An Uphill Battle (The Southern Roots Series Book 2)

by LK Farlow

  “Oh, sister-girl, I told you this was a cockamamie plan.”

  “Not really the time for an ‘I told you so.’ Is there any way you could come over?”

  “Of course. Lemme tell Cash he’s on baby duty, and I’ll be right there.” I hear her holler for Cash as she ends the call. I crank my ignition and head home, ready for the comfort my best friend will bring.

  I make it home with just enough time to strip out of my stupid red lingerie before tossing it in the trash and throwing on some baggy sweats and one of Drake’s old T-shirts.

  “AzzyJo, come on down. I’m here,” Myla Rose calls out as she lets herself in.

  Trudging down the steps, I make my way to where she’s curled up on the couch, and I cuddle up next to her. “God, I’m so pathetic, Myles.”

  “Oh, Az. You’re not pathetic, just misguided.”

  “I don’t get it. What do I need to do differently?”

  “Everything. Absolutely everything. The physical is the easy part with y’all. But you need to find a way to show him you’re all in. Your mind and your heart and your body. Anything less, and you’ll lose him. For good.”

  Her words bring little comfort, because I’m not sure how to do that—how to give him that. I’m pretty sure my ability to love fully was broken a long time ago. It flew out the window, along with all of my romantic fairy tale notions the minute I found out where I came from and how I was brought into this world.

  I relay these thoughts to Myla Rose and she pats my head. “Your mom found a way to move forward. Now, it’s your turn. Sink or swim, sister-girl. The choice is yours.”

  Sink or swim. When it’s put like that, there really isn’t a choice at all.

  27

  Azalea

  Christmas is a big to-do in the Barnes household. There’s not a single inch of my mother’s home left undecorated. From the hulking eight-foot tree that looks straight out of Southern Living, to the elf hand towels in the half-bath, Beverly Barnes goes all out. Which I guess I should be thankful for, because if anything, it’s a distraction from the hot mess my love life has become.

  “Azalea, could you please grab the rolls from the oven?” Mom asks as she whips the potatoes to fluffy perfection.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I tell her, donning two oven mitts.

  “You ever plan on tellin’ me what happened with Drake?”

  “Do we have to get into this tonight, Mom?”

  She huffs at me as she begins carrying food over to the buffet that sits behind the dining room table. “Sweetie, I’ve been worried about you.”

  Sighing, I tell her, “You have nothing to be worried about.”

  She huffs at me again and holds up her index finger. “One,” she begins counting, “you cancelled our last dinner. Two, you haven’t been by the house as much. Three, you sound on the verge of tears almost every time we talk. Four, last I heard, you and Drake were trying to give this a go and now, nothing. Five, this new attitude of yours didn’t start until we ran into him and the brunette at dinner a few weeks ago.”

  By the time she’s finished, she’s holding up all five fingers on her left hand and her cheeks are red. “So, don’t tell me I don’t have anything to be worried about when my ball of sunshine suddenly transforms into a rain cloud.”

  I groan and drop down into a chair, watching out the window as Pops fiddles with the turkey fryer. “Mom, can I ask you a question?”

  She wipes her hands on her apron before taking the chair next to me. “Of course.”

  “How . . . how did you get over Dad?”

  Mom blinks at me a few times before asking, “Whatever do you mean, Azalea?”

  I take a deep breath. “I mean, when did you stop hating men?” She looks affronted at my words, so I rush to continue. “For so long, all I ever heard you say was that men are nothing but liars and cheats. And then one day, Pops came along, and it was like everything was better. You quit crying all the time and you quit hollering at the TV every time there was a sweet scene. You just one-eightied.”

  “Oh. Oh, Azalea, sweetie.” She reaches out and takes my hands between hers. “I didn’t realize you were listening all those times. I didn’t realize you . . . oh. I’m so sorry, my sweet girl.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. You don’t have to apologize. I just want to know how you did it. How you moved forward. How did you learn to trust again?” I don’t realize I’m crying until Mom reaches up and wipes my tears away with her thumbs.

