[Southern Roots 01.0] Coming Up Roses

by LK Farlow

  After damn near ten minutes of awkward silence, I give up on waiting her out. “Azalea Josephine, what gives?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she inquires with all the charm of a debutante. She even bats her lashes at me.

  “Puh-lease, sister-girl. Take that shit somewhere else.”

  “Okay, fine.” She inhales deeply, and with all her words running right together, she blurts, “ImighthavesleptwithDrake!”

  “Huh?” I must have misheard her. Because there is no way she did what I think she said.

  Another deep breath. “I slept with Drake. And it was amazing. And I loved it, every second. It was a one-time thing, and it’ll never happen again. So, how was your night?” Her smile is tremulous, at best, and her tone brokers no room for negotiation.

  “Last night was a shit-show,” I deadpan. She raises a brow at me, silently saying please continue, Myla.

  So I do. “It started out really, really good. He was such a gentleman, opening doors for me and walking with his hand at my back. He took me to Cotton, and the food was delicious. Like, oh-my-God good. We even ordered the same thing, and we shared a dessert. We talked about the baby, and Az, he seemed so interested and not at all put off by it. And he told me about his ex, and it just seemed like this could maybe lead to more one day.” I sigh, thinking back on how amazing dinner was.

  “I’m missing the bad part . . .” Her words cause my smile to drop, an ugly scowl taking its place.

  “The bad part is what came after dinner."

  I lean back harder into my pedicure chair and use the remote to ramp up the massage before releasing a long, drawn-out sigh.

  “Okay, so we left Cotton and the drive back was fine. And by fine, I mean I was a hot damn mess on the inside. He not only helped me into the truck—he also buckled me in. I know, it sounds absurd, but when his shoulder brushed across me—hell, every time he touched me—my heart rate skyrocketed. When we got back to my house, he even insisted on walking me to the door! Taylor sure never did that.”

  “Yeah, well, Taylor is a douche-canoe.” We both smile at that.

  “That’s when it got a bit weird. He leaned in, and I thought he was gonna kiss me. Again.”

  "You have this real knack for talking without ever saying anything, Myles."

  I roll my eyes, even though she's right. I'm a bit long-winded, just like Grams. “Anyway, he didn’t kiss me.”

  “So, what did he do?” God bless her, she's waiting for my next words like a dog waiting for a Milk Bone.

  “He hugged me. So, yeah, I was a little disappointed—I guess I got my hopes up.” AzzyJo’s looking at me like I’ve spontaneously sprouted antlers.

  “Cash must’ve felt bad or something, because then he did kiss me. And, girl, it went from zero to sixty, quick, fast, and in a hurry.”

  “How fast? More, Myla, I need more!” Seriously, you’d think the girl was watching Lifetime she’s so entertained.

  “I’m glad my humiliation is bringing you such joy,” I quip just as the nail technicians roll their stools over to our chairs. I hand her my polish, appropriately named A Good Man-darin is Hard to Find. Thank you, OPI.

  AzzyJo hands over a dark mauve colored polish, a far cry from her usual. “No Strawberry Margarita today? What gives?”

  “Just trying new things, Myla. Now, finish your story.”

  I eye her suspiciously before continuing, “Yeah, okay. So, super fast. From a peck to up against my front door in the blink of an eye fast.” My voice is wistful, which just grinds my gears. Get over it, Myla Rose. Remember that lemonade.

  “Nope, still not seeing the issue.” She’s smirking, like she knows how this ends.

  “Well, once our kiss cooled down, I invited him in."

  "You little hussy!"

  "And things heated right back up." Tears are welling up in my eyes at just the memory of the texts on his phone. "The issue is that he went to the bathroom, and a few texts came through on his phone. I didn't even mean to look, Az. But they were awful, and they were about me."

  "What do you mean, about you?" Her eyes are narrowed to slits and her tone is like steel.

  "They were from his brother, asking if he had fucked me yet. Reminding him that the best way to get over his ex is to sleep with someone new."

  "Are you kidding me? Please tell me you're kidding."

  I try my hardest to blink back my tears, but a few spill over, letting her know that I'm absolutely not kidding. Not at all.

