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She’s standing in the doorway, looking half-afraid. I hate that this is how she’s taken to approaching me. I know I’m being grumpy and sullen; I know she is grieving Mom, too, and needs me to be the big brother she’s always known.
Right now, I’m just not capable of that.
“What’s up?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice light.
“Azalea’s here.”
My heart lurches. I glance into the foyer behind Lilly, but it’s empty.
“She wanted to wait outside while I asked you if she could come in.” Andfuck,that guts me. “Can she?”
I try to think, but my mind is too jumbled. Iwanther to come in, of course I do, but I don’t have any idea what to say to her. “Yeah,” I blurt out. “Sure.”
Lilly smiles, seeming to find some triumph in my response, and heads back to the door. A moment later, her footsteps are ascending the stairs, and I look over to see Azalea making her way down the hall. She catches my eye and gives me a shy smile. I can’t help the way my chest seizes; this is the first time I’ve seen her since the paramedics shoved her out of the way. My eyes sweep over her from head to toe. There are a couple of bandages on her bare legs, but otherwise, she looks like her normal self. “Hey,” I say, trying like hell to sound casual.
“Hey,” she replies. She pushes the door shut and takes a few steps toward the living room, looking unsure. Her eyes rove over me, lingering on the cast that stretches from my ankle to my upper thigh. I see the guilt on her face and I hate it. Stopping in the doorway, she says, “I texted you, to see how you were.”
I sigh. “I know.” Absentmindedly, I turn the TV remote end over end in my lap. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer. It’s just…”
I don’t finish my thought, but Azalea purses her lips and nods anyway. The room falls silent, save for the boisterous voice of a local car salesman emanating from the TV. When the commercial ends and theImpractical Jokersrerun I’m barely watching comes back on, she continues into the living room and perches on the end of the couch, as far away from me as she can get. Her eyes stay fixed on the TV, but my eyes stay fixed on her. “How are you feeling?” I ask. “Dad said you didn’t even need treatment.”
The guilt creeps back into her expression. “I’m fine. Just some scrapes.”
I nod slowly. “Good. I’m glad.” It’s true. I’d give up baseball—and more—for her to be safe. No question.
She stares into her lap. Dark tresses fall over her shoulder, partially blocking my view of her face. I force myself to turn my head back toward the TV. My hands clench into fists in my lap as I resist the urge to reach for her.
The silence stretches out between us for ages before Azalea clears her throat uncomfortably. “Mav, I know you’re going through a lot, and I tried to give you space, but I…I just have to know where we stand right now.”
Even though I knew this question was coming, I don’t have an answer. My mind drifts back to the hours and days before the accident. The trip, the game, the kisses. The gentle exploration of each other’s bodies. Our date that lasted all day. Talking about telling our parents about us. Everything I’ve wanted with her since the moment we met was finally happening.
And now it’s ruined.
As I sit there and stare at her, trying to conjure up the right words to say, I’m overcome with a wave of affection. This is Azalea, who knows me better than anybody in the world. Who has made it her personal mission, at every turn, to ensure that I know I’m not alone. I know that I have to let her down now, and it’s not fair; it’s not what she deserves. But it’s the only choice I have. If I let her get any closer to my emotional wounds and empty future, it will be even worse for both of us later.
This is my fault. I let things get out of hand in Chicago, and now I have to rein them back in.
“Come over here,” I say hoarsely, extending my arm out toward her. Azalea hesitates, but then scoots closer. I tug her into my chest, arms folding around her shoulders. She stiffens. I wonder if this is the last time I’ll ever hold her. “Listen—”
“I know what you’re going to say.” Her voice, wavering slightly, drips with disappointment.
“Just let me say it.” I rest my chin against the crown of her head. If I look her in the face, I’ll break down, so I focus on the geometric-patterned pillow laying on the couch behind her. “I want to be with you. I fully intended to be with you after everything that happened in Chicago.”
“If you say ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ right now—”
“It’s true, though.” I smooth her hair against her back. Her muscles relax and she sags into me. “My life is so fucked up. I can’t deal with something else. Not even something good. I won’t—I won’t be able to be there for you, and I don’t want to push my shit on you anymore. I just know that if we did this, that’s all I’d be doing.”
Azalea begins to blink quickly. She ducks her head, but not before I see a tear escape the corner of her eye. Quickly, she swipes at it with her thumb. “So that’s it,” she says after a beat.
My own eyes are burning. I will myself to remain calm, to keep my voice steady. “I’m sorry.”
“Are we still friends?”
The answer should be easy. It should roll unthinkingly off my tongue, and yet…
I hesitate.
Her muscles turn rigid beneath my hands. She pulls away, scoots back, so that no part of us is touching. Remorse crushes me when I see the crestfallen look on her face. “You don’t even want to be friends with me anymore?”
