An Uphill Battle

by LK Farlow

  “Hear what?” I ask. She holds a finger over her lips in the universal Shh sign, and we both fall silent.

  Three seconds later, I hear the sound of the baby monitor crackling, followed by Brody’s whimpering. Azalea starts to stand, but I pull her back down to the couch. “Stay, I’ve got him.”

  I dart up the stairs and into Brody’s room just as he starts to really wail. “Shh, Little Man, Uncle D’s gotcha.” He quiets immediately when I scoop him up from his crib and snuggle him close to my chest. “You need a diaper change, huh, dude? C’mon, let’s get you dry.”

  Softly, I lay him down onto his changing table, where I swap out his soiled diaper for a clean one. “That’s better, huh, B? All fresh and clean so we can go see your aunty A.” I lightly bounce him, patting his bottom as he rubs his nose into my cheek. “She’s the prettiest girl I know. You’re lucky to have her as an aunt, kiddo.”

  He lets out a soft little coo, and I know that’s his way of agreeing. “Yessir, she’s the most amazing woman Uncle D knows. She’s smart and thoughtful and maybe even a little crazy, but that’s what I love about her the most. She’s got this spark—this fire—and it makes me crazy in the best way.” He coos again, and I continue. “One day, you’re gonna find a girl who makes you crazy, and when that day comes, you’ll do everything in your power to keep her, because that’s how you know she’s the one.”

  With a fresh diaper and some life advice tucked away in his little brain, we head back down the stairs. When we round the corner into the living room, I notice Azalea is looking at me all kinds of weird. “You good?” I ask her as I lower Brody and myself down onto the couch.

  “Mmm, fine.” I cringe at her use of the dreaded F word. Fine. What a crock of shit.

  It’s then that I notice she’s clutching the baby monitor in her hands.

  Aw, hell.

  5

  Azalea

  Hearing Drake’s words over the monitor has my heart beating so hard I’m worried it may very well beat right out of my chest. All this talk about love and keeping has me feeling faint.

  Combine that with the image of him walking into the room, cradling Brody in his arms? Yeah, my ovaries went into overdrive, pinging around inside me, screaming This could be ours!

  I know he can tell I’m far from fine, but praise be, he doesn’t call me on it. No, instead, he reclines back into the corner of the couch and lays B-Man on his chest, looking every bit like all my fantasies come to life.

  Drake Collins is the perfect male specimen. He’s finer than fine, smart, hard-working, and funny as hell. But seeing him with a baby? Yeah, it’s pretty much game over.

  “For real, you okay, Little Bit?”

  I release a long sigh before answering him. “Yeah, I am. I mean it. Can I hold Brody now?”

  “’Course you can. Here.” He wiggles a bit and moves them into an upright position so that I can move the baby from his arms to mine. Once Brody and I are settled on our end of the couch, much in the same position they were just in, Drake grabs my ankles and pulls my feet into his lap.

  “What’re you doin’?”

  “Foot rub,” he deadpans.

  “Right, but why?”

  “Damn, you’re difficult. I think the better question is, ‘Why not?’”

  I’m fully prepared to remind him of my inappropriate touching rule, but the words die on my lips the minute I feel his thumb press into the arch of my foot. “Ohh, that feels so good.”

  Drake merely grunts in response, and I allow my eyes to fall closed as he continues massaging my tired feet.

  Sometime later—minutes, maybe hours—I blink my eyes open and realize that I must’ve fallen asleep. I jump up like I’ve been slung out of a slingshot when I realize Brody is gone. He’s no longer snuggled up on my chest.

  I call out his name . . . like he’ll answer. Obviously, he doesn’t, and my panic increases. Where is Brody?

  I haul ass up the stairs and into the nursery. Still no Brody. My entire body starts to tingle, and not in a good way. I leave Brody’s room and make my way to the guest room, where I’m met with the most amazing sight I think I’ve ever seen.

  Drake is curled up on top of the covers in flannel plaid pajama pants and a white tee, with Brody swaddled in a blanket next to him, surrounded by a pillow barrier.

  My heart.

  My brain.

  My ovaries.

