[Southern Roots 01.0] Coming Up Roses

  Coming Up Roses

  LK Farlow

  © 2017 by LK Farlow

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: The Graphics Shed

  Interior Formatting: AB Formatting

  Editing: Librum Artis Editorial Services; Valorie Clifton

  Proofreading: Keyanna Butler/The Indie Author’s Apprentice; Karin Enders

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  www.authorlkfarlow.com

  To my Phoobs, because with you by my side, everything is coming up roses.

  Contents

  1. Cash

  2. Myla Rose

  3. Myla Rose

  4. Myla Rose

  5. Cash

  6. Cash

  7. Myla Rose

  8. Myla Rose

  9. Cash

  10. Myla Rose

  11. Cash

  12. Myla Rose

  13. Cash

  14. Myla Rose

  15. Cash

  16. Myla Rose

  17. Cash

  18. Myla Rose

  19. Cash

  20. Myla Rose

  21. Cash

  22. Myla Rose

  23. Myla Rose

  24. Cash

  25. Myla Rose

  26. Cash

  27. Myla Rose

  28. Cash

  29. Myla Rose

  30. Cash

  31. Myla Rose

  32. Cash

  33. Myla Rose

  34. Myla Rose

  35. Cash

  36. Myla Rose

  37. Myla Rose

  38. Cash

  39. Myla Rose

  40. Cash

  41. Myla Rose

  42. Cash

  43. Myla Rose

  44. Cash

  45. Myla Rose

  Epilogue

  Preview of An Uphill Battle

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Cash

  Tonight’s the night. I’ve got everything planned to a T. I made sure to take off early from work so that I could get to the house before she did to set everything up. I’ve got her favorite Italian food from Luigi’s riding shotgun. I have candles and her favorite flowers, lilies, to place all around the dining room table—and the bed.

  But more important than any of that is the black velvet box—you know, the ring-holding kind—that’s tucked into my front pocket.

  I park my truck down the street so that if she happens to come home early, she won’t know I’m here. Gathering everything up, I head toward the house, my arms full and a spring in my step.

  It’s so damn gorgeous this time of year—cool October mornings and just a hair past warm at midday. Maybe Kayla will want to plan the wedding for this time next year. I pause at the sound of my phone ringing in my pocket. Shuffling the items I’m hauling, I carefully slide my phone from my pocket. Seeing that it’s my brother, I swipe to answer the call.

  “Jake, what’s up?”

  “Cash.” He sighs. “Are you sure you want to do this?” He’s never been very pro-Kayla. Come to think of it, none of my family is. Friends either, for that matter.

  “I’m sure. She’s been so off lately. Distant. This’ll get us back on the right path.”

  “Bro, don’t rush into something just because you think she wants it. You’re smarter than that.”

  “Jake, I got this.” I huff, and my annoyance comes through loud and clear. “I’m not rushing shit. We’ve been together six years. She’s probably just pissy because I’ve taken so damn long to ask.” His reply is nothing more than a grumble.

  My steps falter when I see Kayla’s car in the driveway. What’s she doing home already? “Hey, Jake? Let me call you back,” I mumble as I slide my key into the lock.

  “Kayla?” I call out. No answer. What the hell? I hear noise coming from the back of the house—in the direction of our bedroom—and my heart drops like lead into my stomach.

  I can feel it, soul-fucking-deep. Something’s not right.

  I shoulder the door open, and there she is. In our bed, head thrown back in ecstasy, someone else’s hands gripping her thick hips as she cries out his name. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. They’re so into each other, they don’t even notice me.

  “What the fuck?” I shout. Kayla’s head whips toward me, and Kevin—assuming the name she was chanting is his—sits up so fast that she falls back onto her ass. “WHAT THE FUCK?” I roar again. Because, really, what else is there to say?

  Kevin’s eyes slide from Kayla to me and back again. “Kay, what’s your brother doing here?” Kay? Dude has a nickname for MY girlfriend? She just blinks, tears welling.

  “Your brother?” I grit out. “Your fucking brother?” Kevin looks genuinely confused. “I’m here, Kevin, because this is my house. That’s what I’m doing here.”

  “Babes, I had no clue your brother was in town, or I would have suggested my place.” Kayla looks a little green, her eyes darting rapidly around the room like she’s looking for an exit. Tough luck, babes.

  “I’m not her brother,” I hiss at Kevin, who is clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed.

  Kayla’s given up on her escape plan and has devolved to crying. You know, that raccoon eyes, ugly kind of crying.

  “Bro, just chill.” The douche tries to pacify me. “I’ll be on my way, and you guys can talk.”

  I shake my head, my face a mask of cool indifference. “Nah, bro, nothing to talk about.” Storming over to the closet, I fling open the door and grab my overnight bag, throwing God knows what into it. Hopefully, enough shit to last me the weekend. “I’m outta here.”

