Page 5 of Coming Up Roses

"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."

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