Page 105 of Story of My Life
I waited for her to finish the sentence. My brother was an enigma to everyone, probably including himself.
“Levi, I’m sure, has his own interests,” she said, course correcting. “Family is the foundation. What you build on that foundation is your choice.”
“What foundation did you build on?”
She laughed. “You don’t want to hear my story.”
“Oh, no. You don’t get to just sit there and observe. You’re an active participant in this date,” I insisted.
“I’m not sure how my history is relevant,” she hedged.
“Listen, Trouble, I don’t know what kind of dates you’re used to. But around here, you spend the whole date talking about yourself, you’re not gonna get a second one.”
“Oh, like you’re justdyingfor a second date.”
“Spill it. Or I’ll lose the keys and you’ll have to swim home.”
She let out a snort. “I don’t know what kind of datesyou’reused to, but where I’m from, threatening your partner will get you a tour of the inside of a holding cell.”
“You wanted a date. This is the date. Spill it or else.” I removed the keys from the ignition and let them dangle in the moonlight.
“Fine. You asked for it. My mom has been married six times. Soon-to-be lucky number seven.”
“That’s a lot of bridesmaid dresses,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I stopped participating somewhere after wedding three.”
“So you and your mom are really close,” I drawled.
She laughed despite herself. “We are nothing alike, except I look like her. But anything beneath the surface? I don’t even think we’re the same species.”
“That many marriages—she sounds like a romantic,” I pointed out.
“That’s one take on it. Or maybe she’s terrified of being alone and will do anything to feel young and desired.” Hazel winced. “Sorry. It sounds like I’m being a jerk, and I totally am. But I wasted so many years of my life trying to understand her and trying to fit into her life when she just didn’t have room for me.”
“What about your dad?” I asked.
“They were high school sweethearts. He died when I was a toddler. I don’t have any memories of him. And Mom moved so much, we don’t even have any pictures. I don’t remember much about my first stepdad, just that he was a lot older and had some money. She left him and married up. My second stepdad was wonderful. I was with him from ages seven to twelve. Mom divorced him for a guy with a record label and a boat. Then there was Anatoli the oligarch. She met and married him in Vegas.After Anatoli was some oil tycoon out of Texas, and then she left him for his brother, who was president of the company.”
“So your mom spent her life searching for ‘the one’ and you write about it. Maybe you have more in common than you think.”
From the expression on her pretty face, Hazel Hart liked to be the one doing the analyzing, not the other way around.
“You haven’t met my mother, so you don’t know what a gigantic insult that is. Besides, that’s the point. ‘The one.’ You getone. Not seven.”
“Was your husband the one?” I pressed.
She opened her mouth, then picked up her beer.
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m drinking,” she insisted. “He was the one I picked. Happy?”
“How long were you together?”
“Uh, we dated for three years and were married for seven. Then we got a divorce, and now I’m here.” She gestured at the moon with her beer.
“That’s it? I gotta say, I hope you write a better story than you tell,” I said finally.
