Seventeen-year-old Hazel never saw having a sick mom in her future. And the last thing she expected was for her new next-door neighbor to give her a checklist that would change everything.
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After Hazel Winter's mom got sick, all emotion vanishe...
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IF SOMEONE ASKED me what my favorite past-time was, school wouldn't make the list. Considering that I don't have any others, I have no choice but to indulge myself here instead. I don't have time to play sports, join the debate team, or run for class president after school, so when I'm here, I try to at least be good at something.
Mrs. Thompson's English class is the only thing that makes me look forward to my time in this hellhole. Her teaching style is laid back, and she's not one to call on random people to see if they're paying attention. I'm doing exceptionally well in her class, which is why she lets me scribble in my notebook the entire period.
It's not that I'm not paying attention. I hear bits and pieces, and I always do my homework and complete the readings, but what I scribble down in my notebook isn't notes on whatever she's teaching. Instead, it's stories about random people. They're fictional works that would seem stupid to anyone if they read them, but for sixty minutes, I'm able to pretend I'm someone else. For sixty minutes, I can put myself into the mind of a figurative person and forget that my problems exist.
Today, however, I couldn't spend my entire sixty minutes scribbling because one of my problems was in this very room with me. He took the seat behind me, and I could feel his gaze burning into my back the entire time. I shifted uncomfortably during the first half of class, tempted to look over my shoulder to figure out what the hell it was he wanted.
"Please make sure you submit your essays before Friday," Mrs. Thompson reminds us, pointing an old, wrinkled finger to the whiteboard where the due date is scribbled in dry-erase marker. "There will be no extensions."
As soon as that bell rings, I spring up from my chair, hearing it squeal excessively against the tile of the floor.
"Wait, Hazel," he calls out, and I inwardly groan as he catches up to me by the door. Now that I'm up close and personal with him for the first time, I can see more of his features. His eyes are a silky brown. Not the type that is dark and mysterious but kind and reassuring. A swirl of caramel stares back at me, and I'm taken aback by just how intense they are. "How's your mom? Did you get the baked spaghetti?"
That was him?
Oh, hell.
I thought that one of my mom's church friends left it. I didn't think he made a fucking baked spaghetti. If I had known, then I would have... Well, I wouldn't have done anything differently, if I'm being honest.
"She's okay," I say with a shrug, trying to keep this conversation as short as possible. "Thanks for that. I didn't know you made it."
"Oh, I didn't. My..." He trails off, scratching the back of his head. "Let's just say I'm not the best cook."
It must be nice to come home to a home-cooked meal every day. People truly don't understand how blessed they are to have healthy parents. I wonder what it must be like never to have to worry about whether it will be the last day you spend with them.