  “I spent so long being bitter after your father’s lies came to light. I was angry and hurt, and I am so sorry that I put that on you. It was never your burden to carry, Azalea. But there is no trick. I didn’t magically stop hurting. It still hurts some days. The only thing that changed was me. I realized there was more to life than him and that in a way, maybe it was a blessing. Maybe it was the universe’s way of giving me you while keeping me from him.

  “Things were ugly, and I was bitter for so long, but meeting Herbert really helped change that. He showed me that not all men were like your father. He showed me compassion and love and kindness. And the minute I saw him with you, how patient he was with all of your pre-teen snarling, I just knew there was more to life, and it was up to me to either stay in the past or to open my arms wide to the future and all it had to offer. Now, let me ask you a question. What does any of this have to do with Drake?”

  “It’s a long story,” I tell her, dropping my head into my hands.

  Mom glances at the clock on the wall. “Well, Pops said the turkey wouldn’t be finished until one, so you have fifteen minutes. Spill.”

  I give Mom the condensed version, starting with our first kiss at Jake Bishop’s party all the way to me showing up at his house last night, and all the gory bits in between. By the time it’s all out in the open, I feel lighter.

  “My darling girl,” Mom says, once again wrapping her hands around mine, “I could tell it the very first time I met Drake that he loved you, and, sweetie, I’d be willing to bet my life that he still feels the same.”

  “I know he does. I just don’t know how to convince him that I do.”

  “Well,” Pops booms, scaring us both. “From what I’ve heard—”

  “How long have you been there listening?” I ask, cutting him off.

  “Long enough. Now listen up. You kids these days, with all this technology mumbo-jumbo have lost the ability to communicate. You need to talk to him, Azalea. The old-fashioned way. And if you don’t think you can get it out in words, write him a letter. Not a text. Not an email. Not a Face-whatever message. A pen and paper letter. Tell him, plain and simple, exactly how you feel.”

  “Look at you, all wise Pops.”

  “Damn straight. Now, let’s eat!”

  After we eat, I leave my parents’ house inspired and refreshed, ready to set to work on a new plan to secure my future with the man I love. I drive straight to my apartment, forgoing my usual Christmas Eve trip to Dream Beans for one of their famous, only-available-one-day-out-of-the-year, peppermint white mocha hot cocoas.

  Because Drake Collins is more important than chocolate. He’s more important than anything. Everything. And it’s high time he knows it.

  28

  Drake

  Sleeping in my childhood bed sucks. It’s cramped and leaves me stiff and aching, but it’s so worth it when Didi’s face lights up with a smile bigger than the Grand Canyon when I pad out into the living room decked in the Christmas pajamas she gets every year.

  Yes. I’m a grown-ass man whose parents buy him Christmas pajamas. Deal with it.

  “G’morning, sleepyhead. Coffee’s brewed,” she tells me from her spot on the couch next to Dad.

  I nod my head at her and make my way into the kitchen, where I pour my coffee, taking two big gulps before topping it off and heading back to the living room. “Who’s gonna be Santa this year?” I ask, settling into the recliner next to the fireplace.

  “I think it’s my turn,” Dad says. He presses a quick kiss to hi
s wife’s cheek before standing from the couch and walking over to the tree. He makes quick work of dividing the gifts into piles. One for Didi. One for me. One for him. We usually have one for Brent as well, but he and Kelly went out of town this year—he wanted their first Christmas as an engaged couple to be memorable—so we gave him his gift before he left town.

  As Dad begins passing us the gifts in our pile, I notice there are two packages left under the tree. “Hey, who are those for?” I ask, gesturing to them.

  “Oh, uh, those are for Azalea, son. We had high hopes that she’d be joinin’ us.”

  My heart sinks. “Yeah, Dad, me too.”

  “Well, it never hurts to wish for a Christmas miracle,” Didi says, her voice upbeat.

  I nod to appease her, not wanting my relationship drama to dampen her Christmas spirit.

  “Okay, Drake, what did Santa bring you?” Didi asks, wiggling a little in her seat.