  She’s sobbing uncontrollably into the sheets, refusing to look at either of us. But I have this nagging feeling that it’s all for show. “Ca–Cash. K–Kevin, I c–can explain—”

  “Nothin’ to explain, Kayla. Dinner’s on the table. Enjoy it.” Or choke on it. I keep that thought to myself, though. “We’ll deal with shit when I’m ready. Don’t call.” I snatch my bag up off the floor and head back the way I came, slamming the front door as I go, leaving my house—our house. The house I’d spent the last three years in, with her. The house we talked about raising kids in. Jesus. How did I miss this? I was ready to get down on one fucking knee. Guess she saved me the trouble by getting on both of hers.

  After hours of aimless driving, I finally decide to grab a room at King’s Motor Lodge. A lumpy mattress sounds better than hearing the inevitable ‘I told you so’ I’d get crashing on a friend’s couch. The room is the size of a large closet, with dingy brown carpet and faded, peeling wallpaper. A mothball mixed with air freshener scent surrounds me as I drop down onto the bed and check my phone—two missed calls from my mom and three from Jake, along with a slew of text messages. Not a thing from Kayla. I know I told her not to call, but damn. I swipe away the notifications and dial my brother. It’s time to face the music.

  “Cash
mere,” Jake chirps into the phone. Goddamn, I hate that nickname. “So, did the tr—I mean Kayla—say ‘yes’?”

  “Nope,” I offer, knowing how much he hates single-word replies. Serves the asshole right for calling me Cashmere.

  “Seriously, bro. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Don’t leave me hangin’.”

  I inhale deeply through my nose, trying to gather my thoughts, and then launch into a play-by-play of everything that went down tonight.

  “I’m so sorry, Cash. Never did like her, but I didn’t think she was that . . .”

  “Man, I didn’t even see it coming,” I whisper into the phone. My voice breaks, utterly defeated. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know what to do? Pack your shit and head to Dogwood. Come home, Cash.”

  “Right, because it’s just that easy. I can totally just throw my shit into the back of my truck and move. I have obligations here, Jake. I can’t just up and move because Kayla fucked me over.”

  “Wasn’t you she was fucking, Cash.”

  “Thanks, Jake. Because that isn’t still fresh in my mind,” I snarl.

  “Check yourself. I know you’re pissed, but don’t take it out on me.”

  I huff out a harsh breath. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so damn angry.”

  We both know he isn’t the problem. Kayla is. And maybe I am too. How could I have been so blind? I jump up from the bed and start pacing the small room, trying to get a grip on the rage building inside me.

  “I bet you are. If Paige ever . . . Jesus. Do you know how long? Not like that matters. Once is enough.”

  “It was definitely more than once. I can feel it.” My eyes are watering, but I refuse to let the tears spill. Man up, Cash. “I wasted all this time. I had plans, a vision, and she shot it all to hell. What am I gonna do, Jake?” I fish the ring box out of my pocket and just stare at it. I was so damn convinced this little box was the key to my future—our future. What a joke. I slam it down onto the small table by the door and zone back in on my brother’s words.

  “Listen, here’s the plan. You’re gonna talk to her.” I start to interrupt him, but he just keeps on. “Sucks, I know, but it has to be done. Y’all are going to get shit sorted with the house and the lease. Then you’re going to pack up and come home. Stay here, or at Mom’s, or Drake’s, until you figure out a plan. You have options. Use them. You know you can do some work from here. That’s the joy of self-employment. Stop overthinking. You can’t change what happened, you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I hear you. I’ll call you in a few days and let you know what’s up. Thanks, brother.”

  I know I need to call my mom. And Kayla. I rub my hand down my face, the full weight of my exhaustion settling in. I toss my phone down beside the little black box and collapse into the rickety chair next to it as a cloud of dust floats up around me.

  Tomorrow. I’ll call them tomorrow.

  The sound of someone knocking wakes me, and I stumble as I walk to check the door, my muscles stiff from sleeping in that damn chair all night. I look through the peephole and there she is. Kayla. How in the hell did she know where to find me?

  “Cash, I know you’re in there!” Seriously, how does she know I’m here? “Open the door, Cash. We need to talk.” She sounds angry, and that’s just fuel to my fire. What right does she have to be mad?

  “How the hell did you know where to find me?” I whisper-shout at her through the crack in the door.

  “Open up and I’ll tell you, Cash.”

  “You can tell me now.”

  “I checked your bank account. Your room here was the last charge.”

  “You’ve got some nerve.” I throw open the door, ready to tear into her. My outrage over her checking my bank account takes a backseat when I see what looks like all of my belongings shoved into garbage bags piled around her feet. “What the fuck is all of this?”

