Page 42 of Coming Up Roses

"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.”

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