Page 7 of Coming Up Roses

Myla Rose

I'm goingon almost two months of little-to-no sleep. At first, I was heartsick over the way things ended with Taylor. It wasn’t so much that he only saw me as a fling. I mean, did it hurt my pride? You bet. Did it break my heart? Maybe, a little. But nothing hurt more than the fact that he was trying to act like he wasn't this baby's father. His mother's willingness to play along is a whole ‘nother story.

I moped and moped over the fact that my little bean would never know its daddy until Azalea whipped me into shape with a "What would Grams say if she could see you now?" That girl knows just how to get to me. Thank God.

Now, it's morning sickness keeping me awake. Morning sickness, my ass—I swear the son of a bitch who thought up that name had a perverse sense of humor. After spending all night throwing up, I would kill for five more minutes of sleep, but beauty calls.

I’ve got back-to-back clients at the salon today, with none other than Kathy Mills to start me off. “Thinks she’s so much better than me . . . sure loves the way I do her damn hair though.” I bitch and grumble as I kick back the covers and head for the shower.

As the hot water and suds wash away any lingering nausea, my mind wanders. I imagine a different future for me and my little bean. In my mind, we’re a family of three instead of two. I'm not still hung up on Taylor. I just wish like hell my baby had a daddy who loved him—or her, but I'm hoping for a boy—a daddy who would coach his T-ball team. A daddy who would read him bedtime stories and take him camping. If only . . .

“Ain't no sense in wallowing, Myla Rose. Pull up them bootstraps, girl,” I chide myself, just like Grams would’ve done.

I guide my car into a parking spot in front of Southern Roots, the salon I own with Azalea. With a quick check of the time, I see that I'm earlier than I thought, so I pop into Dream Beans, Dogwood’s local coffee shop.

It’s a cozy little place, with stained concrete floors covered in gorgeous Oriental rugs, mismatched antique furniture, and funky industrial lighting.

I step up to the reclaimed wood bar to order, hoping that caffeine will knock out that last bit of sluggishness my shower missed.

“Good mornin’. Whatcha drinking today?” Hazel, the barista, asks with a small smile.

“A large coffee with room for cream,” I tell her through a yawn.

As I’m pulling out my wallet to pay, I hear a hushed voice behind me. “Well, my goodness, drinking coffee while pregnant. Hmph.” I glance over my shoulder as Mrs. Mills continues griping to herself. “A good mother would never subject her baby to anything that could cause harm.” God bless it, I swear she thinks the sun comes up just to hear her crow.

I look back to Hazel, roll my eyes, and move down the counter to fix up my coffee. I take a sip of the steamy beverage and release a dramatic sigh as I make my way to the door. I pause as I pass Mrs. Mills, look her dead in the eye, and take another big gulp of coffee.

"Now, Mrs. Mills, I figured you'd know that expectin' women can have up to two hundred milligrams of caffeine a day, what with your husband being an obstetrician and all." With a big fake smile and a wave, I continue on my way out the door. I pause once more, holding the door with my hip, and call over my shoulder, "Looking forward to your appointment, as always."

I hop across the street to the salon, fighting my frustration with every step. That woman knows just how to push my buttons—always has—and now I have to spend the next two hours with her. I should have just kept my mouth shut, but who the hell is she to judge me? I roll my shoulders back and crack my neck before heading into the salon. “Mornin’, y’all.” I greet Azalea and Seraphine—our receptionist—trying my hardest to check my attitude at the door.

“Good mornin’ to you too, Myla Rose. Wanna tell me about that sour look you’re wearing?” Azalea asks, her perfectly arched brows dipped in worry.

“Nothin’ major. I just let Mrs. Mills get under my skin.”

“Well, bad news then,” Seraphine interjects. “She called to say she was gonna be late.” Her dark chocolate eyes asses me, waiting to see my reaction. These pregnancy hormones have made me a tad more emotional than usual.

“Great. Of course she is.” I fume, angrier than a wet cat. "Obviously, I have nothing better to do than wait for Kathy fucking Mills to finish her coffee. Now my entire day is going to be one big game of catch up." Azalea and Seraphine both look at me with sympathetic expressions.

With a huff and a few more muttered curses, I set to work pulling foils and gathering the color I’ll need for her hair—she never changes it. Apparently, consistency is key.

By the time she arrives, I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes. Seraphine walks her to my chair, and without a word, I get straight to work applying her color.

“Myla Rose, aren’t you going to ask me what we’re doing today?” She turns her head, causing the lightener on my brush to almost miss the foil.

“Damnit,” I hiss under my breath. “Did you want to do something different, Mrs. Mills?” I struggle to keep my annoyance to myself. I glance up, and AzzyJo’s brilliant green eyes catch mine in the mirror. She shoots me a look that screams calm down, Myla.

“No, but I may have, and that is my point.” Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard. Doesn’t she know that self-righteousness is an ugly color?

“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Mills. I apologize." My cheeks ache from holding my oh-so-fake smile. All of my smiles around this woman are fake.

You’d think knowing her most of my life would dull her effect on me, but nope. I’m not that lucky. If anything, with age, she aggravates me more. After all, she’s had damn near ten years to learn the best way to get under my skin. We fall into a somewhat comfortable silence after our little exchange. Thank God.

I’m roughing a towel through her wet hair when she clears her throat to get my attention. “Myla Rose, did you hear about Taylor—”

“NO!” I all but shout. Every damn time she comes in, she tries to update me on her son's life. It’s like some sick form of punishment.

She was delighted to tell me when he transferred from our local community college to the big state university—full academic scholarship, at that. And in her very next breath, she told me all about his new girlfriend. A respectable girl, with a good pedigree and the right kinda family. What is she, a dog?

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