Xavier
The sight of Hazel coming down the stairs is like a punch to the gut. For a moment, the breath is knocked out of me.
She’s unbelievable. She’s perfect.
She’s…Melanie?
She looks like a grown-ass woman. Like her mother, actually. In a tight white dress, with her curls loosely pinned up, and high heel shoes that emphasize the shapely, grown-up musculature of her legs, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Strikingly similar to Melanie, but so much…
…better, I can’t help but think. She’s my Hazel. Silly, brilliant, and loving. She grins at me, her smile bright and wide, and I melt.
“How do I look?” she asks, holding her arms out to give me the full view.
Like your mother, I almost answer. I’ve seen this dress before, and suddenly I have a vivid memory of Melanie in it-at a party for my partner, Bob, just before Mel and I broke up. It’s the last dress I ever saw her in.
“You look incredible,” I say sincerely.
Following her out to the car, I can’t take my eyes off of her. She’s so elegant. I can’t believe she was ever the gawky kid who was perpetually singing in the backseat of my car. She’s the kind of woman I’ll be proud to have on my arm at the most upscale restaurant in town, and the minute I have the thought I cringe.
She’s not a woman on my arm. She’s my stepdaughter.
Nonetheless, when we arrive at the restaurant and the valet opens her car door, I have a moment of pride, knowing he’ll have taken in the sight of her long, lean thighs and the press of her full breasts against the fitted fabric of her dress. Knowing that he probably wants what I have. I hand him the keys to the Jaguar, silently recriminating myself for my thoughts.
Eyes flick surreptitiously towards us as Hazel and I follow the Maitre D’ through the restaurant to our table, eyes that run up Hazel’s perfect legs and tight waist, and then over to me, to see the man who’s with her. I lay a possessive hand on her lower back as I guide her through the watchful diners to her seat.
I’ve booked one of the circular booths that line the perimeter of the restaurant. It’s extremely hard to get a reservation for one of the booths, but my firm designed the restaurant space and I know the owner. In the past year, I’ve booked a booth a few times to impress a date, although this time feels more special.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Rochat,” says a white-shirt clad waiter, bowing his head as he fills our water glasses from a tall, thin bottle. He sets a wine list on the table and asks, “May I make some recommendations for an aperitif for you and your date?”
Hazel flushes with pleasure, thrilled, no doubt, at the prospect of being taken for legal drinking age.
“I’ll have a vodka soda,” I say, a little archly, “but my daughter is only eighteen. What will you have, sweetheart?”
She gives me a small pout, and I lift an eyebrow. Birthday or not, I’m not supporting underage drinking.
“I’ll have a Coke,” she tells the waiter, who bows and takes his leave.
“Your date,” repeats Hazel, with a little laugh, making me smile.
“I should be so lucky to have such a beautiful date,” I tell her, reaching for her hand and stroking the soft skin over her knuckles. The diamond necklace winks brilliantly from where it rests on her sternum. As the waiter returns to the table with our drinks, I drop my eyes and pull my hand away, feeling self-conscious.
“Do you ever?” asks Hazel, bending down to sip from her straw after the waiter leaves. “Date anyone, I mean?”
I hesitate for a moment before answering. Divorce is hard on kids. I don’t want her to think I got over her mother easily, but I don’t want to lie to her either.
“Yes, I date occasionally,” I tell her, eyeing her to gauge her response. She nods and looks down at her drink, and I can’t tell if the revelation upsets her or not. “How do you feel about that?” I ask. “I know it must be hard to feel like your mother and I got over each other.”
“No.” She shakes her head emphatically. “Not at all. I don’t know how you…how you put up with her for so long. I’m glad you did, for my sake. But I can understand how you might want to move on.”
Hazel was always an insightful child, who frequently surprised me with what she perceived of adult life. I guess growing up with Melanie taught her to be observant and vigilant. But strangely, her acceptance of the fact that I’ve been dating doesn’t feel as good as I thought it would. In a way, I feel guilty about it.
“I haven’t met anyone I’ve really clicked with,” I add, and a very subtle look of relief passes over her face. “How about you? What’s happening with Kye?” I almost choke on my words saying his name but try to hide my true feelings behind a tight smile.