Page 75 of Rise
“Did you actually touch the grass?” Iris called, slamming her door and jogging toward the steps. “You dork. I was joking. Kind of.”
Malcolm followed behind, one hand curled around the handle of a brown paper bag, the other lifted in a quiet wave. “She listens to you,” he murmured to Iris, his eyes wide. “That’s terrifying.”
Iris just smirked and bounded up the steps. “How drunk are we on a scale of one to existential dread?”
Hazel laughed— an unspooling sound, sudden and startled— and swiped at her cheeks, clearing the remnants of tears that hadn’t fully dried. “Somewhere between regrettable text messages and a full spiral.”
Malcolm’s brows lifted. “What’s that, like, a four?”
“Six,” Hazel admitted, then winced. “Maybe seven.”
Iris wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Let’s round it to a five and work from there.”
They ushered her inside without preamble, Iris kicking her boots off with a theatrical huff, Malcolm ducking past them toward the kitchen like he belonged there. Which, Hazel realized, he sort of did. He moved with an ease that came from habit— setting the bag down, pulling open cupboards, finding mugs. The kettle hissed to life behind him on the stove a moment later.
“Emergency earl grey,” he explained without looking up. “And leftover veggie samosa’s from the little Indian spot on Newton. I was going to save them for tomorrow but Iris made me bring them. Apparently carbs fix all emotional wounds.”
“They do,” Iris said cheerfully, steering Hazel toward the couch. “That, and relentless friendship.”
Hazel folded into the corner of the couch, tugging the same blanket from earlier around her legs. The fire in the hearth had died down to ash but the presence of the two of them filled the space with something steadier than warmth. Something like safety.
Iris was watching her from her perch in the armchair directly across from the couch. Not in a prying way, just a stillness, a pause. Like someone bracing to hear a hard truth.
“So,” she said, her voice all wind chime and pause. “Want to tell us what happened, or should we start guessing? I’m pretty good at interpretive charades.”
Hazel let out a breath, one that caught and shuddered on the way out. “I tried to kiss him.”
Iris’s eyes widened, startled. She nearly jolted in her seat. “Wait— kiss him? Like kisshim, kiss him?”
Hazel nodded. “On the porch. After dinner. After wine. I just— I don’t know. It felt like a moment.”
Malcolm returned then, setting down three mismatched mugs on the coffee table, taking the armchair next to Iris. He didn’t speak, but the way he looked at her was a kind of patience, full of space, of waiting.
“And?” Iris prompted, brows pulling high.
Hazel reached for her tea, letting the warmth settle the lingering chill in her palms. “He stopped me, said I’d been drinking, that it was late. He didn’t want to.”
“Did hesayhe didn’t want to?“ Malcolm asked, leaning forward.
She shook her head, teeth catching on her bottom lip. “No… not exactly.”
“I doubt that he didn’t want to,” Iris muttered, shaking her head. “I’veseenthe way he looks at you.”
Hazel gave a weak shrug. “Maybe. But it still felt like rejection.”
There was a beat of silence, broken only by the soft clink of Malcolm’s spoon against ceramic. He stirred his tea for a moment, brows furrowed, eyes locked on Hazel.
“You really like him?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
Hazel nodded, the movement slow. Her gaze dipped to the mug in her hands, unable to meet their eyes. “Yeah,” she admitted, the word barely more than a whisper. “I really do.”
“And you’re scared.”
She looked up, met Iris’s eyes, and didn’t look away this time. “Terrified.”
Malcolm set his mug down with care. “Hazel… it makes sense, you know. After everything. It’s hard to trust something good, especially when you haven’t had much of it.”
Her throat tightened.
