“Well, my dad, James, lives in San Francisco. He has his own business and—”
“Wait, what? Your dad is James Ridley? THE James Ridley? From RidleyHoldings? I read an interview with him the other day in the Wall Street Journal.”
“That’s the one.” Hazel’s voice grew quiet. “We’re not close, so don’t expect any introductions,” she joked, though her eyes carried sadness.
“No, I don’t mean it like that, I’m just surprised, that’s all. And your mom?”
Her smile softened, tinged with sentiment.
“My mom, Anne, was a professor at Juilliard. She passed away some time ago.”
I paused, the bottle halfway to my lips, as her words sank in. For a moment, the room felt smaller, quieter, as though everything else had stepped aside to let her grief take up space. I saw it clearly now—the quiet, lingering sadness I’d noticed the other day. Hazel had parents, yet didn’t. She was parentless in a way. Like me. It was a terrible comparison, I knew, because mine were alive. Many would give anything for that, but it didn’t change how I felt most of my life. I crossed the room, the floor creaking beneath me. She didn’t look up right away, just let her fingers trace the rim of her glass in slow, absent circles.
“I’m sorry, Hazel.” Words felt clumsy. I let the stillness settle between us like an understanding neither of us needed to explain.
“It’s okay. I really loved her, and she loved me. That is the best I can ask, right?” She raised her eyes, and somehow I didn’t see her pain. I saw a quiet strength, like losing her mother hadn’t broken her but somehow made her stand taller. There was a kind of peace in her expression, the kind that only comes when nothing important is left unsaid.
“She was this amazing woman,” Hazel continued softly, “happy and energetic, always cheerful and smiling. She had thisjoie de vivre—”
“Joy of living.” We spoke the words at the same time, and she smiled faintly.
“Yes.” Her gaze met mine, telling me what her words couldn’t fully capture.
“I had something most people spend their whole lives chasing,” she said. “I’ve only gained by knowing her. There’s no reason to be sad for me.”
I watched her, mesmerized. She loved life and didn’t take anything for granted, even though she may have deserved more.
“She made me fall in love with nature and trees, and we used to go hiking all the time. She told me that she wanted to name me after something that would remind her of me every time she went into the woods, but all she could think of were just tiny, delicate flowers. In the end, she named me Hazel because she wanted me to be like a strong tree that could withstand any storm in my way. She used to call me Hazelnut,” Hazel grinned, lost in the memory.
“...which is funny because she had a nut allergy.” She laughed, and I smiled.
Hazel. I repeated the name in my head slowly, savoring each syllable. Evening shadows danced across her face, highlighting her features.
“Well, that’s me.” She tucked a strand behind her ear. “Can I ask you something?” Hazel snapped back to the present.
“You can ask anything you want, Ms. Ridley.” She shot me a playful look at me, emphasizing her last name.
“That book you gave me—it’s not something you’d find browsing modern bookstores. Where did you get it?” She stared straight into my eyes, clearly trying to intimidate me into telling the truth.Funny.
“It belonged to my father. He’s kind of a big reader himself, but I don’t think he appreciates its true value. Just another find to him.”
“Won’t he be mad?”
“I traded it for a favor.” Specifically, calling my mother to mediate one of their arguments.
She gave me a suspicious look.
“As I said, he doesn’t appreciate it...” Hazel pulled the book from the box beside her, ran her fingers over the spine, and opened it, her eyes scanning the worn pages. My gaze, however, lingered on her graceful jawline. “...enough.”
She shifted on the floor, and a stupid little hole near the knee of her sweatpants flashed a bit of skin, a faint bruise only making it more unfairly distracting.
“It really is beautiful,” she murmured.
My pocket buzzed. I pulled out my phone to see a message from Vanessa.
Wanna hang out tonight?A peach emoji at the end. Ugh. I knew whathanging outmeant.
I glanced at Hazel, still engrossed in the book, soaking up every detail like Austen had left her a secret message. I typed back.
