On New Year's Eve, Hazel and I meet up with Lana, Trey, River, Riley, and George to watch the fireworks over the bay. It's almost like a mini reunion of the summer internship, with Lana and Trey filling in for Michaela (who wasn't invited) and Abdul (who had other plans). Hazel arranged it, and I have to admire his social skills. I'd gotten to know my fellow interns well enough to call them friends (River, Riley, and George, anyway) but if it wasn't for the fact we shared classes, I probably wouldn't have kept in touch. Hazel, on the other hand, had all their number in his phone and all their social media accounts connected.

Meanwhile, I had a Facebook profile I hadn't touched since I made it, and like a technophobic grandpa, I still don't really get how Snapchat works.

Paradoxically, it's Hazel's ability to make friends and keep them that both reassures and worries me.

You could say we were friends before, but when romance comes first, things are different. Between my anxieties and my inexperience, part of me always wondered whether Hazel really cared, or if he just wanted something. With that 'something' off the table, he makes the truth abundantly clear.

He definitely cares, and with the romance between us on hold, we've gotten closer.

The problem, of course, is that he's still very much in love with me, and I'm still not sure I love him in quite the same way.

As the first fireworks burst in a shower of red and gold sparks above the water, Lana and Trey share a kiss for good luck. River and Riley lock lips as well, and I look away, feeling a little awkward. Unfortunately, Hazel sits on my other side, and when I turn towards him I glimpse a fleeting expression on his face: a look of pure hope, quickly hidden.

In that moment, I realize I'm not being fair to either of us. I can't keep stringing Hazel along, holding on to his friendship because it feels good to be wanted. He'll end up resenting me, and I'll end up hurt.

I need to figure this out, or let him go for good.

"Happy New Year, Charlie," he says, holding out his plastic champagne glass for a toast. "To new beginnings."

"New beginnings," I echo weakly, and tap my glass against his, producing a dull imitation of a clink.

🐚

In the first weeks of January, I use the time I would have spent hunting for jobs on graduate school applications, most of which are due in early February. I pick three—one in Colorado, one at the University of Alberta in Canada, and one right here in Crestwood. I would have applied to more, but the application fees aren't cheap, and the money I got from selling my textbooks back to the bookstore only went so far.

With the last application submitted, I breathe a sigh of relief and turn my attention back to jobs.

That problem solves itself in an initially unwelcome fashion.

"Hilda Valentino is working on a monograph," Professor MacDowell announces one evening at dinner. "She's looking for a student assistant to help digitize her notes. Unfortunately, she's written them all by hand. She says she can pay $20 an hour, four hours per day, four days per week for the duration of the spring term. Are you interested?"

Part of me is ready to leap at the offer, but another part cringes in shame. I've been letting MacDowell solve all my problems, and I'm beginning to feel increasingly in his debt.

"Oh, um... Doesn't Dr. Valentino teach Early Modern literature? I don't know anything about that."

MacDowell looks at me over his forkful of salmon and couscous. "You know how to read and type, don't you?"

"Well... yes. It's just... Wouldn't she rather have a student who's interested in her work?"

He shrugs, chews his food, swallows, and sips his wine before answering. "I think she's more interested in a student with a strong work ethic, high motivation, and good attention to detail. I recommended you, and she said the job is yours if you want it. If you don't, she'll post it to the student jobs listings and hope for the best."

"I want it," I say quickly. "I mean, if she'll have me, it sounds perfect."

It did, too: quiet, academic, and decently paid. I couldn't ask for anything better. Well, except for all of the above plus fossils.

MacDowell smiles. "I thought so, too. And you may find her subject more interesting than you think. Her monograph focuses on Aphra Behn, one of the first English women to earn a living by writing in the 1600s, and who worked as spy for the King Charles, as well! Quite a fascinating character."

"How do you know so much about it?" Hazel asks, having listened thus far in silence. He'd told me that he and his dad hadn't eaten a meal at the same table in years, but it's been a nightly occurrence since I moved in, and so far father and son have kept the peace.

"Ah, well..." MacDowell clears his throat and slurps down half his glass of wine. "An academic's favorite subject is her own field. Hilda speaks of it often."

A faint flush colors his cheeks, and Hazel narrows his eyes. "I don't suppose she could name an unusual number of extinct species for a middle-aged woman doesn't study vertebrate paleontology, could she?"

MacDowell sniffs and becomes very interested in his salmon. "I suppose she probably could."

"Huh." Hazel grunts.

To my relief, he says nothing more and gives his attention to his food. In fact, he looks almost pleased.