  "That dirty, rat-bastard motherfucker. Swear to God, Myles . . ."

  "I’ve never felt so little, or so stupid, in my entire life. When Taylor broke up with me? Sure, it hurt, but I knew it was because he was an immature little asshole with no sense of responsibility. And when Mama left me? That hurt too, but I had my Grams to help me wade through the mud. This time, though . . . this time, it was all me. He thought I was gonna be his rebound. He figured he'd lead me on long enough to get in my pants and then hightail it out of there. Am I just too dense to read the signs? Because I was dumb enough to think a man like that would want someone like me?” My voice breaks and the floodgates open. I’m right back to where I was last night—stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Azalea reaches over the arm of her pedicure chair and grabs my hand, squeezing it tightly. “What do you mean, someone like you?”

  The outrage in her voice brings me a small slice of satisfaction. Whether she knows it or not, she’s quite the Mama Bear.

  “I mean a woman carrying another man’s baby,” I admit, feeling lower than the damn floor.

  “I’m sorry, Myla. I’m sorry he hurt you. I really, really am.” All I have for her is a watery smile. “But it’s on him, not you. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. You know that deep down, right?”

  Do I? Do I know that? I shake my head. “If you say so, Az.”

  My nail tech hands me a tissue to dry my eyes and cheeks with and tells us we can head over to the manicure stations. Goodness gracious—because last night wasn’t bad enough, now I’m crying in the nail salon.

  “You know what?” Azalea asks me as we get our nails polished to match our toes.

  “What?” Now it’s me, hanging on her every word, like I’m convinced that whatever she says next will be the answer to everything.

  “Fuck him. That’s what. Fuck him, and put him out of your mind, because it's his loss.”

  “Easier said, sister-girl.”

  “Don’t you worry. I have a plan." I'm not sure what she has up her sleeve that will cure this heartache, but I'm willing to try anything. "We’re gonna go shop for that sweet baby boy of yours. A little retail therapy will do the soul good.”

  “That sounds . . . perfect.”

  21

  Cash

  Talk about a colossal screw-up. I was lucky to earn her forgiveness the first time—I'm not sure there's any coming back from this.

  I was ready to charge straight over to Jake's last night, but I quickly realized Paige and the boys didn't deserve my busting down their door in the middle of the night.

  This morning is a different story though—before a shower, before coffee, before anything, I'm hitting Send on a call to him.

  "Have a good night, brother? That why you were too busy to text me back?"

  "You sorry-ass motherfucker!"

  "Say that again?"

  "You heard me. Wanna guess who was holding my phone when your childish, bullshit messages came through?"

  "Oh, shit."

  "Yeah."

  "Is it bad?"

  "She kicked me out. Can't say I blame her."

  "I really am sorry, Cash. I was only messing with you."

  "Yeah, you sure messed something."

  The sound of Jake tapping his fingers against his phone trickles through, along with his words. "How can I make this up to you?"

  "Doubt you can, Jake. This was already my second chance."

  "Well, let's hope she plays by the three-strike rule?" I end our call, already over this conve
rsation. I know he didn't mean anything by his messages. I just wish she did too.

  What I need to do is man up, call her, and apologize. But I'm scared. A fucking coward. Yellow-bellied. And I have no clue how to make this right.

  Now, she’s off thinking God knows what. Probably telling Azalea what a damn dog I am, surely glad things didn’t go too far. Yeah, she’s probably thanking her lucky stars and stripes that things didn't go further.

  Who am I kidding? I saw the look of hurt and humiliation in her eyes. She may not be ready to listen to me, but I'm not willing to let her go without a fight.

  Goddammit, I have to fix this.

  I’m going to fix this. Now. Right fucking now. I fly through getting ready, jump into my truck, and head straight to Myla Rose’s house. Face-to-face is better than a phone call.

  I’m halfway to her house when I see the farmer’s market has fresh flowers. Making a quick detour, I grab a bouquet, hoping it’ll sweeten the pot.

