It’s only been two days since I agreed to spend Thanksgiving with Drake and his family, and I’m already regretting it. But at the same time, I’m giddy at the thought of it. Every bone in my body wants to read something significant into it. I mean, he did say “no” when I asked if he meant as friends, right?

On our drive home from FIRE, I managed to convince myself that he meant it as more than friends . . . and with that thought pinging around in my brain, our kiss goodnight was hella awkward. I pecked his lips and ran.

The next day, my thoughts waffled back and forth all day—he loves me, he loves me not. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Which is silly, because let’s be real—that man doesn’t want me. If he did, he surely would have done something about it over the last seven damn years. Nope, Drake Collins wants to have his cake and eat it too.

But now, as I sweep up the hair from my last appointment, hope sparks in my heart again, because maybe he does want more. Maybe he just doesn’t think I do?

Ugh, enough already! I’ve been obsessing over this for long enough. It’s high time to call in reinforcements—in the form of my girls. They’ll know.

“Ladies!” I call out, stepping into the reception area.

“Yes, dear?” Seraphine calls back in her best ’50s housewife voice.

“I need to talk to y’all,” I say, lowering myself down into a chair near the front desk.

“Mmm. Sounds serious. Mags, get your skinny ass up here!” Seraphine yells, her voice carrying through the entire salon.

“I’m right here! Thank goodness I didn’t ha–have a client.”

“Yeah, yell much, Seraphine?” I smart, tossing a throw pillow at her head.

“Hush up. You said you needed to talk to us, and we only have a few minutes before y’all’s next appointments arrive, so quit stalling and spill it, bitch.”

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, scrubbing my hands up and down my face. “Drake asked me to spend Thanksgiving with him—”

“Oh my God!” Seraphine screams, her voice shrill enough to shatter glass. “Does this mean what I think it means? Are y’all together?”

“Myla Rose is gonna be pissed she missed this,” Magnolia adds.

“Ooh. Good point. Let’s call her!” Seraphine says, whipping out her phone and dialing Myla. After hitting the speaker button, she places the phone face-up on the pillow in her lap.

“Hey, S, what’s up?” Myla Rose greets in that sweet drawl of hers.

“Drake asked Azzy to spend turkey day with her. Pretty sure he wants to inject her with his love potion. You’re on speaker.” Magnolia snickers, and I throw another pillow at Seraphine’s head. “Quit throwing shit at me, and say what you wanted to say!”

“Azalea, did Drake really ask you that?” Myla Rose asks.

“Yeah, he did.” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, remembering the way he looked at me when he asked—like I was the reason the sun rose every morning. But surely that was my eyes playing tricks on me. Right?

“And . . .?” Seraphine impatiently demands, tapping her foot against the leg of my chair.

“And at first, I said ‘no.’ But then he asked again, and I asked if he meant as friends, and he said ‘no,’ and I’m so confused.”

“I’m sorry, but what exactly are you confused about, sister-girl?” I smile at the frustration in my best friend’s voice.

“Well, Myla Rose, I’m confused about what it means.” Magnolia stays silent, shaking her head from side to side. But Seraphine? She explodes.

“You big idiot! That man loves you, and if you keep giving him the runaround, he’s gonna move on.”

“No. No way. Drake sees me as a friend. That’s it.”

“Sweetie,” Myla’s voice comes through, eerily calm. “I’m gonna say something, and I’m not saying it to be mean. I’m saying it because I love you like a sister.” I grip the arms of the chair I’m sitting in so hard that my knuckles are white. “Seraphine is right. Drake loves you. He adores you. That man thinks you walk on water. The tension between the two of you is so thick and suffocating that everyone around y’all can feel it.” I start to talk over her, but she keeps on going. “No, you listen to me, you stubborn girl! I know all about y’all’s past, and I know he hurt you, and don’t forget you told me what happened when y’all were planning my shower. Stop deluding yourself, and stop letting your fear rule you. I put myself out there, and it was fucking terrifying, but, Az, I’m living proof that the risk is so worth the reward.”

“Ugh. I hate when you’re right,” I tell her, hanging my head in defeat.

“HA!” Seraphine exclaims at the same time Myla Rose says, “Bye, Az, trust your gut!” The bell on the door dings, and Seraphine stands, dropping both of the pillows I threw at her into my lap before retreating to the front desk to greet the client that just walked in.

“Hey, Azalea?” Magnolia says, and I look her way. “Drake seems like a good man, and I know good from bad firsthand.” I want so badly to ask her more about that statement, but Seraphine interrupts us.

“Mags, Simon is here for his haircut.”

Wagging my brows at her, I sing, “Speaking of a good man . . .” But she just ignores me and walks with him to her chair.

* * *

Later that night, I’m lying in bed, still thinking about the Drake thing when my phone rings. I scramble to answer it, thinking it may be him. I deflate slightly when I see my mom’s name flashing across the screen, which makes me feel like crap. My mom rocks.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing, dear. I just wanted to make sure you were still going to bring those yeast rolls I love so much to lunch on Thursday?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s not Thanksgiving without Sister Schubert in attendance,” I say, and we both laugh. “But I won’t be able to stick around to watch It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Why on earth not?” she asks.

“Um, well, I’m eating dinner with Drake and his family,” I tell her, preparing for an outburst, only to be met with silence. Stunned, stark silence. “Mom? You there?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m here. You just surprised me, that’s all. So, you and the Collins boy finally pulled your heads out of your—”

“MOM!” I yell. “It’s just dinner. As friends. I think.”

“You think? Hmph. You think wrong, Azalea Josephine. That boy is your lost sock.”

“He’s my what?”

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

“No, Mom, I really don’t.”

“You will, baby girl, you will. We’ll see you around noon on Thursday?”

“Yes, ma’am. Love you.”

We disconnect the call, and I drift off to sleep with thoughts of turkey and Drake and socks swirling around in my brain.