  They can’t handle this. Nope, not one bit. So, I gingerly move Brody from Drake’s side and into his crib. I’m about to head back down to the couch when I hear Drake call my name, his voice rough from sleeping.

  “Yeah?” I ask him from the doorway.

  “Where you going?”

  “Back down to the couch.”

  “Naw, girl, come on.” He stands from the bed and pulls down the covers, and I head to him and crawl into the bed with no argument. If he wants to take the couch, that’s fine by me.

  I pull the plush down comforter up around me and watch as Drake leaves the room. I close my eyes and push my head into the pillow, trying to find that sweet spot, and I’m just drifting off when I feel the bed dip. “Whaa—”

  “Shh, Bit, go to sleep.”

  “Here? With you? I thought you were gonna take the couch…”

  He holds an object up, and with the light of the moon filtering in through the blinds, and the little green light blinking into the room, I can tell it’s the baby monitor. “Now, why would I sleep on the couch when there’s a perfectly nice bed up here? Close your eyes and go to sleep. Brody will want to eat soon.”

  Drake pulls me into him, bringing us chest-to-chest, and he slides his leg between mine so that we’re completely tangled up. Then he presses a kiss to my forehead and once again tells me to sleep, rendering me mute and unable to argue.

  Plus, not gonna lie, this feels really nice.

  As I drift off to sleep, thoughts of Drake ping around in my mind, as they often do, and unfortunately for me, my brain settles on one of my least favorite memories as I succumb to sleep.

  “You can do this, it’s not a big deal,” I tell my reflection, assessing my appearance. Tonight is too important to not look perfect. Too bad the girl looking back at me isn’t buying what I’m selling.

  Sure, my dress is to die for. Short enough to make a preacher cuss, and tight enough to push together the little ant bites I call my tits. My long blonde hair is flat-ironed to perfection, not a flyaway in sight. My eyes glimmer with gold shadow, and my cheeks are a perfect peach to match my juicy peach-glossed lips. Yeah, I look the part. It’s my brain that’s not falling in line.

  Thankfully, my heart is calling the shots tonight, and it’s steadily screaming to my brain, “You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.” My heart sings the refrain again and again, and I’m just desperate enough to believe it . . . to believe that I’m ready to claim my man.

  All this time, from the moment I first saw him, he’s made my heart flutter, and Christ on a cracker, it pisses me off. Because behind those good looks of his, Drake Collins is an ass.

  Well, not really. Myla Rose says we’re like fire and gasoline—that we bring some kinda something out in each other. She says the only reason I’m so prickly is because I like him. And she’s right. I do like him. A lot. So much that I’m not sure how to handle it, so I end up being a bitch, and then he’s a dick. Wash, rinse, repeat.

  But I mean, what right does he have to be so good-looking and charming and witty? What right does he have to make me want him when he’s constantly holding me an arm’s length away? I see the glimmer of want in his eyes every time he looks at me, and tonight’s my chance to make him see how good we could be together. Tonight’s the night we both stop denying. Tonight’s my last chance before he leaves for college.

  Ready or not, Drake Collins, I’m coming for you.

  “AzzyJo, how much longer till you’re ready? Simon just texted me that he’s ready.”

  “Hush up, I’m ready.” I step out of Myla Rose’s
bathroom and into the hallway, where I do a little spin. “So, whatcha think?”

  Myla blinks back at me, taking in my risqué outfit. “Well, I think . . .” She pauses, twiddling her thumbs. “You look like you belong on a pole.” She cringes the moment the words pass her lips, but I just smile.

  “Perfect. Just what I was goin’ for!”

  “I don’t understand you, not one bit.”

  “You love me though!”

  “That I do, sister-girl. Now, you better cover up. Grams will fall over dead if she sees you lookin’ like a prosti-tot!”

  “A prosti-tot?”

  “Yeah, an underage prostitute.” We both crack up, laughing until tears stream down our cheeks.

  “Damn it, Myles. Now I gotta fix my makeup. Can’t go lookin’ like a raccoon.”

  “’Kay. Well, Simon just texted me again. He’s here. Hurry down!” she says before darting down the stairs to kiss her Grams bye.

