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“Hey.”
Our eyes meet. His face lights up.
And I think,Oh.
Chapter Twelve
Maverick
Ifeellikeahorrible person for even thinking this, but it’s amazing to be in a house where nobody is in the process of dying. My parents are insistent that I keep up with my coursework, but it’s hard to concentrate at home. I’m constantly listening for the sound of anything amiss with Mom, for the sound of Lilly’s timid footsteps as she comes to me for comfort, for the quiet sobs Dad lets loose when he thinks nobody can hear him. Every room in the house suffocates me.
In Azalea’s house, everything is normal. Everything is fine. I’m both intensely jealous that this peaceful home is not mine and insanely grateful that it’s available for my escape. In the week since I got that phone call from my dad, this is the first time I’ve been able to breathe easy.
Azalea and I study in her room, me at her desk, her stretched out across the bed. She is completely absorbed in her work, the way she always is: fingers flying across her keyboard, color-coded notes in front of her, stray hairs impatiently brushed off her face like the nuisances they are. Every time my own focus slips and my mind begins to wander, I sneak another glance at her to ground myself. I don’t know how or why the mere sight of her is enough to get me back on track, but it works.
There’s a certain word that keeps popping into my head when I think about Azalea. It has been for a while, to be honest; lately, though, it’s been harder to ignore. But I’m not ready to acknowledge it to myself, much less to her. God knows I have enough to worry about right now without adding that to the list. I’m a fucking mess: barely eating, sleeping a couple of hours at a time. Trying to appear strong for my family when inside I’m crumbling to pieces.
I could never be strong enough for her, too.
I’ve held my feelings back for so long because the timing never seemed right. Of fucking course it took until now, when the timing is worse than ever, for me to finally realize that this isn’t a crush that will pass.
I’m in deep, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Azalea glances up, and I realize that my grounding glance has carried on longer than appropriate. “What’s wrong?” she asks, concern clouding her brown eyes.
I swallow guiltily. “Nothing. Sorry.”
She studies me for a few more seconds, then smiles softly. “If you’re sure.”
We pass another hour like that, in the kind of comfortable quiet that nobody feels the need to drown out with words. For the first time in a while, I’m actually fully focused on my work; so absorbed, in fact, that when the front door opens, it startles me a little.
“Zay-Zay!” Azalea’s dad shouts up the stairs. “Is that Maverick’s car in the driveway?”
I tear my eyes away from the sludge of accounting jargon crowding my computer screen and spin around in Azalea’s desk chair. She closes her laptop and sits up on the bed. “Yeah,” she calls back. “We’re doing homework.”
While heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs toward us, Azalea raises her hands above her head. She stretches, arching her back as she does. The end of her braid brushes against her butt, and my mouth goes dry as every lush curve of her torso makes itself known.
“Hey, guys.”
I snap my head toward the man in the doorway, praying I haven’t been caught ogling his daughter’s chest. “Hi.”
Julian keeps his feet in the hall while gripping the doorframe and leaning into the room. I don’t think he noticed where my gaze was a second ago, but only because his eyes are roving from left to right and back again. I know what he’s looking for: evidence that we’ve been messing around.I wish,I think, watching his shoulders relax after he concludes that we have, in fact, just been doing homework. “Hey,” he says again. “Did you guys eat?”
Azalea pushes herself off the bed and crosses the room to give him a hug. “No, not yet. What are we having?”
She doesn’t see it because her face is in his shoulder, but I don’t miss the grimace that crosses Julian’s face just before he drops a kiss on top of her head. “I just came home to change,” he tells her as she pulls away. His voice is gentle, like he’s breaking bad news. “I’m meeting Jess for dinner.”
There’s a heavy pause. “Oh,” Azalea says finally. “Okay.”
Julian gets out his wallet and begins to thumb through it. “Sorry, honey. We planned it before I knew you’d be here all week.”
“That’s okay.”
“Order some pizza or something,” he says, handing her a credit card. “Tomorrow I’ll cook for us. Whatever you want. You pick.”
“Okay.” It’s the third time she’s said it in about twenty seconds, and her voice has grown quieter each time.
Julian looks past her and catches my eye. “How’s your mom?”