  Myla Rose’s Land Cruiser is nowhere to be seen when I pull my truck to a stop under the shade of her oak tree. Getting out, I make my way to her front door anyway. I give the door two short taps. Nothing. I try again—four taps. Still nothing. With a dejected sigh, I turn to head back to my truck.

  I’m just about to climb into the cab when I hear, “Cash? That you?” I stand, with one foot on the running board, allowing me to see over the roof. Simon is standing a few yards away, in a small clearing on the periphery of Myla Rose’s yard.

  “Yeah. Um, yeah,” I tell him as I walk over to where he’s . . . pulling weeds? “What are you up to?” I ask as I approach.

  “Just clearing out these weeds.” Such a smartass.

  “Yeah. I see that. Why?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? It is my property.”

  “You live here? Like here?” Wonder why Myla Rose never mentioned it.

  Simon grins and knocks his head back over his shoulder toward a log cabin-style house. “No, there. Moving on, why are you here? And what’s up with the flowers?”

  Well, shit. This is awkward. “I’m . . . well, Jesus . . . it’s a long story. How much time you got?”

  “Plenty. I got all my grading finished up last night. Bring your truck on around to my place and I’ll see you in a few.”

  I nod my agreement, but before driving over, I grab some scrap paper from my glove box and pen a quick note to Myla Rose, leaving it along with the flowers on her porch.

  Here's hoping . . .

  Right after I pull into Simon’s equally long driveway, another truck pulls in behind me. Great. In the short time it took me to write my note and drive over, Simon had managed to call Drake and get him there as well. This oughta be fun . . . not.

  “Cash-Man.” Drake claps me on my shoulder. “Simon said he found you over at Myla’s house?”

  “Sure did.”

  He presses his lips together and makes a humming sound before opening the door to the house. “Okay. Let’s head inside. You can tell us what’s up. And don’t try feeding us any bullshit. I’ve known you too damn long.”

  Following the scent of freshly brewed coffee, we find Simon in the kitchen pouring himself a mug. “So, you want to tell me why you were at Myla’s place? On a Saturday morning, with flowers?” Simon keeps his eyes trained on me.

  “I, uh. Well, I guess I need to start at the beginning.” They both nod, waiting for me to continue. “So, the other night at Azteca’s, Azalea asked me to give Myla Rose a ride home . . .” I fill them in on bringing her home and helping her pressure wash the following day.

  When I get to the part about our kiss at the Strawberry Festival, I'm prepared for chaos, but it never comes. Other than Simon cracking his knuckles, I'm met with silence. Like, you could hear a pin drop silence. That silence makes me nervous.

  Clearing the cobwebs from my throat, I continue. "So, when I ran into her at Dream Beans last week, I asked her to let me take her out to make up for it. She agreed, and last night I took her to Cotton. Dinner was delicious. I mean, outta this world good. And Myla Rose, damn.”

  “Myla Rose, what?” Simon questions, his voice deeper than before.

  “There’s just somethin’ about that girl. She gets under my skin.”

  Simon’s fists clench. He repeats the motion, this time holding—with enough force to turn his knuckles white.

  “After dinner, I drove us back to her place and walked her to the door. Being all gentlemanly and shit. We got to the door, and I was trying to read her, figure out what she wanted.”

  “The fuck you mean, ‘What she wanted’?” Simon’s voice has taken on a hard edge.

  “Uh, I was trying to figure out if she wanted a goodnight kiss. I settled for a hug, but she seemed disappointed, so I went for it.”

  Simon is pacing the kitchen, the muscles in his jaw popping.

  “You went for it? Just like that?” Drake asks, calm as ever. It’s like Body Snatchers or some shit. Simon is acting a fool, and Drake is all but inscrutable.

  “Yeeeaaah . . .” I draw out the word. “I did. But, the moment my lips touched hers, I was gone. Out of this world, out of my mind. All I could think was mine and more. Full-on caveman brain.”

  Simon stops his pacing and whips around to face me, his glare pinning me in place.

  “So, yeah. It got . . . intense. Skipping to the end of the story—she asked me inside and saw a few texts on my phone from my brother asking me if I had fucked her yet—"

  Before I can even finish my sentence, Simon is right there—right in front of me. He yanks me up from the barstool by the collar of my shirt and shoves me back into the wall.