  I shrug on a long coat before darting down the stairs behind her, because she’s one hundred percent right. Grams wouldn’t let me step foot outside dressed like this. She’d sit my ass down quicker than two shakes of a lamb’s tail, call my mom, and then the both of them would lecture me for days on end about decorum, and modesty, and not giving the milk away for free.

  And I get where they’d be coming from. I really do, and normally, I’d agree. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And my God, am I desperate for that boy. Or I guess, man would be the more appropriate word. Because at six foot four, Drake is every bit a man, even if he is only eighteen.

  “Bye, Mrs. McGraw,” I call out as I make my way to the door, not waiting for her reply or giving her a chance to catch a glimpse of what I’m not wearing.

  “What time’s our curfew?” I ask Myla Rose as I slide into the back seat of Simon McAllister’s old, beat-up, rust-bucket Chevy.

  “I told Grams we were gonna be home around midnight. She said as long as we’re with Simon, it’s okay.”

  “Wonderful,” I tell her before turning my attention to the shaggy-haired boy driving us. “And, how’re you tonight, Sim?”

  “Ready to get outta this hell hole. How’re you?”

  “Ready for a good night. Drake’s gonna be there, right?”

  “Sure is. He’s bring—”

  “Nope.” I hold up a hand in the dark cab of the truck. “That’s all I need to know.”

  “If you say so, but don’t say I didn’t try—”

  “Seriously, Simon. As long as he’s there, I’m good. He and I need to talk.”

  “You sure got a thing for cuttin’ people off, don’tcha?”

  The disgruntled silence I offer back is drowned out by Myla’s howling laughter.

  The drive from Myla’s to Jake Bishop’s, our party host tonight, is so short that she’s still laughing when Simon parks his truck at the end of a long line of cars. Judging from the looks of things, the party’s in full swing.

  I climb out of the back seat and immediately shed the knee-length coat I was hiding under. “Azalea, wanna explain why you’re wearin’ a trench coat in the middle of summer?” Simon calls to me from the other side of his vehicle.

  Stepping around to the front of the truck, I show him my outfit. “This is why.”

  Simon’s eyes just about bug out of his head. “You sure about this, Az?”

  “Abso-freaking-lutely.”

  “Imma say it again—don’t say I didn’t warn you about Drake.”

  “Okay, Grandpa, thanks for the warning,” I tell him as I link my arm with Myla Rose’s. “Now, let’s get our party on!”

  Our short walk from the street to the front door is hampered by my ridiculously high heels, but with Drake being so much taller than me, they seemed very necessary when I was formulating this plan. Now? They’re a nuisance. I’m one ankle-roll away from a broken neck.

  Once we’re inside, I spend a few minutes in the kitchen with Myla and Simon, though I’m not listening to a word they’re saying. No, I’m watching—waiting—for Drake.

  It’s not long before I catch sight of his trademark royal-blue shirt with his family’s farm logo splayed across the back. “See y’all later,” I call out to my friends, not waiting for their reply.

  I follow behind Drake, all the way to a spare bedroom. Convenient. Very convenient. He pulls the door to behind him, and I take a few seconds to steel my nerves. “You can do this. You can do this!”

  I push the door open and find him seated on the bed, propped up against the headboard, one booted foot on the bed and the other planted firmly on the ground.

  “Hey, ba—Azalea . . .?”

  “H–hey, Drake. Can we talk?”

  “Sure, Bit, come on in,” he says, patting the spot next to him. I crawl up the bed, trying my hardest to look sexy, and nestle into his side. He wraps me in a tight hug, and I breathe him in. Irish Spring, grass, and sunshine. It’s a heady combination, especially to my teenage brain.

  “I’m glad you’re here tonight,” I tell him, trailing my index finger up his tanned arm. “I have something to tell you.”

  “Do you, now?” he asks, looking down at me through hooded eyes. Nodding my head, I bite my bottom lip, hoping like hell I’m coming across as seductive and not psychotic.

  “Mmmhmm. Wanted to tell you that I’d miss you this fall.”

  His eyes drop to my mouth. He licks his lips. “Oh, yeah?” His voice is rough, like sandpaper. “I’ll miss you too.” He reaches out and pulls me closer, so close our bodies are almost touching.

  “Wanted to give you something to remember me by,” I tell him, eliminating the distance between us by sealing my lips to his.

