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.
Neither one of us speaks. She’s looking at everything but me—literally everything. I ignore her, knowing eventually, she’ll break.
After damn near ten minutes of awkward silence, I give up on waiting her out. “Azalea Josephine, what gives?”
“Whatever do you mean?” she inquires with all the charm of a debutante. She even bats her lashes at me.
“Puh-lease, sister-girl. Take that shit somewhere else.”
“Okay, fine.” She inhales deeply, and with all her words running right together, she blurts, “ImighthavesleptwithDrake!”
“Huh?” I must have misheard her. Because there is no way she did what I think she said.
Another deep breath. “I slept with Drake. And it was amazing. And I loved it, every second. It was a one-time thing, and it’ll never happen again. So, how was your night?” Her smile is tremulous, at best, and her tone brokers no room for negotiation.
“Last night was a shit-show,” I deadpan. She raises a brow at me, silently saying please continue, Myla.
So I do. “It started out really, really good. He was such a gentleman, opening doors for me and walking with his hand at my back. He took me to Cotton, and the food was delicious. Like, oh-my-God good. We even ordered the same thing, and we shared a dessert. We talked about the baby, and Az, he seemed so interested and not at all put off by it. And he told me about his ex, and it just seemed like this could maybe lead to more one day.” I sigh, thinking back on how amazing dinner was.
“I’m missing the bad part . . .” Her words cause my smile to drop, an ugly scowl taking its place.
“The bad part is what came after dinner."
I lean back harder into my pedicure chair and use the remote to ramp up the massage before releasing a long, drawn-out sigh.
“Okay, so we left Cotton and the drive back was fine. And by fine, I mean I was a hot damn mess on the inside. He not only helped me into the truck—he also buckled me in. I know, it sounds absurd, but when his shoulder brushed across me—hell, every time he touched me—my heart rate skyrocketed. When we got back to my house, he even insisted on walking me to the door! Taylor sure never did that.”
“Yeah, well, Taylor is a douche-canoe.” We both smile at that.
“That’s when it got a bit weird. He leaned in, and I thought he was gonna kiss me. Again.”
"You have this real knack for talking without ever saying anything, Myles."
I roll my eyes, even though she's right. I'm a bit long-winded, just like Grams. “Anyway, he didn’t kiss me.”
“So, what did he do?” God bless her, she's waiting for my next words like a dog waiting for a Milk Bone.
“He hugged me. So, yeah, I was a little disappointed—I guess I got my hopes up.” AzzyJo’s looking at me like I’ve spontaneously sprouted antlers.
“Cash must’ve felt bad or something, because then he did kiss me. And, girl, it went from zero to sixty, quick, fast, and in a hurry.”
“How fast? More, Myla, I need more!” Seriously, you’d think the girl was watching Lifetime she’s so entertained.
“I’m glad my humiliation is bringing you such joy,” I quip just as the nail technicians roll their stools over to our chairs. I hand her my polish, appropriately named A Good Man-darin is Hard to Find. Thank you, OPI.
AzzyJo hands over a dark mauve colored polish, a far cry from her usual. “No Strawberry Margarita today? What gives?”
“Just trying new things, Myla. Now, finish your story.”
I eye her suspiciously before continuing, “Yeah, okay. So, super fast. From a peck to up against my front door in the blink of an eye fast.” My voice is wistful, which just grinds my gears. Get over it, Myla Rose. Remember that lemonade.
“Nope, still not seeing the issue.” She’s smirking, like she knows how this ends.
“Well, once our kiss cooled down, I invited him in."
"You little hussy!"
"And things heated right back up." Tears are welling up in my eyes at just the memory of the texts on his phone. "The issue is that he went to the bathroom, and a few texts came through on his phone. I didn't even mean to look, Az. But they were awful, and they were about me."
"What do you mean, about you?" Her eyes are narrowed to slits and her tone is like steel.
"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.”