  “Your stuff from the house,” she says slowly. Like saying it slow clarifies anything. So, I ask her again, and she sighs like she’s being inconvenienced. “Look, Cash, obviously, we weren’t working out. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it.” Her tone is so fucking nonchalant, like she’s telling me the goddamn weather.

  “You’ve been meaning to talk to me about us . . . ‘not working out’? Are you kidding me right now?” I pinch the bridge of my nose in an effort to control my temper. A few people are staring at us from the parking lot, so I usher her inside, not in the mood to carry this conversation out in front of an audience.

  I park myself back in the chair I slept in while she perches on the edge of the bed. “Cash, I’m not happy. I haven’t been for a long time.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “So, you cheated?”

  “I met Kevin, and he just sparked something in me. I–I don’t know how to explain it, and even if I could, I doubt you’d understand. He just has this passion for me, and it—”

  “Stop!” I cut her off, not wanting to hear any more. “Almost seven damn years down the drain. How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Three years.” I stare at her in disbelief. Who is this girl in front of me?

  “You know what? Fuck this, you, all of it. You can go.” She doesn’t move an inch. “Get out, Kayla!”

  “Cash, be reasonable, we still need to talk.”

  “Be reasonable? REASONABLE? I’m about three years past reasonable,” I roar, my temples throbbing from the adrenaline rushing through me. “I bought a goddamn ring, Kayla. I was going to propose. We had an entire life planned together, and y–you blindside me with this—with him.” It’s then she notices the ring box on the table. Her eyes flick from it, then over to me, from me to her left hand, and then back to me. My eyes follow hers, guiding me straight to the ring on her left hand. A ring I didn’t put there. My brain can’t seem to catch up with what’s happening.

  “I love him. We’re getting married, Cash. I already talked to our landlord, and he’s allowing us to break the lease. Something about a commercial offer on the house. It’s over. We’re over.”

  My fucking world implodes. I drop my head into my hands to hide the tears trailing down my cheeks. “Just go.”

  2

  Myla Rose

  “No, no, no. This isn’t . . .” I glance down at the test, at the two glaring pink lines. The results haven't changed—it's still positive. I slump back against the bathroom wall and slide to the floor. How did this happen? This wasn’t supposed to happen—at least, not for a few more years.

  We were careful. Except New Year’s Eve, my brain practically shouts at me as I sob, clutching the little stick that just changed my entire life.

  I've never missed my Grams more than I do right now. She'd know what to do, what to say.

  Everything I have, everything I am can be attributed to her—Marjorie Rose McGraw was the strongest damn woman I’ve ever been graced with the pleasure of knowing. She gave birth to my mama right in the middle of Hurricane Karin and swore it cast a mark on the child, said someone brought about amid all that destruction was bound to be a bad egg. Even though Grams tried her damnedest to keep my mama on the straight and narrow, she always strayed. Some people just have hearts wired for trouble, Myla Rose—I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard my Grams say that phrase throughout my life.

  Mama was young when she had me, only nineteen. I never knew my daddy, and I doubt she really knew him either. Mama was all about fun, always flying by the seat of her pants. While she was never abusive, she wasn’t nurturing either. Someone or something always came before me. I was seven when my mama decided she didn’t want me anymore. I remember it like it was yesterday.

  “Come on, Myla Rose, grab your shit and get in the car. Mama has to go,” she urged, directing me toward the car with a little push to my back. I stumbled a little, my untied shoelace sealing my fate—I still hadn’t learned how to tie them. Down I went, right to my knees, scraping them on the driveway. It stung, but her word
s stung worse. “Myla Rose! Get up off the ground, girl, and get in the damn car. How many damn times do I need to repeat myself?” She teetered in her high heels, drunk. She was always drunk. I pulled myself up off the ground, dusted off my knees, and climbed into the back seat. She dropped me off at Grams’ and never looked back.

  Thankfully, Grams welcomed me with open arms and a smile on her face. Until the day she left this earth, she was my rock. My foundation.

  Now, here I am, just a year older than Mama was when she had me, and pregnant. Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all.

  “Five minutes, Myla Rose. You can cry for five minutes,” I tell myself, “then you gotta get up, girl. Cryin’ isn’t gonna change nothin’.” I hear Grams' voice in my mind, echoing the words I spoke aloud to myself. That’s exactly what she’d have said if she were here, and it’s damn sure what I need to hear.

  With a newfound resolve, I force myself from the bathroom floor and head into my bedroom. I crawl into my bed, blindly fumbling around for my phone so that I can call AzzyJo. If I can’t have my Grams, she’s the next best thing. Azalea Josephine Barnes—AzzyJo for short—is my best friend and my biggest supporter. We’ve been inseparable since the third grade when we decided to sit together at lunch because we both had flower names. It was fate, y’all. That girl . . . she just gets me.