  Glancing up at her, I notice her and Dad exchanging the briefest of looks. Wonder what that’s about. “Let’s see,” I tell her, carefully unwrapping the first of three gifts. The first package contains the customary four plaid flannels my parents get me every year.

  “Thank y’all,” I tell them sincerely.

  “Don’t stop now,” Didi urges. “Keep going. What else did Santa get you?”

  “It looks like Santa got me a—” My words die in my throat when I see the contents of the package.

  “Well, c’mon, son. Out with it. Don’t leave us hangin’,” Dad says, like he doesn’t already know exactly what I’m holding—a small box with the key to our upstate cabin. It’s something that wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but it’s the place Dad got down on one knee and asked Didi to marry him. It’s where they said their vows. And it’s where they go every year on their anniversary. It’s sacred to them, and they’ve never in my life offered it up to me.

  “It looks like Santa got me . . . a weekend at the lake house. Maybe I’ll take Simon or Kasey.”

  “Maybe you should open the next box,” Didi says, ignoring me altogether.

  I do as she says, tearing at the red plaid paper, to reveal a cardboard box. “Go on,” she encourages. Lifting the lid from the box, all that’s inside is an envelope with my name written across it in Azalea’s familiar loopy handwriting. I hold it up, inspecting it like I’m half-expecting it to blow up in my face.

  “What’s this?” I demand, my face hot and my pulse thrumming.

  “Open it and find out, son. We’ll give you some privacy,” Dad says as he helps Didi up from the couch. “Join us in the kitchen whenever you’re ready.”

  Slowly, I run the tip of my index finger under the flap of the envelope to break the seal. As soon as it’s open, her peaches-and-cream scent invades my nostrils, and damn, it’s so sweet.

  Even slower, I unfold the letter, bracing myself for whatever it may say. But nothing could’ve prepared me for its contents. Nothing at all.

  Dear Drake,

  I’ve really managed to make a mess of things, haven’t I? Then again, what’s new? I’m why we can’t have nice things.

  I’m why I don’t have you.

  I’ve spent so much time being bitter and hurt and angry over the past that I was blind to the future you were trying to offer me. But I see it now, Drake. I really, truly do.

  I see now that all those times you said you loved me, you meant it as more than a friend. I see now that what I tried so hard to convince myself was no-strings fun was you trying to speak the only language I’d allow you to communicate in.

  So this is me, coming to you and laying myself bare in your language.

  I love you, Drake Ulysses Collins. From head to toe, top to bottom, inside and out, I love you. I’m ready now for what you’ve been trying to offer. I’m ready to commit to you in every way I can, and I’m willing to do anything to prove it.

  You’re my heart. My soul. My very reason to breathe.

  If you think you can find it in your heart to forgive me and to give me one last chance, meet me on New Year’s Eve at your family’s cabin.

  Love always,

  Your Little Bit

  P.S. If you don’t show, I understand, but I really, really hope you do.

  I read the letter two more times, my unsteady hands causing the paper to shake. I can hardly believe what it says. A Christmas miracle, indeed. Folding the note back, I slide it into the envelope and then into my pocket. As lame as it sounds, I don’t want to let it out of my sight. Like somehow, it won’t be real anymore if I can’t go back and reread it, again and again.

  Which I totally do, because holy shit, she finally gets it!

  29

  Azalea

  “Wanna meet me for lunch?” I ask Myla Rose over the phone. “We can hit up some after-Christmas sales too.”

  “Gah, I wish I could. We’re about to head over to Jake’s. Cash built the twins a fort, and they want him to come over and play with them. Swear, he’s a giant man-child.”

  I laugh, because she’s right. He so is. “That’s fine. I just wanted to ask. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. So, what’s going on with Drake?”

  “Mama D says he got my letter. But I haven’t heard anything else. So, I guess we’ll know in five days.” I sigh loudly into the phone. “Five days, Myla Rose. How on earth am I gonna make it that long?”

  “Girl, beats me. I’d be a mess.”

