MYLA ROSE
Seeing no sense in delaying the inevitable, I grab my cell and dial Taylor. It goes to voicemail. So, I hang up and call him again. Voicemail. Now, I’m not the kind of girlfriend who goes all crazy when her man doesn’t pick up, but I really need to talk to him before I lose my damn nerve. I try his number one more time. He declines the call, sending me once again to voicemail. You’ve reached Taylor Mills. Sorry I can’t take your call right now . . . I drown out the rest of the recording and leave a message after the beep.
“Hey, Tay, I know you’re really busy with school, but if you could call me as soon as possible, I’d love it. I have some stuff . . . just call me, ‘kay?”
“He didn’t answer?” Azalea runs her fingers through my messy hair, pulling the tangles free as she goes.
“Nope. Guess all there is to do now is wait.”
“Myla Rose, I know this is tough and unexpected, but sister-girl, this isn’t you.”
I open my mouth to defend myself but close it just as quickly. She’s right, this isn’t me. “You’re right. I got myself into this, and even if it sucks, I need to own it. Also, I need to call the doctor.” I pale at that realization, and Azalea notices.
“It’ll be okay. They have laws and ethics and oaths. That's the last thing you need to worry about."
"You really think so?"
"I know so. The law is the law. Now, go on and give them a call. I'll be right here with you."
I Google the number to the OB-GYN's office and tap the Call button. My stomach churns with each ring. After the third, the automated greeting picks up.
Thank you for calling Dogwood Obstetrics and Gynecology. Please listen closely, as our menu has recently changed. I wait for the recorded voice to tell me the number to press to speak to the receptionist.
After a few more rings, it connects. "This is Tina, how may I help you?"
"Yes ma'am, hello. I just got a p–positive pregnancy test. So, I was calling to make an appointment."
"First day of your last period?"
"Um, maybe right before Christmas?"
"Okay, so due in September. You don't need to come in until you're eight weeks. Dr. Mills can see you February thirteenth at eight A.M. Does that work for you?"
"Yes ma'am, that'll be great." I disconnect the call and make note of the appointment in my calendar.
"Well?" Azalea asks.
"Apparently, I don't go until I'm eight weeks. So, next month, just before Valentine's Day."
"Huh. Guess you learn something new every day. Do you want me to come with you?"
"As much as I'd love it, we can't both take off."
"True. Well, maybe Taylor will want to go with you." She sounds a hell of a lot more hopeful than I feel.
"Thanks for rushin' over. I think I'm gonna lie down for a bit," I tell her as I crawl under my fluffy duvet.
"Always, Myles. Anytime and every time." She draws the covers up to my chin and plants a kiss on my forehead before showing herself out.
I wake to the sound of my phone alerting me to a missed call. From Taylor. I bolt upright, hitting Redial.
"Good God, Myla Rose. Three missed calls—is the world ending?" The irony of his words isn't lost on me.
"No, Tay, just need to talk to you."
"You wanted to talk, so you called me three times, back-to-back?" His voice has this tone to it. I can't quite put my finger on what I'm hearing, but I don't like it.
"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."
"Tay—"
"Sorry," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry, not even a little. "You should go."
"What would your mother say if she could hear you right now?" I say as I rise from the booth. I almost laugh at the absurdity of my question. His mother would probably be proud—because that tone I couldn't place earlier . . . it's all Kathy Mills.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to investigate. Like a devil summoned, there stands Mrs. Mills, her face as pinched as ever. "If I could hear what, Ms. McGraw?" She shuffles past me and arranges herself into the seat I was just in.
"Mother, Myla here was just informing me that she's . . .with child."
Mrs. Mills entire body tightens. "Are you now? And my Taylor needed to know why?"
"Because he's the father," I tell her honestly. Some stupid part of me is holding out that the thought of becoming a grandmother will make her knock some sense into him.
She looks down her nose at me. "Oh, Myla Rose. You poor, poor thing. You're certainly turning out to be just like your mother."
I suck in a breath through my teeth. The nerve of this woman. I'm done playing nice. Finished.
Leaning down, I press my palms into the end of the table top. "Well, I'm sorry y'all feel this way. A baby is always a blessing, and I've got this with or without you, Taylor Mills. Not only will I raise our baby on my own, I'll thrive while doing it." Taylor makes to interrupt me, but I stand to my full height and place my hands on my hips, silencing him with a sharp look. "If there's one thing my Grams has taught me, it’s that from shit, flowers grow. So, y'all can sit back and watch me fucking blossom."