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“Fuck, Azalea.” I band my arms around her waist to pull her tighter against me. It’s like the oxygen has disappeared from the air. I need her close so I can breathe. “I can’t even explain how much I missed you.”
She lifts her head, and her eyes flick down to my lips. I wait, breath in my throat, praying with every fiber of my being that she’s about to close the gap between us.
But then she takes a half-step back, forcing me to loosen my grip on her body. I look into her face and my heart sinks. I know what she’s going to say before she says it.
“We have to go back to the way things were,” she says softly. “Before Chicago.”
It’s a knife to the gut, but I know I’m the reason we’re in this position. Hell if I’m not going to take whatever she offers me and be fucking grateful for it. “Okay. Yeah.”
Our eyes meet. Hers shine with sorrow, and in that moment, I know we’re both mourning what almost was.
“You’re still my best friend,” she says.
I tip my head down so that our noses brush together. Just barely. Just for a second. “You’re still mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Azalea
OnSaturdaymorning,Maverickarrives to pick me up right at seven. It’s a good four hours before Callie will even consider getting out of bed, and she won’t think twice about finding the apartment empty when she does. My heart is already pounding as I walk to Maverick’s car. I’m still in disbelief that I actually found my mother, that I’m going to talk to her. Today.
I wonder if, when I return to this apartment tonight, I’ll be the same person as I am right now.
Maverick smiles at me when I open the passenger door, and my stupid heart gives a little kick. I guess it’s going to take a while for that reaction to go away. “Hey,” he says as I place my purse at my feet and tug the door closed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m going to vomit,” I say truthfully.
“Better keep your finger on the window button, then.” The quip draws a smile out of me as I buckle my seatbelt. “Do you want to stop for breakfast? Or coffee?”
“No. I couldn’t eat.”
“An empty stomach might make it worse.”
“Maybe later,” I say noncommittally.
“Okay. Just let me know when.” He puts the car in reverse and twists to look behind us. His hand falls onto the back of my seat, thumb brushing my shoulder, and I subtly move away from his touch before it sets me on fire.
It’s strange how comfortable things are between us after nearly five months of distance. In a lot of ways, it’s like Chicago never happened.
Except that it did. Maverick’s slight limp is a painful reminder, and so is the way I’ve lost the ability to be around him without a visceral reaction in my body. The latter isn’t painful, per se, but it is disconcerting to have these feelings when it’s me who has decided we should go back to being just friends. He may have agreed quickly, but I didn’t miss the disappointment in his eyes when I brought it up.
Maverick puts on a playlist of soft rock that we both like—we last listened to it together on the way to Chicago, I realize with a pang—and aside from the music, the drive is uneventful and quiet. I watch out the windshield as the landscape around us becomes more and more sparse, mind wandering, knot sitting heavily in my gut.
We are well south of Des Moines, firmly in corn field country, when Maverick wordlessly exits the highway and pulls into a gas station. His jaw is tight as he parks next to a pump, and I know we’re both thinking about what happened the last time we needed gas.
Not wanting to hang around in the parking lot and dwell on the memories, I go inside the store to use the restroom. Inside the cramped single stall, visibly dirty and strewn with loose toilet paper, I scrub my hands thoroughly. The mirror reveals bags under my eyes, redness in my cheeks, and a nest of flyaway hairs framing my face.
We’re about halfway there now. The temptation to go out to the car and tell Mavericknever mind, let’s turn around, is strong.
I stare hard at the mirror, look myself in the eye, and shake my head. If I go home now, I know I’ll hate myself later.
Maverick is waiting for me outside the bathroom, holding an energy drink and a cellophane bag. “Do you need anything?”
“Just a bottle of water.”
I grab it and meet him up front. He takes the bottle from me, places it on the counter, and pays for everything.
In the car, I crack open my water and take a few sips. Maverick pops the top on his energy drink and does the same. Then he takes a glazed donut out of the bag and breaks it in half. “Here,” he says, holding one piece out to me.
