Page 35 of Coming Up Roses

Myla Rose

“Get up,get in the shower, and dry your hair, Myla Rose. I’m on my way, and if I don’t hear the whir of your hair dryer when I get there, I swear I’ll knock you into next week, pregnant or not.”

I grumble and groan as I disconnect the call and set about following Azalea’s instructions. She can be sweet as sugar, but she can also be downright terrifying. Twelve years of friendship have taught me that sometimes, it’s best to let her have her way, and this seems to be one of those times. Plus, if she sees that I listened, maybe she’ll cut me some slack and let me back out.

I mean, what on earth was I thinking telling him he could take me on a date? Not a date, Myla Rose. He said he just wants to make up for his rudeness the other day. And really, that’s A-Okay with me, because as much as I hate to admit it, his abrupt change in attitude really hurt. Which is just plum silly. Silly, silly, silly. I rinse those thoughts away, along with the suds from my coconut-scented body wash.

After toweling off, I wiggle my way into a pair of cropped jeans and a merlot colored lace top. “No-no-no,” I mutter as I stare at my reflection in horror when I hear the creak of the front door. “Myles!” Azalea’s voice echoes through the house. “Why don’t I hear your blow dryer?”

Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll just leave . . .

“Do you want to wear your hair straight or in waves?” Azalea calls to me through the bathroom door.

“AzzyJo,” I whine, “I’m not going, so it doesn’t matter. Give me my phone so I can call him and cancel.”

“No, ma’am. Not gonna happen.” Her voice is firm, unrelenting. This girl is a total force to be reckoned with.

“Okay, then you call him. Tell him I’m sick. Something—anything,” I beg.

She drums her nails against the bathroom door. "Come out and talk to me. What’s got you all spun up?”

I shove the door open and stalk over to my bed, where Azalea is laid out like a cat sunning at high noon.

“Azalea Josephine Barnes, I cannot go anywhere lookin’ like this.” I stomp my foot for emphasis. “My jeans don’t button, and this top makes me look like ten pounds of shit shoved into a five-pound bag. No, no, no, no!”

Azalea, to her credit, keeps her cool. She slowly assesses my outfit, her lips twitching as she tries not to laugh.

“Oh, Myla. Goodness gracious, you’re not lyin’. Take that off and let me pick something out for you.”

By the time I shimmy and jiggle out of the offending outfit, AzzyJo has a new one laid out on the bed for me.

“A dress? You want me to wear a dress?”

“Yes, a dress. Put it on and stop acting like I’m torturing you.”

I slip the dress over my head and appraise my appearance in the full-length mirror hanging on my closet door. This time, I don't hate what I see. I look . . . nice.

The dress is a deep navy, almost the color of ink, and made from the softest cotton I’ve ever felt, and its A-line silhouette is super flattering. “Where did you find this?” I ask, my tone accusing, because I know it isn’t from my closet.

She ignores me while I continue staring at myself in the mirror, turning every which way to check all my angles. I find no fault—I look really good. The dark color of the dress pops against my red hair and pale skin. Damn her, why is she always right?

She laughs, knowing she has me beat. “Told you so, and I found it at this cute little boutique across the bay and just had to get it for you. Sit down, I’ll dry your damn hair for you, and as I asked earlier, straight or wavy?”

“I know I don’t say this enough, but thank you, Az. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

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