🐚

Classes begin two weeks later, and as the semester gets underway, I feel better than I have in years. I always thought 'what doesn't kill you makes you stronger' was a terrible cliché—the sort of thing people like my dad, people who've never really had anything terrible happen to them, would say—but in this case, it's actually true. My world came crashing down around me, but I'm still standing, and I'm rebuilding on better foundations.

Like Professor MacDowell said, I still have plenty to worry about—finishing my dissertation, getting accepted to graduate school, looming deadlines and the future in general—but it's a different kind of worry than I had before. There will always be things outside my control, but my dad's fickle will is no longer among them.

Hazel, conversely, remains at the top of the list.

"Whatcha doin'?" he asks, peering over the rock against which I sit at the edge of the sand, laptop literally in my lap. It's already mid-April, and we're at the beach—me with my work, and Hazel with his surf-board.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I grumble, keeping my eyes on the blinking cursor in my Word document.

"The same thing you've been doing for three hours now." His breath tickles my left ear, and I attempt to shrug him off.

"I need to finish this."

"Isn't that the same paragraph you were working on three hours ago? You need a break!"

"Forgive me if don't take advice from the guy who dropped out of college—twice."

I flinch as soon as the words leave my mouth. Hazel stills, and for a moment I'm afraid I really stepped in it. Then he kisses the side of my face, making me jump.

"Meanie. That's what you get." He laughs. "Besides, I didn't drop out. I'm just 'recalibrating.' That's what Dr. Phil says."

Dr. Phil is not his therapist's real name, thankfully. That's just what Hazel calls him to annoy his dad, who'd insisted on the sessions after Hazel announced he wouldn't be taking any classes in the spring.

"I'm happy to provide you food and shelter, Hazel," MacDowell had said, "at least until you're twenty-five. Then, if you're still living here, we'll have to talk about rent. In the meantime, all I ask is that you're applying yourself. If you're not going to school, then you need to find a job."

"I have a plan," Hazel had protested.

"You have lots of plans," his father countered. "You always do. It's sticking to them that seems to be the trouble. And if something's holding you back, then you need to address it. We both do," he'd added, more softly.

Reluctantly, Hazel had agreed, though he'd left no doubt he wasn't happy about it. After a few weeks of sessions with 'Dr. Phil,' though, even he had to admit that talking helped.

"I'm sorry," I say, bringing my thoughts back to the present. "I didn't mean it like that."

Hazel shrugs and drops to sit in the sand at my side. "It's okay. You're right, anyway. Dr. Phil says my mom's death, like, scarred my psyche, or some shit. Made me fear commitment. He says my 'impulsive tendency to destroy representations of permanence' is my way of exerting control; the things I care about can't be taken away from me if I take them away from myself."

"So, what is 'the plan?'" I ask, shifting away from him a little. He's wearing a wet-suit and coated in sand.

He shrugs. "Same as it's always been. Just with purpose, this time. I wanna be a surf instructor. No social media shit," he adds quickly. "Just a legit gig. I wanna get certified, and ultimately..." He grins ruefully. "It's not like I wanna make my old man proud, or anything, but ultimately I wanna teach at a college or university. Only because that's where the best pay is, of course."

"Of course," I echo, not bothering to hide a smile. "So, what changed your mind?"

His smile turns soft and self-reflective. "You. Even if it wasn't on purpose, what happened with your dad is still my fault. And when you said you never wanted to see me again... I just sort of imploded. It was like, even without meaning to, I still managed to destroy the one good thing in my life. I don't wanna be that guy anymore, not thinking past the next thrill. I wanna be someone you can rely on. That's why you can't leave," he adds teasingly. "You're my rock."

My smile turns slightly forced. This is precisely the reason Hazel is topping my list of problems at the moment. He and his dad have been getting along better in the four months since I moved in than they ever have before. Hazel has settled down and found his focus, and they're both giving me the credit, deserved or not.

It isn't a responsibility I want. Especially given the preliminary letter of acceptance from the University of Alberta currently hidden in my sock drawer. I'm waiting until I hear from the other two programs I applied to before I say anything. I know that whatever I decide has to be in the best interests of my future career, but the Hazel factor complicates things.

Especially since I can no longer deny that I'm still in love with him.

I'm in love with his laugh, his goofy smile, and the way his eyes light up when he's excited. I'm in love with his lanky frame and his surfer's tan, and the way the wind plays with his hair. Mostly, I'm in love with the way he makes me feel—like something new and fun, and exciting is about to happen every time he looks at me.

I just don't know if I can tell him that without breaking both our hearts.