by LK Farlow
She answers on the first ring, all but singing into the phone.
“Good mornin’, Myla Rose.”
“A–Azalea.” My voice trembles with fear and uncertainty.
“Are you okay? No, don’t answer that. I’m on my way, sweet girl.” She hangs up before I can even respond.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here. Could’ve been just minutes—or maybe hours—when I hear my front door unlatching.
“Myla, I’m here,” Azalea calls out.
“In my room,” I call back, my voice hoarse from crying. I hear her shuffle into the room, and I can only imagine how pathetic I look with my tear-stained cheeks and matted auburn hair curled up in a ball on my bed. Azalea, though, doesn’t even blink at the sight before her. She just kicks off her shoes and snuggles in behind me, offering silent comfort.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “Myla Rose, you wanna tell me what’s got you in such a tizzy?” I don’t even bother to respond. I just point to the damning little stick. “Oh, sweet girl, it’ll be okay. Have you talked to Taylor?”
I shake my head. “No. Not yet. You’re the first person I thought to call.”
“Okay, it’s okay. Just call him. Tell him you want to meet and talk. He’s—”
“AzzyJo, I don’t even know if he wants kids. We’ve never talked about the future! Hell, I can hardly get him to commit to a date these days.” I can feel myself starting to panic.
“I know y’all’s relationship is still new, but you've known him forever. Plus, what’s done is done. He’ll either man up and help you raise this baby or he won’t, simple as that. One thing I know for sure—you’ll be right as rain either way.”
Her words are like a balm, and she’s right—I can’t change the past. It is what it is. Maybe he’ll be a good dad. Maybe he’ll love this baby. Only one way to find out.
3
Myla Rose
Seeing no sense in delaying the inevitable, I grab my cell and dial Taylor. It goes to voicemail. So, I hang up and call him again. Voicemail. Now, I’m not the kind of girlfriend who goes all crazy when her man doesn’t pick up, but I really need to talk to him before I lose my damn nerve. I try his number one more time. He declines the call, sending me once again to voicemail. You’ve reached Taylor Mills. Sorry I can’t take your call right now . . . I drown out the rest of the recording and leave a message after the beep.
“Hey, Tay, I know you’re really busy with school, but if you could call me as soon as possible, I’d love it. I have some stuff . . . just call me, ‘kay?”
“He didn’t answer?” Azalea runs her fingers through my messy hair, pulling the tangles free as she goes.
“Nope. Guess all there is to do now is wait.”
“Myla Rose, I know this is tough and unexpected, but sister-girl, this isn’t you.”
I open my mouth to defend myself but close it just as quickly. She’s right, this isn’t me. “You’re right. I got myself into this, and even if it sucks, I need to own it. Also, I need to call the doctor.” I pale at that realization, and Azalea notices.
“It’ll be okay. They have laws and ethics and oaths. That's the last thing you need to worry about."
"You really think so?"
"I know so. The law is the law. Now, go on and give them a call. I'll be right here with you."
I Google the number to the OB-GYN's office and tap the Call button. My stomach churns with each ring. After the third, the automated greeting picks up.
Thank you for calling Dogwood Obstetrics and Gynecology. Please listen closely, as our menu has recently changed. I wait for the recorded voice to tell me the number to press to speak to the receptionist.
After a few more rings, it connects. "This is Tina, how may I help you?"
"Yes ma'am, hello. I just got a p–positive pregnancy test. So, I was calling to make an appointment."
"First day of your last period?"
"Um, maybe right before Christmas?"
"Okay, so due in September. You don't need to come in until you're eight weeks. Dr. Mills can see you February thirteenth at eight A.M. Does that work for you?"
"Yes ma'am, that'll be great." I disconnect the call and make note of the appointment in my calendar.
"Well?" Azalea asks.
"Apparently, I don't go until I'm eight weeks. So, next month, just before Valentine's Day."
"Huh. Guess you learn something new every day. Do you want me to come with you?"
"As much as I'd love it, we can't both take off."
