight this and instead moves the balcony out of the way.
He’s careful with his casted arm, but the vein in his right arm bulges as he grips the railing and pushes off with his legs to gain momentum.
I should offer to help, but I’m too distracted watching him.
He pulls an eight-foot faded yellow crescent moon from the shadows.
“I am not hitting that,” I say. “Look at the moon’s face! Those little cheeks!”
“You’re breaking something in here, Hazel. It’s either this or the next thing I bring out.”
I wave the pipe. “Next. Mr. Moon doesn’t deserve this.”
Logan pushes Mr. Moon back into the shadows. Watching him disappear into storage, never to see the light of day, makes me a little sad.
“Whatever you’re feeling right now, use it,” Logan says. “On this.” He slides out a four-foot chimney painted to look like brick. “It’s from the Mary Poppins musical.”
“You don’t think Mary will want it back?”
“Given that it’s been over a decade since they’ve used it, no,” Logan says. “All of these sets have been here for years. They can sit in here for longer or they can be put toward something good.”
“How is me smashing this up something good?” I ask.
“Because it’ll be a release.” Logan comes over to me and flips his face shield up.
I do the same so there’s one less barrier between us.
“The other day, you said you didn’t know what to do with your feelings.
You’ve talked about how you numb yourself.
” He taps on the chimney. “Put your feelings here. Onto this. You’re always giving so much of yourself to others, but who’s giving anything to you?
You deserve good things, too. You deserve love and support and help.
All the time. Not just on special occasions. ”
“This sounds like a great exercise for you to try,” I say, trying to hand him the pipe. “Express what you’ve been suppressing.” He doesn’t take it.
“Next time. This isn’t about me,” he says, running his hands down my arms. “We can talk about it more after, but right now, we’re not here to talk. We’re here for you to feel.”
He doesn’t need to spell it out any more than this. I know what he’s getting at.
“You’ve been fixing all your life,” Logan says. “Now it’s time to break something.”
I nod and flip my face shield down, and he steps back and does the same with his. He leans against a vintage car, waiting.
We’re clearly not leaving until I demolish something, so the chimney will have to do. I decide to make this quick. The faster I smash this chimney up, the faster we get back to Manhattan. Logan promised me pizza afterward.
I raise the pipe over my head with both arms and swing it down hard and fast. I gasp as the lip of the chimney crumbles.
Drips of adrenaline trickle through my bloodstream. That felt… satisfying.
That one’s going to be a little harder to fix, though.
Not the point, I remind myself.
I look over at Logan, who’s beaming. “Amazing!” he cheers.
Fueled by his encouragement, I knock one of the two pipes right off the top.
After this strike, adrenaline is joined by dopamine. It rushes through me in tingly waves. They crash down on the feelings I’ve packed away neatly inside, chipping away at each one.
Dad is the first to come to mind. His manipulation. His lies. His selfish charm.
I go quiet and try to name what I feel.
I feel frustrated. I feel mad. I feel small.
I whack the second pipe off, and it flies into a sunset-painted backdrop.
Thoughts of my brother and his lies float to the surface.
I feel annoyed. I feel used. I feel betrayed.
I take another swing, this time from the side. The pipe crashes into the chimney’s walls. It collapses.
I think about losing Mom.
Whack!
Losing Grandma and Grandpa.
Thwack!
Losing myself.
I wallop the other side of the set where the paint has started to crack from the force.
Losing the lake house.
Thump!
Losing my sense of home.
Whack!
From behind a chandelier, the tip of the Empire State Building peeks out.
It’s a painted backdrop of the New York City skyline.
This city is my home. It’s where I moved to have freedom.
To be my own person. It’s taken me a while to get there, but now it’s time.
Time to start building not just a life, but my life.
I tighten my grip on the pipe.
The rest comes in bursts: my divorce. My job loss. Being alone. Feeling alone.
My nose tingles, and what’s left of the chimney blurs. I blink through it, still swinging.
My heart is racing, my lungs burning from taking in too much air too fast. I’ve never felt more grounded in my body. I’m fully present for this.
The pipe is light in my hands. Almost as light as the cardboard check.
