Page 92 of Rival Season
“Right, let’s get going then. We don't want to keep the Weatherbys waiting, do we?”
Hazel’s dad puffs his chest as he strides outside to join us. He doesn't bother to greet me, which I guess shouldn’t be a surprise.
“Are Chadwick and his family meeting us at the restaurant?” I ask Hazel.
“Yes,” her dad replies. “And they’re already there, so let's get a move on.” He says this like it’s personally my fault we’re late, even though I’ve been waiting outside the hotel for the past ten minutes.
Hazel shoots me an exasperated look. “Chadwick’s parents stayed with him at his place last night, and I guess they left for brunch early. Even though we agreed on eleven.”
“Wait, the Weatherbys weren’t staying at the hotel with you?” I ask.
Hazel shakes her head. “Chadwick bought a house here a few months ago, so he has a spare room to host his parents, and they like to fly down for his games.”
“Oh.” I swallow. So that assholewasat the hotel at six this morning to see Hazel. What a sneaky little prick.
Apprehension gathers in my chest as we walk down the street. I continue to attempt conversation with Hazel’s parents, but it’s awkward and stilted. It’s a short five-minute walk to the Orange Poppy, but by the time we walk through the door, Chadwick and his parents are already at a table. I’m beginning to wish I had made an excuse not to come.
Hazel squeezes my hand again, and I squeeze back, realizing I'd put myself in uncomfortable positions any day if it meant supporting her.
We all take our seats, and Chadwick snaps his fingers impatiently at a waiter, then makes a big show of quizzing him on the best champagne the restaurant has to offer. I smile apologetically at the poor guy, who looks rightfully annoyed under his pleasant customer-service facade.
Back in high school, I bussed tables late into the night on weekends to make an extra buck or two. I remember just how dehumanizing it can be when customers treat you like that.
“So how did you Palmers sleep? I hope the hotel was to your liking.” Chadwick asks with a beaming smile after he finishes harassing the waiter.
“Oh, yes. It was lovely. Thank you so much, Chadwick,” Hazel’s mom coos.
“The beds are really comfortable, aren’t they?” Chadwick asks, his expression positively snakelike as he shoots me a pointed look before he continues, “The one in Hazel’s suite was, at least.”
He’s trying to get a reaction out of me, but he’s not going to get one. He probably just barged in and sat down on her bed this morning when he was bringing her coffee, and now he’s trying to make it look like he stayed there.
Hazel looks at me with her eyes wide, and I squeeze her hand under the table to let her know I’m not buying Chad-dick’s act.
“Very comfortable, indeed,” Hazel’s father agrees. “I slept better than I have in a long time; I should ask the hotel what brand of mattress they use.”
“Agreed.” Chadwick smiles almost viciously. “The second I sank down on that bed last night, my first thought wasI need to buy this mattress, immediately.”
As Hazel and Chadwick’s dads both start laughing like Chadwick just made an actual funny joke, Hazel tenses next to me.
“He was in your room last night?” I ask in a low voice that sounds strained and scratchy, even to my own ears.
Hazel shakes her head. “He came to my door, and I thought it was you so I opened it, and he came in before I could stop him.”
The mental image of Chadwick in the hotel lobby at six this morning burns a hole in my brain and I swallow, breathing in deeply.
“Did he sleep over?” I ask, careful to keep my voice even this time.
“No!” She squawks, obviously louder than she means to, and the heads around the table turn in our direction.
“Aww.” Chadwick leers. “Are you two having a lovers’ quarrel or something?”
Hazel ignores him, focused on me as she lowers her voice again, speaking urgently, “I kicked him out. I swear, Penn. Nothing happened.”
“I believe you,” I say simply. Because I do.
Hazel is not Tori. I trust Hazel. I know with my whole heart she wouldn’t hurt me like that. It's this knowledge that makes my throat feel thick, because it’s something I’ve never experienced before—love that feels safe. Love that you can trust.
Under the table, I thread her fingers in mine. I might hate this brunch, but I love her.
