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I nod and slide one hand across the countertop. “Deal?”

She wipes the tears on her face and smiles brightly, placing her hand in mine and firmly shaking it. “Deal.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hazel

My mind is still reeling from Levi’s offer. It seems too good to be true, but…after the year I’ve had, I need some good in my life.

My stomach swirls with nerves at the thought. What if I’m not good enough? What if, after all this, I still can’t go pro? And it would have nothing to do with my financial situation, but everything to do with me. Can I really do this?

I hear bits and pieces of Levi’s conversation with someone on his team. He’s no doubt already setting everything up for the pro-am. I’m giddy thinking about it, but everything has happened so fast, and I don’t trust the feeling.

I’m on the verge of spiraling, so I take a page out of Rosie’s book and call in sick. I need a day to myself, to unpack—literally and emotionally—and make a plan, like Levi suggested.

Hazel

So much has happened. I need to talk to you. In person.

Rosie

Is everything okay?

Hazel

Taking a sick day but maybe I can come over tonight?

Rosie

Of course! I’m sorry I bailed on you the other day.

Hazel

Don’t worry. I’m glad things are going well with Ezra.

Restlessness and anxiety take turns messing with my nervous system all morning. I take a break from unpacking to grab another glass of juice. The kitchen is unnaturally quiet without Levi.

I feel like an intruder in his house, tiptoeing to the fridge, unsure about the unspoken rules of crashing here. A long, almost mournful meow sounds from somewhere behind me and I jump, startled. One of Levi’s cats—Gus, I think—sits on top of the kitchen island.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to be there,” I whisper to the cat.

He meows and pins me with his yellow eyes. He’s an all-black cat with soft-looking fur. I reach out a hand, and he gives it a tentative sniff, but he inches back when I try to pet him.

“I’m sorry, I won’t touch you without your permission, Mr. Gus,” I say in a silly high-pitched voice. I’ve never had pets growing up. My mom always said she was allergic, although I never really believed her. She grew up on a farm in Michigan; there’s no way she was allergic to both cats and dogs.

Gus sits up and motions at the fridge with a paw. I narrow my eyes and open it to find…well, not much.

“Huh,” I say to myself. There are some condiments, although not many—a jar of mayo, some ketchup and mustard, a jar of pickles. There are fruits and veggies separated in single bags. I assume they are portioned for smoothies or protein shakes.

“Oh, what’s this?”

I open the bottom drawer to find a selection of cheeses and meats. Does this man only survive on adult Lunchables and smoothies? What the hell?

Grabbing a meat stick, I go to close the fridge when I notice a container of soup. I look at the handwriting on the lid that says borscht.

Borscht, like the beet soup? Huh.

I close the door with a frown and unwrap the meat stick, realizing I’d completely forgotten about the orange juice I’d gone in there for. I peek back into the fridge but any. We must have finished it earlier.