"True. Well, maybe Taylor will want to go with you." She sounds a hell of a lot more hopeful than I feel.
"Thanks for rushin' over. I think I'm gonna lie down for a bit," I tell her as I crawl under my fluffy duvet.
"Always, Myles. Anytime and every time." She draws the covers up to my chin and plants a kiss on my forehead before showing herself out.
I wake to the sound of my phone alerting me to a missed call. From Taylor. I bolt upright, hitting Redial.
"Good God, Myla Rose. Three missed calls—is the world ending?" The irony of his words isn't lost on me.
"No, Tay, just need to talk to you."
"You wanted to talk, so you called me three times, back-to-back?" His voice has this tone to it. I can't quite put my finger on what I'm hearing, but I don't like it.
"I–I'm sorry. Like I said, I know you're busy. But if we could meet up—soon—that'd be really great."
"How soon?" I can hear his eye roll through the phone. This attitude of his is getting worse and worse every time we talk. This isn't the boy I crushed on all throughout middle and high school.
"I was hoping within the next day or two."
"Jesus," he mutters so quietly that I might have imagined it. "I guess meet me for brunch tomorrow. But I won't be able to stay long. I need to study."
"See you—" He hangs up before I even finish my sentence.
The following morning, I sleep through my alarm, favoring the Snooze button instead. I fly through getting ready, throwing on the first dress I see. It's a pale mint maxi with a scoop neck and long sleeves. Perfect for brunch. I quickly twist my long hair into a braid, swipe on some lip gloss, and rush out the door.
I fly into the diner at 10:45, fifteen minutes late. I instantly spot Taylor. He's seated right where he always sits, in the back left booth.
"Hey, Tay! Sorry I'm late," I tell him as I slide into the booth across from him.
"Are you, Myla Rose?"
"Am I what?"
"Sorry. Are you sorry?" He steeples his fingers together and rests his chin on them.
"Of course. Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"
"I just figured you'd be on time, with how much you went on and on about us needing to talk." I really hate the way he's speaking to me. Like I'm somehow less than him.
"Taylor, it was fifteen minutes. The world's still spinning. Can we move on to more pressing matters?"
"Right, because my time isn't pressing."
I have to bite down on my cheek to keep from snapping at him. This holier-than-thou shit isn't gonna fly with me. "Taylor, listen. I don't know what crawled up your ass, but put it on hold, ‘kay?" I don't dare take my eyes off him. When he nods his agreement, I continue. "Good. Now, look. I need to tell you something—"
"Well, out with it, then," he says in a bored tone.
Deep breath in. Here goes nothing . . . "I'm pregnant."
"And you think it's mine?"
"Excuse me? I know it's yours."
"You know? How?"
"Taylor, you're the only person I've been with."
"Have you even been to the doctor?"
"No, I go on the thirteenth."
He scoffs. "So, you might not even be pregnant."
"No, I'm pregnant. And it's yours," I tell him, my voice firm.
"Look, it's fairly obvious we're not on the same page. We aren't . . .” he pauses. “This has been fun. But that's all it's ever gonna be. And having some brat call me 'Dad' isn't my idea of
fun. We weren't serious—you have to know that."
"Wait. What?" My words come out raspy, and my eyes shine with tears, but I refuse to cry in front of him.
He cracks his knuckles, like he's prepping for a hard hit or two. "This" —he gestures between us— "was only ever meant to be a bit of fun, a good time now and then. Sowing my oats. You're just not a 'forever girl', Myla. And I really don't even want kids."
"Tay—"
"Sorry," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry, not even a little. "You should go."
"What would your mother say if she could hear you right now?" I say as I rise from the booth. I almost laugh at the absurdity of my question. His mother would probably be proud—because that tone I couldn't place earlier . . . it's all Kathy Mills.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to investigate. Like a devil summoned, there stands Mrs. Mills, her face as pinched as ever. "If I could hear what, Ms. McGraw?" She shuffles past me and arranges herself into the seat I was just in.
"Mother, Myla here was just informing me that she's . . .with child."
