Page 51 of An Uphill Battle

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

28

Drake

Sleepingin 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 everyyear.

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

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

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 thefireplace.

“I think it’s my turn,” Dad says. He presses a quick kiss to his 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 lefttown.

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 tothem.

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

My heart sinks. “Yeah, Dad, metoo.”

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

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

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

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 everyyear.

“Thank y’all,” I tell themsincerely.

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

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

“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 tome.

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

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

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 myface.

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

“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’reready.”

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 sosweet.

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

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 nicethings.

I’m why I don’t haveyou.

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, trulydo.

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