An Uphill Battle

by LK Farlow

  “All right, here we are,” our hostess tells us. “There’s a fire extinguisher to your left, and your dessert and beverage basket is to your right. Please ensure that at least two sides of the privacy curtain remain open, for safety reasons. Y’all have a nice evening.”

  Wordlessly, I unroll the blanket I brought and begin setting up our picnic. Once I’ve arranged everything just so, I pull two of the curtains closed before turning to Azalea. “Hope you’re hungry.”

  “Starved,” she replies, her green eyes sparkling in the firelight.

  We both lower ourselves down onto the blanket, and Azalea gasps when she sees the spread laid out before her. Two insulated thermoses of my mama’s white chicken chili, big hunks of French bread, and a premade basket of all the fixings for s’mores, provided by the venue. “Drake, how on earth did you do all of this in less than an hour?”

  “Not gonna lie, Mama D helped. And by helped, I mean she packed the entire picnic.”

  “Well, God bless her, it is perfection.” I feel my heart tug at her words, because she’s right. This is perfect. But then again, everything with Azalea is perfect. Even when we fight, it’s fucking perfect because it’s her.

  We quickly devour our soup and bread in our eagerness to get to the s’mores. Taking charge, I open the basket and examine the contents. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill s’mores. “Bit, you want a regular s’more or a fancy one?”

  “What do you mean, fancy?” she asks, reaching for the box, which I gladly place in her hands. I’m a basic kind of man. I don’t need or want a salted-caramel marshmallow, but it seems right up her alley.

  She sifts through the basket a minute before settling on a French vanilla-flavored one. I spear our marshmallows and hold them over the flame while Azalea preps the graham crackers and chocolate.

  I pull the telescoping forks from the fire and point them toward Azalea, and she sandwiches each crispy marshmallow with the grahams, creating an ooey-gooey mess. I help her slide our desserts from the tines and watch with rapt attention as she bites into her s’more, the pressure causing the melted chocolate to squish out from the sides. I stare as she finishes it off and slowly runs her tongue along her plump bottom lip, trying to swipe away the left-behind chocolate, and thank God, she misses a spot.

  Tossing my s’more aside, I draw her face toward mine. Her eyes widen as I lean in and trace my tongue along the curve of her bottom lip, following the same path she did. “Missed a spot,” I murmur, my voice husky.

  “Did I?” She sounds breathless, and fuck if I don’t love it.

  Leaning further in, I angle her face just so and nod before pressing my lips to hers. Azalea opens for me, greedily drinking down my kiss, oblivious to our surroundings. She shimmies her way into my lap, straddling me, and as much as I’m loving this, as much as I want her, I want more. I want her forever, not just her “for right now.” And not to mention, the sweet little sounds she’s making? Yeah, those are for my ears only, and we’re definitely in public.

  “Damn, Little Bit, slow down,” I whisper, my lips still brushing hers. She pulls back, gazing at me with lust in her eyes, and I decide to take advantage of her momentary bewilderment. “Come to my house for dinner next Thursday?”

  “Mmmkay, sure,” she says before leaning back in for one more kiss. But she pulls away just as quickly, and I know her gears are spinning. “Wait! That’s Thanksgiving.”

  “Sure is.” I grip her hips and hold her to me, hoping the contact will make her more agreeable.

  “You want us to spend Thanksgiving together?”

  “That’s what I said.” I smile, watching her work her way through this.

  “As friends?” I shake my head. “Then as what?”

  “You know. You have to know.” Now it’s her shaking her head. “C’mon, Bit, it’s one night. Give me this one night. Please?”

  Azalea lets out a long exhale, as if she’d been holding her breath. She starts to shake her head no again, but I thread my fingers into her hair, halting her movements. “Give me one good reason why not?”

  We sit there, foreheads pressed together while she tries to invent some reason to say “no” to me, but we both know she won’t be able to come up with one. Not really.

  “Fine, Drake, I’ll come over for dinner on turkey day. But only because Didi is the best cook I know.” It may not be the reason I was hoping for, but a win is a win.