  He’s unmoving at first, and I’m terrified I’ve misread him. I flick my tongue against his lower lip, begging for entry, and he groans, giving me my way. Our tongues meet, and I can’t help the moan that slips from my mouth to his.

  “Goddamn, Little Bit,” he pants into my mouth, rolling us so that I’m pinned under him, with his glorious arms caging me in. “You feel what you do to me?” He grinds himself into me. “What you’ve always done to me?”

  “Oh, God, Drake—” The sound of the bedroom door opening causes us both to freeze.

  “Occupied!” Drake growls out.

  “D–Drake?” a feminine voice calls out.

  “Oh, shit. FUCK!” Drake jumps back from me so fast that I barely have time to process what’s happening. “Babe, I . . . FUCK!” he shouts again.

  “Babe?” I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. “What’s going on, Drake?”

  He drags his left hand down his face before clearing his throat. “Bit, this is Kelly, my—”

  “His girlfriend,” Kelly supplies.

  “YOUR WHAT?” I shriek, horrified by the turn of events. “You kissed me when you had a girlfriend?”

  “No! We’re not . . . she’s not . . . not officially . . .” Drake stammers, tripping over his words, searching desperately for a way to make this right, but there’s no fixing this. Drake Collins isn’t the man for me, after all. Turns out he’s a no-good, cheating, lying dog.

  “Oh, I’m not?” Kelly yells. “Because you sure seemed to be singing a different tune the last couple of weekends.”

  “Goddamn it, Kelly!” Drake makes like he’s going to reach for me, and I scramble out of his reach. “Little Bit, listen to me, please.”

  “There’s not a thing you can say that’ll change what just happened here.” With big, fat, angry tears rolling down my cheeks, I march past Drake, past Kelly, and straight out the door. I hear him shout my name, followed by the sound of Kelly reaming him out before the noise of the party drowns them out.

  Sometime later, I wake to the sound of my own pathetic whimpering mingled with Brody’s cries coming through the monitor. Shaking off the dream—or should I say nightmare—I wiggle out of Drake’s hold and head to the kitchen to make a bottle before grabbing Brody and settling us into the rocking chair in the corner of his room.

&
nbsp; As he sucks his bottle down like it’s his last meal, I allow myself to fall back into memories from that night. I can recall it so vividly, like it happened only yesterday and not almost six years ago.

  Weaving my way through the partygoers, I search for Myla Rose’s fiery mane of hair. I ignore the stares people are shooting my way, finally finding her in the kitchen with Taylor Mills.

  He’s got her and two other girls all hanging on his every word, paying them each just enough attention to keep their interest. “Myles,” I croak out, causing her to jump up and rush over to me.

  “What happened?” she asks, inspecting me from head to toe.

  “I just wanna go.” Those are the only words I can manage without turning into a blubbering mess.

  Myla Rose doesn’t ask any questions. She just wraps me in her arms and holds me. “C’mon, sister-girl, let’s go. I’ll text Simon to meet us at the truck.”

  We wait several minutes for Simon to emerge, and when he does, he wastes no time reminding me that he tried to tell me.

  “Wish I woulda listened,” I tell him, my voice raspy from crying.

  “What happened?” Myla Rose asks, twisting around in the passenger seat to face me.

  “I really, really”—my voice breaks, and I hate it—“don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Did someone hurt you?” Myla demands to know, and I can’t help but smile. She looks as innocent as anything, but make her mad, and you’ll see just how feisty she can be. “Want me to kick someone’s ass?”

  Even though I’m sad and humiliated, I crack up at her question. Simon does too. Myla Rose is all of five foot nothing and probably only weighs one hundred pounds soaking wet.

  “Nah, it’s not worth it. Love you, Myles.”

  Brody’s popping the bottle from his mouth breaks the spell and brings me back to reality. The reality in which Drake and I are sharing a bed while never sharing our hearts. Hefting Little Man up onto my shoulder, I quickly coax a burp out of him, and after a quick diaper change, I have him re-swaddled and back in the crib his daddy built for him. The amount of work and detail Cash put into that crib is breathtaking. It really speaks to his love for Brody and Myla Rose . . . the kind of love I hope to have someday.