Page 40 of Coming Up Roses

Myla Rose

I stand there,staring out my front window, long after his tail lights disappear. After what feels like an eternity, I turn and head upstairs, making sure to lock up behind myself.

“Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid,” I mutter as I strip out of my dress.

“Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid,” I lament as I braid my hair and again as I brush my teeth.

Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid, loops through my mind like a broken record until sleep finally finds me.

I wake the next morning, still feeling dejected. If I thought the Strawberry Festival was bad, it doesn't hold a candle to this. He was literally only interested in sleeping with me to get over his ex. All those sweet words . . . nothing more than lies. Here’s history, repeating itself. When will I ever learn?

Fuck Cash Carson and his bullshit. I’m done.

Thankfully, Grams taught me a thing or two about making lemonade out of life's lemons.

“Lemonade, Myla Rose, lemonade.” With my new mantra in mind, I decide to take the rest of the day to pamper myself, starting with a relaxing soak in the tub—lemon-scented bubbles and all. Take that, universe.

After doing a face mask and a deep conditioner, I call Azalea to see if she feels like getting in on all this goodness.

She doesn’t answer, which is unlike her. Especially after my 'not-date’ last night. Honestly, I half expected her to be beating my door down before the birds chirped.

So, I redial.

It rings and rings and rings. She answers just before her voicemail picks up.

“Hello? Myla?” She sounds winded, completely out of breath.

“What on earth are you doin’?”

“Nothing! Not a single thing!”

“Okay . . .” I know she's lying, but decide not to call her on it.

“Jesus. Can’t a girl just be out of breath? Maybe I was exercising—did that ever cross your mind?” She's being downright defensive now.

“Nope.” I snort. “It sure didn’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” She relents, sending us both into a fit of laughter. “Oh! So, how was last night with Cash?” she blurts, like she’s just remembered that I had a . . . whatever last night was.

“Long story. Want to meet me at the nail salon, and I’ll get you all caught up?”

“Well, duh.” I can just picture her sarcastic smile. “When have I ever said no to a mani/pedi?”

I’m just about to agree with her when I hear a scuffle in the background. A scuffle—and a man’s voice?

“Who are you with?” I ask, keeping my voice calm to keep her calm. She doesn’t do so well with corners.

“What?” she shrieks, her voice several octaves higher than normal. “I’m not with anyone."

“You sure? I swear I heard a guy's voi—”

“Nope! No guy. See you in ten!” And just like that, she hangs up on me.

Well. Okay, then.

* * *

I’m soaking my feet,enjoying the magic of the massaging pedicure chair when Azalea flies through the door, looking rode hard and put up wet. She blindly grabs a polish and throws herself down into the chair next to mine.

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