I feel surprised. I feel relieved.
Something breaks open inside me.
Just like this chimney.
I send the pipe straight into the center, polishing off the remaining bricks.
My chest warms as the stinging fades.
I think of Emma and Gloria, who I’ve kept at a distance. They haven’t distanced me in return.
I feel included. I feel accepted.
I strike the base, breaking what’s left of its foundation. The set is now in pieces all over the concrete floor. It’s no longer a structure, just chimney confetti made by my own hands.
What was once whole is now shattered. It’s a mess.
It’s still beautiful.
I’m still beautiful.
I kneel into the remnants of the set, scooping up pieces of red and white flakes into my hands. I squeeze them into a soft fist before opening my hand again. The flakes fall through my fingers like water.
I glance over my shoulder at Logan. “I can definitely still fix this,” I say softly.
A smile spreads across his face before he breaks into laughter.
I fling the pipe into the mess. I strip off my face shield, helmet, goggles, and gloves. He does the same.
I’m not alone anymore.
Then I close the distance between us and jump into his arms. My lips crash against his, his mouth parting to let me in. Our kisses taste tear-salted, but these are happy ones.
I pull back and lock eyes with him. The day’s last rays of sun shine behind Logan’s head, turning his sandy hair gold. I smile at the sight. This moment… it’s exactly what being with Logan feels like—emerging from the darkness and stepping into the light.
“I love you,” we say at the same time. My version comes out urgent. Desperate. Like I need him to know right this very second. His version is steady and sure. Like he’s had time to sit with this idea for some time.
“I love you,” I say again, simply for the fact that it feels so fucking good to say.
This is the feeling. The ultimate one.
I laugh through my tears, this jumble of emotions bubbling up inside me and fizzing out over the rim.
Logan smiles, his cheeks wet with my tears. It’s a perfect metaphor, I think, for what we’ve been to each other: safe spaces to figure out our emotions. He doesn’t wipe them off.
“Hazel,” he says. “I’ve loved you since the moment we pretended to be old together.”
I blink the tears out. “Not when I hatched the plan to help you increase your luck?”
“I don’t need you to fix anything for me. Not then, not now, not ever. I just need you to be with me.”
I know how he means this. That’s all I need, too.
But right now, I also need him in another way.
“Off,” I instruct, surprised by my own directness.
Logan does as I say. As he pulls the shirt over his head, I’m reminded of how strong he is. How solid.
I lift my arms. Without further instruction, Logan tugs off my long-sleeve shirt.
He does the same with my tank underneath.
I push him back against the vintage car.
He tucks one finger into the waistband of my pants and pulls me to him so he can undo my button.
He’s kissing me as he does this, and I mirror every single thing he does. Unbutton, unzip.
I shimmy out of my pants as he kicks his off. His eyes take in every inch of me while I do the same to him.
He reaches around to the door handle, pulling it open. I slide into the backseat, moving myself backward. Logan crawls in over me, resting his elbows on either side of my head, pressing our hearts together.
I part his lips with my tongue and kiss him like he’s the best thing.
Because he is. He’s the very best thing.
Logan drops a trail of kisses from my forehead to my nose to my lips to my chin. He makes his way down my neck and collarbones, his breath hot against my chest.
“Holy shit, we won the lottery,” I whisper, the full impact of our win just now hitting me.
He grunts. “Yeah.”
I grip his hair as he draws a line down my stomach with his tongue. I try to pull him back to me to give him kisses. To express everything that’s pouring out of me. He shakes his head.
“No more giving. No more fixing. Now you get to take,” he says as we shed the last of our clothing.
So I do.
For the rest of the evening, I manage to take while still giving just enough back.
I can’t help it. What we do, it’s the opposite of mind-numbing.
Mind-blowing isn’t quite what I’d call it, either.
How we finally get to explore this tension and how gentle yet commanding he is, how he unravels me from my very core… it’s mind-melting.
Logan says he loves me. I say it in return.
I feel elated. I feel safe. I feel loved.
And without needing a fortune teller’s confirmation, I know I’m going to feel this way again and again and again in the future.