Hazel
We wait in silence for the valet to pull the car up, and when he does, Xavier tips him and walks over to the driver’s side. He doesn’t open the door for me, or give me a smile, or even so much as flash a glare at the valet when he clearly runs his eyes over my body, checking me out.
I’m still reeling from the moment in the restaurant.
Xavier is jealous? Of Kye?
But now it’s as if nothing’s happened, and the functioning part of my brain kicks in to remind me that there’s no way my stepfather was going to say something inappropriate to me, and I’m fucked up for even thinking and hoping so.
Isn’t it more likely, I torment myself, that he meant ‘jealous’ about something else, and you misunderstood it and now he’s angry?
We drive in uncomfortable silence for a while until Xavier finally speaks. His tone is casual, fatherly, like no weird moment has passed between us.
“I hope you had a nice birthday, sweetheart,” he says.
“The nicest, thank you.” My fingers reach up and clasp the diamond around my neck. It was a good birthday. Better than last year. Xavier had called and mailed a gift to the house-we were still living in the old house at the time-but Melanie was away the whole weekend and never acknowledged it, having clearly forgotten.
“When we get home,” I ask tentatively. “Do you want to watch TV for a while?”
He swallows, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. “Maybe that’s not such a great idea, sweetie. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Please don’t make me hang out alone on my birthday,” I plead when we get home, until Xavier relents, and even opens a bottle of champagne and lets me have a glass.
We sit on the living room couch at opposite ends, facing each other. Xavier has taken his dinner jacket off, and his tie, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, exposing a hint of dark chest hair. I can’t ignore the way the bulk of his arms and shoulders strain the fabric of his dress shirt. He rests one arm along the back of the couch, and lifts his champagne flute with the other, initiating a toast.
“To you, on your birthday.” We clink glasses and drink, and before long the sweet, bubbly liquid is making warmth radiate out from my centre. I feel happy, more relaxed and confident than I’ve felt in a long time, and it feels nice to get a little drunk with Xavier. Better than drinking beers on the beach with the kids from my high school. Longing to be closer, and feeling impulsive, I scooch over beside him, inserting myself under his arm and leaning my head on his shoulder.
His shoulder stiffens underneath me. “Hazel, baby, I don’t think this is such a great idea.” He places a hand under my shoulder, as if to lift me up.
“Why not?” I ask, sitting up and looking at him, only inches from his face. We’ve been snuggling like this on the couch all week, and I know I can fall back on that as a rationale for my behaviour if I have to. That we’ve normalized this.
He lowers his eyes, avoiding my gaze. “You’re getting a bit old for this, don’t you think?”
“No.” The champagne imbues me with a new sense of courage. “I…I like when we’re close. Don’t you?”
He sighs, looking troubled, and then relaxes his hand on my shoulder and kisses my temple. “Yes, sweetie,” he says with resignation. “I do.”
I nuzzle in closer and lay a hand across his stomach. It’s hard and flat. “Is that why you were jealous before? Of Kye? Because you like being close to me?” I stare at my hand as I speak, grateful he can’t see me blushing, and hopeful that he can’t feel my heart hammering against his body.
“Hazel…” He sounds pained. “I shouldn’t have said that. That was so inappropriate.”
He takes a deep breath and, summoning even more courage, I lift my face to look at him. The eyes that look back at me aren’t Xavier’s-not as I know him anyway. His dark brown eyes have an intensity I’ve never seen: Vulnerability, and desire… A look that maybe he’s given my mother before, but he’s never given me. And quickly, before I have time to talk myself out of it, I tilt my face up, lay my hand on his cheek, and kiss him.
I press my lips against his and hold them there for what feels like a second, a minute, an hour-I don’t know, but I don’t pull away. I trace my fingernails over his ear, behind his head, and then cup his head with my hand, letting him know I don’t want him to pull away. With my mouth against his, I breathe in the clean, warm smell of him. I feel the tactile pressure of his lips with acute sensitivity. The heat and the softness of them.