Mrs. Mills entire body tightens. "Are you now? And my Taylor needed to know why?"
"Because he's the father," I tell her honestly. Some stupid part of me is holding out that the thought of becoming a grandmother will make her knock some sense into him.
She looks down her nose at me. "Oh, Myla Rose. You poor, poor thing. You're certainly turning out to be just like your mother."
I suck in a breath through my teeth. The nerve of this woman. I'm done playing nice. Finished.
Leaning down, I press my palms into the end of the table top. "Well, I'm sorry y'all feel this way. A baby is always a blessing, and I've got this with or without you, Taylor Mills. Not only will I raise our baby on my own, I'll thrive while doing it." Taylor makes to interrupt me, but I stand to my full height and place my hands on my hips, silencing him with a sharp look. "If there's one thing my Grams has taught me, it’s that from shit, flowers grow. So, y'all can sit back and watch me fucking blossom."
4
Myla Rose
I'm going on almost two months of little-to-no sleep. At first, I was heartsick over the way things ended with Taylor. It wasn’t so much that he only saw me as a fling. I mean, did it hurt my pride? You bet. Did it break my heart? Maybe, a little. But nothing hurt more than the fact that he was trying to act like he wasn't this baby's father. His mother's willingness to play along is a whole ‘nother story.
I moped and moped over the fact that my little bean would never know its daddy until Azalea whipped me into shape with a "What would Grams say if she could see you now?" That girl knows just how to get to me. Thank God.
Now, it's morning sickness keeping me awake. Morning sickness, my ass—I swear the son of a bitch who thought up that name had a perverse sense of humor. After spending all night throwing up, I would kill for five more minutes of sleep, but beauty calls.
I’ve got back-to-back clients at the salon today, with none other than Kathy Mills to start me off. “Thinks she’s so much better than me . . . sure loves the way I do her damn hair though.” I bitch and grumble as I kick back the covers and head for the shower.
As the hot water and suds wash away any lingering nausea, my mind wanders. I imagine a different future for me and my little bean. In my mind, we’re a family of three instead of two. I'm not still hung up on Taylor. I just wish like hell my baby had a daddy who loved him—or her, but I'm hoping for a boy—a daddy who would coach his T-ball team. A daddy who would read him bedtime stories and take him camping. If only . . .
“Ain't no sense in wallowing, Myla Rose. Pull up them bootstraps, girl,” I chide myself, just like Grams would’ve done.
I guide my car into a parking spot in front of Southern Roots, the salon I own with Azalea. With a quick check of the time, I see that I'm earlier than I thought, so I pop into Dream Beans, Dogwood’s local coffee shop.
It’s a cozy little place, with stained concrete floors covered in gorgeous Oriental rugs, mismatched antique furniture, and funky industrial lighting.
I step up to the reclaimed wood bar to order, hoping that caffeine will knock out that last bit of sluggishness my shower missed.
“Good mornin’. Whatcha drinking today?” Hazel, the barista, asks with a small smile.
“A large coffee with room for cream,” I tell her through a yawn.
As I’m pulling out my wallet to pay, I hear a hushed voice behind me. “Well, my goodness, drinking coffee while pregnant. Hmph.” I glance over my shoulder as Mrs. Mills continues griping to herself. “A good mother would never subject her baby to anything that could cause harm.” God bless it, I swear she thinks the sun comes up just to hear her crow.
I look back to Hazel, roll my eyes, and move down the counter to fix up my coffee. I take a sip of the steamy beverage and release a dramatic sigh as I make my way to the door. I pause as I pass Mrs. Mills, look her dead in the eye, and take another big gulp of coffee.
"Now, Mrs. Mills, I figured you'd know that expectin' women can have up to two hundred milligrams of caffeine a day, what with your husband being an obstetrician and all." With a big fake smile and a wave, I continue on my way out the door. I pause once more, holding the door with my hip, and call over my shoulder, "Looking forward to your appointment, as always."
