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My chest aches. Ineedto make myself part of the right choice for her, no matter what that might be.
“I’m going to take care of my shit,” I tell her. “And in the meantime, I want you to apply to all the pharmacy schools you like and pick the oneyouwant to go to. Wherever you go, I’ll be right behind you.”
Azalea presses her lips together. “Maverick.”
“Azalea.” I lean down, putting my face right in her line of sight. “You can try all you want, but you’re never getting rid of me.”
“I’m not trying.”
“Then decide where you’re going,” I say, “and then let me know so I can pack for the right weather.”
She shakes her head, but I can tell she’s trying not to smile. Pushing herself up onto her tiptoes, she presses her mouth to mine, quick and hard and just a little dirty. “Can we go now? It’s cold.”
“You want me to warm you up?”
“Yes, please.”
Someone else might have missed the undercurrent of desire in her demure response, but I don’t.
Suddenly anxious to get the hell out of here, I reach past her and pull open the passenger door. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Azalea
“Zay-Zay,”Dadyellsupthe stairs. “Can you come down here?”
I scowl into my bathroom mirror. I consider myself to be a fairly agreeable person—sometimes to a fault, I’ve been told—but today, I’m struggling.
A while ago, Dad asked me if I would be okay with having Jessica and Heath over for Thanksgiving. I had pushed aside the voice in my head that screamedabsolutely notand agreed.
Then I met Marie.
I learned that Dad spent my childhood lying to me—isstilllying to me.
And instead of gathering the courage to confront him, I’ve stayed silent. I’ve visited and talked to him on the phone like normal, but I haven’t voiced any of the many questions that have been keeping me awake at night. I haven’t told him about Marie or Kansas City. I haven’t even told him that I’m dating Maverick.
I’ve managed to hide in the bathroom for a solid ninety minutes, devoting far more time to my hair and makeup than I normally do, but it’s clear that my time is up. I fluff my hair over my shoulders and stare into the mirror. With the heavy eyeliner and thick foundation covering my face, I don’t even look like myself.
“Azalea!” Dad calls again. “Did you hear me?”
“I’m coming!”
I tromp downstairs, where he’s waiting with his arms crossed. His eyebrows hike halfway up his forehead when he sees me, but he doesn’t comment on my appearance. “Most of the food is ready,” he says, “if you could start setting the table.”
“Wait,” I say, pausing on the bottom step. “You cooked everything by yourself?”
“Jess helped since you were upstairs getting ready,” he says, and it feels like my heart is ripping in two. Even though it’s my fault, even though Iknewhe was down here cooking while I was upstairs avoiding his girlfriend, the realization that Dad and Jess, not Dad and I, prepared Thanksgiving dinner is a punch in the stomach.
“What about the potatoes?” I ask, my voice small. One of my earliest memories is sitting on the counter of our house in Colorado, Dad’s hands over mine as we mashed the potatoes together. It’s been my job ever since.
“They’re done, honey.” He grimaces. “I didn’t think—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupt because it should be. He did call up to let me know that he was getting started, and I ignored him out of pure spite. It was childish, and I’m being childish now. “It’s fine, Daddy. I’ll go get the table ready.”
I walk into the kitchen and find Jess standing at the counter, dumping the potatoes into a serving dish.
It really wasn’t hard to replace me. Not at all.
