MYLA ROSE
I'm going on 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?
Swear to God, it feels like she plans her color services with me around his life events. “Please spare us both and just don’t go there, 'kay?”
Switching on my blow dryer, I let the noise drown out any response she may have had. I finish styling her hair to Southern Blonde Perfection—the higher the hair, the closer to Heaven, y’all—and she is finally out the door and on her way.
I’m finishing up my last client of the day when I hear the door to the salon chime, and I’m suddenly hit with the strongest perfume ever. What fresh floral hell is that?
Throwing my hands over my mouth, I dash to the restroom. There’s that morning sickness again. Yeah, smells trigger it too. Go figure. After washing my hands, popping a mint, and fixing my smudged makeup, I hold my breath and make my way back to my station. I sweep my eyes across the salon and slowly release the breath I was holding. Whoever it was must have left because I don’t see anyone other than Azalea.
“Myla Rose! My goodness, are you okay?” she inquires in that sweet Southern drawl of hers.
“I’m fine,” I say as I rinse my color bowl in the sink. “Don’t you worry about me. Dr. Mills says morning sickness usually only lasts the first trimester. So, it should be on its way out the damn door.”
I step back over to my station, gathering my things while simultaneously working up a plan to tell Azalea that I’m flaking out on our plans for the night. “AzzyJo, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She cuts her eyes at me, and they blaze like emeralds. Such a contrast to her pale hair and tanned skin.
I raise my hands, as if I’m trying to keep her at bay. “I know, I know. Taco Tuesday, but I am dog tired. I just want a bubble bath and my bed.”
“Myla Rose, you will not ditch me next month, tired or not. In fact, you can treat me,” Azalea retorts with a false look of exasperation. We walk together to the door, where she engulfs me in the biggest, tightest hug—just what I needed after today.
I’m halfway home when I realize I need groceries. Sure, a drive-thru is an option, but my little bean is making me crave a BLT with Thousand Island dressing on sourdough bread. So, to Piggly Wiggly I go. I figure I’ll grab just enough for dinner tonight and some Cliff Bars for breakfast—the rest can wait.
I’m pushing my buggy through the store, humming to myself, mentally checking my shopping list when I walk right into a . . . wall?
No, not a wall.
A person.
A man.
He towers over my five-foot-three frame by at least a foot, all broad-shouldered and solid. “Oh, my stars—I am so sorr—”
I don’t even finish my sentence before he whips around to face me, and I’m met with the most stunning gray-blue eyes, the color of the summer sky right before a thunderstorm. And his hair. He has gorgeous brown ringlets that flop every which way—a bit of boyishness to temper his ruggedness.
His mere presence unsteadies me, causing me to wobble on my feet. I reach an arm out to balance myself, only he beats me to it, dropping his big, warm hands to my shoulders to hold me still.
His touch is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and if I never moved from this spot, that’d be fine by me. All this time, while I’m caught up in my own crazy, he just stares down at me with a slight smirk, waiting on me to finish my forgotten apology.
I clear my throat and rush my words out. “I am so sorry. I was caught up in my own head, checking my list and not paying attention at all. I didn’t hurtcha with my buggy, did I?”
I chance a look up at him. He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, ma’am, I’m just fine.” His voice is nothing more than a deep rumble, and it hits me straight in my belly, sending those butterflies swooping. “You have a nice evening, yeah?” Just like that, he turns and walks away.
“Uhhh. Um, yeah, you too,” I holler to his retreating back. Mindlessly, I walk to the checkout and then out to Bertha, my old Land Cruiser. Mint green paint still gleaming, she's a thing of beauty, passed down from my Grams.
I drive home without really being aware of the trip. Highway Hypnotism, they call it. Y’all know what I mean? One second, you’re starting the car, and in the blink of an eye, you’ve reached your destination with no memory of the trip? I know you do. I’m too busy thinking about Mr. Good Eyes with that deep voice and luscious curly hair.
Once I get home, I lug my groceries up the porch stairs and into the house, where I get to work making that BLT. The scent of the bacon as it pops and sizzles in my cast iron skillet has my mouth watering. I step away to grab a plate from the cabinet and get sidetracked wondering how the kitchen walls would look painted a deep shade of . . . dammit, I’m picturing my walls the color of his eyes. Absurd . . . and I overcooked the bacon. I will away those foolish thoughts and finish preparing my dinner, burnt bacon and all.
After rinsing my plate and collecting the bacon grease, I go through the motions to get ready for bed, removing my makeup, changing into my PJs, and making sure my alarm is set for tomorrow. I skip my bubble bath. I’m that tired.
As I drift off to sleep, my thoughts turn back to him. I imagine what it would be like to have him here, in my space. With me, with his strong arms wrapped around me. I imagine running my fingers through his loopy curls as he kisses my neck.
And just like that, I’m wide awake, because get real, Myla Rose. What man would be interested in a pregnant woman? I must be exhausted to be having those kinds of thoughts. Maybe I’ll take that bubble bath after all.