  12

  Azalea

  It’s only been two days since I agreed to spend Thanksgiving with Drake and his family, and I’m already regretting it. But at the same time, I’m giddy at the thought of it. Every bone in my body wants to read something significant into it. I mean, he did say “no” when I asked if he meant as friends, right?

  On our drive home from FIRE, I managed to convince myself that he meant it as more than friends . . . and with that thought pinging around in my brain, our kiss goodnight was hella awkward. I pecked his lips and ran.

  The next day, my thoughts waffled back and forth all day—he loves me, he loves me not. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Which is silly, because let’s be real—that man doesn’t want me. If he did, he surely would have done something about it over the last seven damn years. Nope, Drake Collins wants to have his cake and eat it too.

  But now, as I sweep up the hair from my last appointment, hope sparks in my heart again, because maybe he does want more. Maybe he just doesn’t think I do?

  Ugh, enough already! I’ve been obsessing over this for long enough. It’s high time to call in reinforcements—in the form of my girls. They’ll know.

  “Ladies!” I call out, stepping into the reception area.

  “Yes, dear?” Seraphine calls back in her best ’50s housewife voice.

  “I need to talk to y’all,” I say, lowering myself down into a chair near the front desk.

  “Mmm. Sounds serious. Mags, get your skinny ass up here!” Seraphine yells, her voice carrying through the entire salon.

  “I’m right here! Thank goodness I didn’t ha–have a client.”

  “Yeah, yell much, Seraphine?” I smart, tossing a throw pillow at her head.

  “Hush up. You said you needed to talk to us, and we only have a few minutes before y’all’s next appointments arrive, so quit stalling and spill it, bitch.”

  I take a moment to gather my thoughts, scrubbing my hands up and down my face. “Drake asked me to spend Thanksgiving with him—”

  “Oh my God!” Seraphine screams, her voice shrill enough to shatter glass. “Does this mean what I think it means? Are y’all together?”

  “Myla Rose is gonna be pissed she missed this,” Magnolia adds.

  “Ooh. Good point. Let’s call her!” Seraphine says, whipping out her phone and dialing Myla. After hitting the speaker button, she places the phone face-up on the pillow in her lap.

  “Hey, S, what’s up?” Myla Rose greets in that sweet drawl of hers.

  “Drake asked Azzy to spend turkey day with her. Pretty sure he wants to inject her with his love potion. You’re on speaker.” Magnolia snickers, and I throw another pillow at Seraphine’s head. “Quit throwing shit at me, and say what you wanted to say!”

  “Azalea, did Drake really ask you that?” Myla Rose asks.

  “Yeah, he did.” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, remembering the way he looked at me when he asked—like I was the reason the sun rose every morning. But surely that was my eyes playing tricks on me. Right?

  “And . . .?” Seraphine impatiently demands, tapping her foot against the leg of my chair.

  “And at first, I said ‘no.’ But then he asked again, and I asked if he meant as friends, and he said ‘no,’ and I’m so confused.”

  “I’m sorry, but what exactly are you confused about, sister-girl?” I smile at the frustration in my best friend’s voice.

  “Well, Myla Rose, I’m confused about what it means.” Magnolia stays silent, shaking her head from side to side. But Seraphine? She explodes.

  �
��You big idiot! That man loves you, and if you keep giving him the runaround, he’s gonna move on.”

  “No. No way. Drake sees me as a friend. That’s it.”

  “Sweetie,” Myla’s voice comes through, eerily calm. “I’m gonna say something, and I’m not saying it to be mean. I’m saying it because I love you like a sister.” I grip the arms of the chair I’m sitting in so hard that my knuckles are white. “Seraphine is right. Drake loves you. He adores you. That man thinks you walk on water. The tension between the two of you is so thick and suffocating that everyone around y’all can feel it.” I start to talk over her, but she keeps on going. “No, you listen to me, you stubborn girl! I know all about y’all’s past, and I know he hurt you, and don’t forget you told me what happened when y’all were planning my shower. Stop deluding yourself, and stop letting your fear rule you. I put myself out there, and it was fucking terrifying, but, Az, I’m living proof that the risk is so worth the reward.”