  “I wonder what Seraphine and Mags are up to? Maybe they’ll—”

  Myla Rose cuts me off. “Don’t bother. They’re staying close to home. Mr. Reynolds’s health is going downhill, and fast.”

  “Crap. Have you talked to them? Do they need anything? I’ve been so consumed with my own mess that I’ve been a really crappy friend.”

  “You aren’t a bad friend, AzzyJo. And yes, I talked to her last night. They’re all set. Just want to spend a bit of extra time together.”

  “I get that. Oh! I know!” I yell into the phone. “I’m gonna post on Facebook that I’m taking appointments tomorrow, Thursday, and Friday. Limited slots. That’ll keep me busy.”

  “Good plan, sister-girl. Heck, I might even send you Mrs. Keeler. She was telling me her husband has an office party on the twenty-ninth!”

  “Myles! Yes! That’s perfect. Okay, posting now! Now, I just need to find a way to keep myself occupied today.”

  “You know what? Meet us at Jake’s. You know he won’t mind.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am. See you in an hour or so.”

  Wednesday and Thursday bleed into each other, almost feeling like repeats. Wake up, worry. Get ready, worry. Go to the salon, worry. See three clients, and worry in between them. Come home, worry. Force down some food, worry. Fall into a fitful sleep—over and over again.

  And today’s not any better. No, if anything, it’s worse. My mind is moving at warp speed through a million different scenarios. What if Drake just laughed at my letter? Maybe I should’ve asked him to meet me sooner. What if he doesn’t show? Or what if . . .

  It’s endless, and aside from playing with Cash’s nephews on Tuesday, my only reprieve has been going to work or sleeping, and since I decided to only open for partial days, I’ve been doing a lot of sleeping.

  Extra sleep or not, I’m still dragging ass this morning. I stumble through my morning routine, skimming it down to only the basics—messy bun, concealer, and ChapStick—before heading out the door in search of more caffeine, which is a double-edged sword if there ever was one. I’m already a hot mess from nerves. Add caffeine, and good Lord, I’ll be a jittery, trembling nightmare.

  I pop into Dream Beans before heading into work, ordering the biggest iced latte they have. The first sip hits my tongue, and I sigh. It’s so, so good and just what I need to make it through the day.

  Myla Rose’s client, Mrs. Keeler, is my final client for the day, and she breezes in at a quarter to four. “Happy almost New Year’s, Azalea dear. Listen, is there any way at all we co
uld add on a glaze today? My hair is just dull and humdrum, and you know how these busybody housewives are. If I don’t look my best, they’ll start circling my Harold, and that just won’t do.”

  It takes everything in me not to laugh at sweet Mrs. Keeler. God bless her. Her husband, Harold, is well into his sixties and sort of resembles a beardless Santa Claus—AKA, no housewives will be circling. But if it makes her feel better, who am I to deny her? “Of course. Head on back and change into a smock, and I’ll meet you at the shampoo bowl.”

  I dampen and pre-treat Mrs. Keeler’s hair before applying the glaze. Once her hair is completely saturated, I cap her and sit her under the dryer. “I have my timer set for twenty minutes. Would you like a drink or a magazine?” I ask her.

  “I would love some water, and no, thank you to the magazine. I have my Kindle handy and a date with a sexy Irish bartender who’s full of Troubles.” This time, I do laugh at her, but only because I know exactly which book she’s talking about, as I read it recently as well.

  “Yes, ma’am. Enjoy that Aidan,” I tell her as I walk to the dispensary to get her a bottle of water. I’m bent over the fridge when I hear the bell on the front door chime. “Who the hell could that be?” I mumble as I straighten up and head back to Mrs. Keeler.

  I scan the salon but don’t see anyone. “Must’ve been the wind,” I mutter to myself. “Here ya go. You have about eighteen minutes left. Holler if you need me,” I tell her before walking toward the front desk.

  My steps come to a stumbling halt when I hear voices coming from our waiting room. Cautiously, I peek around the partition that separates the two areas of the salon, only to catch sight of the last two people I want to see, ever. What in the hell are they doing here?