Page 41 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

STUBBORN FOOL

Hazel

My mother’s words stay with me the next morning as I brush my teeth.

Or attack them.

I am hard on myself.

I do beat myself up, judging and berating all the time.

So today, I choose differently. I don’t have to be as hard on my heart as I am on my teeth. I ease up on the brushing, and perhaps I can learn to relent too, on the way I beat myself up over my past.

I finish, then get dressed to head out for the afternoon. I convinced Rachel to meet me for lunch. Once my blouse is buttoned and my hair dried, I quickly Google nearby brasseries.

When I find one named after theFrench word for eat, I burst into laughter.

That name is so similar stylistically to the restaurant where I ran into Axel again in New York the other month—Menu.

I want to tell him that I found another minimalist-named restaurant.

Just like I wanted to tell him about the sweet raccoon wine.

And how I want to tell him about how miserable last night in bed was without him, wrapped around a duvet with no one to steal it from and no one to talk about beets or pistachios or chief foragers with in the morning.

What I remember most about the night at Menu is how I felt when he left. I hated to see him go. I’ve always hated to see him go.

I couldn’t stand it yesterday either.

But soon, I plan to do something about it. To choose differently. I can have a whole new track record with Axel Huxley. A new one that I make with him.

As I trek to Le Marais to meet my friend who’s starting over too, the Parisian summer sun warming my shoulders, I feel like I do when I begin a new story.

There’s a blank page waiting for me to write on it.

I call my sister as I walk the bustling streets of the trendy neighborhood, past boutiques and cool cafés. The second she answers, I say with so much enthusiasm and excitement, “You were right about Axel.”

It’s such a relief and a joy to say those words.

Veronica gasps. “How you wanted to bang him?”

“That and pretty much everything else,” I say, laughing.

I can’t see her, but I know her jaw is dropping. “You and Axel Huxley? That is kind of wild that you fell for him.” She sounds astonished, but also delighted.

There’s no judgment from her either. She doesn’t ask how I made peace with the fact that I used to hate him. She just trusts my decision. Just like I need to trust my own heart.

“I did,” I say.

“So what are you going to do?”

“That’s the question,” I say, but I’m starting to find the answer.

Over olives and cheese, I tell Rachel my revelation. “I think it’s time to leave the past behind,” I say, a little nervous but excited too.

She shudders. “Sounds terrifying.”

“I know.”

“Especially when it’s your own past. Your own issues. Your own hurt.”

I nod. “Exactly. Because I realized I’ve moved past our split. I moved past it days ago. That’s not what I have to let go of. I have to let go of all these old beliefs about myself. But I’m ready, finally. And I think when I see him in New York, I’m going to tell him in the only way I know how.”

“Which way is that?”

I take a breath, meet her friendly gaze. “I’m going to write him a story. And the next time I see him, I’m going to show it to him.”

She smiles, the warm supportive smile of a friend. “Look at you.”

Look at me indeed. One trip through Europe and I’m ready to move past…well, myself.