I hop across the street to the salon, fighting my frustration with every step. That woman knows just how to push my buttons—always has—and now I have to spend the next two hours with her. I should have just kept my mouth shut, but who the hell is she to judge me? I roll my shoulders back and crack my neck before heading into the salon. “Mornin’, y’all.” I greet Azalea and Seraphine—our receptionist—trying my hardest to check my attitude at the door.
“Good mornin’ to you too, Myla Rose. Wanna tell me about that sour look you’re wearing?” Azalea asks, her perfectly arched brows dipped in worry.
“Nothin’ major. I just let Mrs. Mills get under my skin.”
“Well, bad news then,” Seraphine interjects. “She called to say she was gonna be late.” Her dark chocolate eyes asses me, waiting to see my reaction. These pregnancy hormones have made me a tad more emotional than usual.
“Great. Of course she is.” I fume, angrier than a wet cat. "Obviously, I have nothing better to do than wait for Kathy fucking Mills to finish her coffee. Now my entire day is going to be one big game of catch up." Azalea and Seraphine both look at me with sympathetic expressions.
With a huff and a few more muttered curses, I set to work pulling foils and gathering the color I’ll need for her hair—she never changes it. Apparently, consistency is key.
By the time she arrives, I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes. Seraphine walks her to my chair, and without a word, I get straight to work applying her color.
“Myla Rose, aren’t you going to ask me what we’re doing today?” She turns her head, causing the lightener on my brush to almost miss the foil.
“Damnit,” I hiss under my breath. “Did you want to do something different, Mrs. Mills?” I struggle to keep my annoyance to myself. I glance up, and AzzyJo’s brilliant green eyes catch mine in the mirror. She shoots me a look that screams calm down, Myla.
“No, but I may have, and that is my point.” Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard. Doesn’t she know that self-righteousness is an ugly color?
“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Mills. I apologize." My cheeks ache from holding my oh-so-fake smile. All of my smiles around this woman are fake.
You’d think knowing her most of my life would dull her effect on me, but nope. I’m not that lucky. If anything, with age, she aggravates me more. After all, she’s had damn near ten years to learn the best way to get under my skin. We fall into a somewhat comfortable silence after our little exchange. Thank God.
I’m roughing a towel through her wet hair when she clears her throat to get my attention. “Myla Rose, did you hear about Taylor—”
“NO!” I all but shout. Every damn tim
e she comes in, she tries to update me on her son's life. It’s like some sick form of punishment.
She was delighted to tell me when he transferred from our local community college to the big state university—full academic scholarship, at that. And in her very next breath, she told me all about his new girlfriend. A respectable girl, with a good pedigree and the right kinda family. What is she, a dog?
Swear to God, it feels like she plans her color services with me around his life events. “Please spare us both and just don’t go there, 'kay?”
Switching on my blow dryer, I let the noise drown out any response she may have had. I finish styling her hair to Southern Blonde Perfection—the higher the hair, the closer to Heaven, y’all—and she is finally out the door and on her way.
I’m finishing up my last client of the day when I hear the door to the salon chime, and I’m suddenly hit with the strongest perfume ever. What fresh floral hell is that?
Throwing my hands over my mouth, I dash to the restroom. There’s that morning sickness again. Yeah, smells trigger it too. Go figure. After washing my hands, popping a mint, and fixing my smudged makeup, I hold my breath and make my way back to my station. I sweep my eyes across the salon and slowly release the breath I was holding. Whoever it was must have left because I don’t see anyone other than Azalea.
“Myla Rose! My goodness, are you okay?” she inquires in that sweet Southern drawl of hers.
“I’m fine,” I say as I rinse my color bowl in the sink. “Don’t you worry about me. Dr. Mills says morning sickness usually only lasts the first trimester. So, it should be on its way out the damn door.”
I step back over to my station, gathering my things while simultaneously working up a plan to tell Azalea that I’m flaking out on our plans for the night. “AzzyJo, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She cuts her eyes at me, and they blaze like emeralds. Such a contrast to her pale hair and tanned skin.