  "You even think about touching her, I'll put you down like a goddamn coyote. You hear me? Friend or not, my loyalty is to her.”

  Drake tries to pull him back from me, but it’s no use, and I know he needs to say his piece.

  “I mean it, Cash, I’ll mess you up. She’s had enough hurt to last a lifetime, and she doesn’t need some jackass lookin’ for an easy lay to mess with her head.” He emphasizes that last little bit by tightening his grip on my shirt.

  Looking Simon dead in the eye, I tell him what I never got the chance to tell Myla Rose. "I am not looking for an easy fuck. And if I were, it wouldn't be Myla Rose. You're right—that girl deserves the damn world, and I intend to be the one to give it to her."

  My words must shock them as much as they do me because Simon all but drops me from where he had me pinned, and Drake is doubled over laughing so hard that he sounds like he's howling.

  "What makes you think you're good enough?" Simon says, pushing me back into the wall.

  "Honestly? I'm not. But I can't explain it . . . they say when you know, you know. I swear to y'all, I wasn't trying to hurt her. My brother's an asshole and thought he was being funny."

  “Well, as entertaining as that was, let’s all settle down, yeah?” Drake says once he's composed himself.

  Shit’s twisted when he’s the voice of reason. Simon, however, doesn’t budge.

  “Gotta make sure he knows,” Simon clips out. I can tell he isn't sure whether he should believe me or not.

  “Listen, I know she’s like a sister to you. I get that shit, and I respect it. But I also respect her. Hence, the flowers. I know those texts hurt her, and I want to apologize. I'm just not sure how.” I let my words settle. His grip on my collar slowly loosens before his hand falls away completely, releasing me.

  “I, for one, think y’all are perfect for each other,” Drake says.

  “How you figure?” Simon spits back.

  “Cash has always wanted a family. He’s good with kids. I know he’ll treat her right. Steady income . . .” I tune them out as they discuss me like I’m not standing right fucking here. It’s like I’m in the Twilight Zone.

  "I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm not." Simon shrugs his shoulders.

  “Yeah, no problem, man,” I tell him, because honestly? I get it. If I had a sister, I’d go to bat for her too. Not to mention, that’s m
ore emotion than I’ve ever seen from Simon. Dude can go from Bruce Banner to Hulk in 5.2 seconds. “I need to find a way to say sorry for this shit. Got any ideas?”

  They bend their heads together, whispering back and forth, once again like I’m not even there. After what feels like an eternity, Drake pops his head up and says, “Sure do. You’re gonna build that baby of hers a crib.”

  “Y’all really think that’ll work?” I question, my skepticism heavy.

  “Know it will,” Drake replies. Simon nods his agreement.

  22

  Myla Rose

  “Azalea,” I whine as I hobble behind her, my arms so loaded down with shopping bags that I’m not sure I can walk the five feet to the car.

  “Oh, hush up and quit your fussin’. We’re heading home now.”

  Azalea stops abruptly to check her phone, causing me to almost walk into her. Again. It feels like she’s been on that damn phone the last hour or so non-stop. I’m about to ask her who’s blowing up her phone when she bursts my peace and relaxation bubble.

  “Oh, wait. We have one more place—”

  “Are you kidding me? One more place?” I say, dropping the bags I’m lugging to the ground beside my car.

  “No, ma’am, not even a little.” She opens the car door and scoops up my shopping bags, tossing them into the backseat with hers. “Now, hand over your keys. I’ll drive.”

  I do as she says, cranking the AC to high. “Wanna tell me where we're going?”

  “Sure, we’re going to this sweet little furniture boutique.”

  “What? Why?”

  “To look at cribs, Myla,” she says like I’m as dense as a brick.

  “Right, because why wouldn’t we?” The sarcasm seeping from my pores goes unnoticed by Azalea as she haphazardly steers us out of the parking lot.

  She drives for about thirty minutes, weaving in and out of traffic at breakneck speeds before we reach out destination. The sign reads STORK: An Upscale Baby Boutique. It’s cute as can be but way out of my price range, I’m guessing.