  “Ugh. I hate when you’re right,” I tell her, hanging my head in defeat.

  “HA!” Seraphine exclaims at the same time Myla Rose says, “Bye, Az, trust your gut!” The bell on the door dings, and Seraphine stands, dropping both of the pillows I threw at her into my lap before retreating to the front desk to greet the client that just walked in.

  “Hey, Azalea?” Magnolia says, and I look her way. “Drake seems like a good man, and I know good from bad firsthand.” I want so badly to ask her more about that statement, but Seraphine interrupts us.

  “Mags, Simon is here for his haircut.”

  Wagging my brows at her, I sing, “Speaking of a good man . . .” But she just ignores me and walks with him to her chair.

  Later that night, I’m lying in bed, still thinking about the Drake thing when my phone rings. I scramble to answer it, thinking it may be him. I deflate slightly when I see my mom’s name flashing across the screen, which makes me feel like crap. My mom rocks.

  “Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing, dear. I just wanted to make sure you were still going to bring those yeast rolls I love so much to lunch on Thursday?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s not Thanksgiving without Sister Schubert in attendance,” I say, and we both laugh. “But I won’t be able to stick around to watch It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  “Why on earth not?” she asks.

  “Um, well, I’m eating dinner with Drake and his family,” I tell her, preparing for an outburst, only to be met with silence. Stunned, stark silence. “Mom? You there?”

  “Yeah, baby, I’m here. You just surprised me, that’s all. So, you and the Collins boy finally pulled your heads out of your—”

  “MOM!” I yell. “It’s just dinner. As friends. I think.”

  “You think? Hmph. You think wrong, Azalea Josephine. That boy is your lost sock.”

  “He’s my what?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean.”

  “No, Mom, I really don’t.”

  “You will, baby girl, you will. We’ll see you around noon on Thursday?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Love you.”

  We disconnect the call, and I drift off to sleep with thoughts of turkey and Drake and socks swirling around in my brain.

  13

  Drake

  “Drake, son, could you get the door?” I hear Mama D yell from the kitchen.

  “Already on it,” I yell back, opening the door, only to be struck dumb by the sight of Azalea on the other side of the threshold. She looks like something out of a dream, with her long blonde hair tamed into loose, tousled waves and her makeup a little heavier than usual, but still light.

  But what really gives me pause is what she’s wearing. Her sweaterdress hugs her body like a second skin, and her boots come up to just over her knees, leaving a sexy-as-sin flash of leg below the hem of her dress.

  Lifting a fist to my mouth, I bite down to keep her from seeing the need clouding my face. I probably should’ve told her we did things real casual around here, but I’m damn sure glad I didn’t, because . . . fuck.

  “Hey, D. Can I come in?”

  “God, yes! So sorry. Got distracted,” I tell her, clamoring to get out of her way. I watch her intently as she breezes past, admiring the curve of her ass as she walks toward the kitchen. My perving is interrupted by the sounds of Mama D’s squeal at the sight of Azalea.

  “Oh, sweet girl, come give me a hug!”

  “Hey, Mrs. Collins—”

  My stepmom looks at Azalea like she slapped her. “None of that, dear. You know better. Call me Didi. Or better yet, Mama D.” She winks. I sigh. Azalea shrugs her shoulders. Thankfully, Dad walks in and breaks up the awkwardness.

  “Do my eyes deceive me? Are there two beautiful women standing in my kitchen on the second best eatin’ day of the year? Son, we musta done somethin’ right!” So much for dear old Dad cutting the tension.

  “Oh, now, Mr. Daryl, you hush,” Azalea says, wrapping him in a hug. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen y’all. Thank you for having me.”

  “It’s been too darn long,” my dad says, just as Didi tells her, “You’re welcome here any time.”

  “Thank y’all so much.” Azalea beams as she rubs her hands together. “What can I do to help?”

  “Not a single thing. You just go on out and have a seat, and we’ll get everything brought out.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure.” Didi shoos her away, and after two trips each, Didi, Dad, and I get everything brought out.

  Lowering myself into the seat next to Azalea, I take in the feast before me—roast turkey, sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, cornbread dressing, cranberry sauce, and then some.

  “Drake, would you lead us in saying grace?” Didi asks, holding her hand out to me.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I join hands with her to my left and Azalea to my right, winking at her before bowing my head. I lead us through a short prayer, and then we all dig in.

  Dad clears his throat and trains his attention on Azalea. “Did Drake tell you our Thanksgiving tradition?” Azalea’s mouth is full, so she simply shakes her head. “We go ’round the table, and we each say something we’re thankful for. I’ll start this year.” Dad pauses to take a huge bite of dressing before continuing. “This year, I’m thankful for our crops and all the peanuts we yielded last harvest. What’re you thankful for, Didi?”

  “We certainly are blessed, Daryl. This year, I’m thankful for good health.” I tear up a bit at Mama D’s words. We had a small scare last year with a lump in her breast. Thankfully, it was benign. “What are you thankful for, Drake?”

  “I gotta say, this year, I’m thankful for the view.” I deliver my statement with my eyes locked on Azalea, leaving no room for her to misinterpret my words. “What about you, Bit?”

  She looks around nervously, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. Her silence seems to stretch on forever when she finally blurts out, “S’mores! I’m thankful for s’mores.” She looks down, seemingly embarrassed by her outburst.

  “S’mores, huh?” Dad asks, and it’s like I’m stuck in some out-of-body experience. Like watching a car crash—you can’t stop it, but you can’t look away.

  “Yes, sir. Drake took me to FIRE earlier this week, and it was just magical.”

  Dad nods his head, like he totally agrees. “When Kelly came by ramblin’ on about it, it piqued my interest and—”

  Azalea drops her fork, the sound of it hitting her plate ringing in my ears like an alarm. Danger! Danger! “K–Kelly? As in . . .” Her voice trails off as her eyes well with tears.

  I reach for her hand, and thank God, she lets me take it. “Yeah, that Kelly.” No sooner are the words out of my mouth, than she’s yanking her hand from mine. “Azalea, it’s not what—”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Collins—" Sniffle. “Thank you for this meal. Y’all have a—” Sniffle. “N–nice night. I have to go.” Right as her tears spill over, she turns and runs from the room, her boots clomping against the wooden floor with ever
y step.

  “Azalea, wait!” I holler after her, but she just keeps on toward the door, not even bothering to look back.

  For a few seconds, Didi, Dad, and I sit in a stunned silence. At least until we hear the front door slam shut. Then all hell breaks loose, with both of my parents trying to talk over one another. Finally, Didi shoots Dad “The Look,” and he quiets down so that she can speak. “Drake, what on God’s green earth was that?”

  I scratch my head, debating how to answer her question. “That was . . . a train wreck.”

  “That’s a given, son,” Dad says. “As much as Didi and I would like to know what in tarnation just happened, you need to go after her!” I sit there, processing his words, and he shouts, “Go on, now! What’re you waitin’ for?” His raised voice spurs me into action, because Fuck! What am I waiting for?

  Shoving my chair back from the table, I take off after Azalea. I throw open the front door, and my heart clenches at the sight before me—Azalea sitting in her car, tears and mascara trailing down her cheeks.

  She sees me and cranks the engine. “Azalea!” I shout, sprinting the short distance from the door to her car. “Please, listen to me, please!” She shakes her head. “Goddamn it, woman!” I pound my fist against her window, causing her to jump. “Please.” My voice cracks. “Just roll down the window and listen. I’m fucking begging.”

  I offer up silent thanks when she rolls her window down. But she doesn’t give me a chance to speak. No, she lights right into me. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice? No. You know what? Still shame on you, Drake Collins. You’re as cold-hearted as they come!”

  “Please just wait—”

  “Wait? Wait for what? Wait for Kelly to walk in again? How ’bout not? I’ve learned my lesson, twice over now. Every single time I think we could have something, freaking Kelly James comes along and ruins it!”

  I stand there, silent, not knowing what to say to fix this mess of a misunderstanding. Taking my silence as a confirmation of my guilt, she throws the car in reverse and peels out of my driveway, leaving me full of regret.