Dear Rosie,: Love Letters Book Two, page 17
Charles. The reminder of his cat waiting upstairs is the motivation I need.
I unbuckle, and Nathan uses his hands on my hips to help me turn so my feet are out of the vehicle.
“I’m gonna guide you,” Nathan tells me as he pulls me toward the end of the seat. “Just remember to keep your foot up.”
I grip his shoulders and do as he says.
When my right foot hits the ground, Nathan reaches behind him and swings the wheelchair around so it’s right beside me.
By the time my butt hits the seat, I’m back to being achy and tired.
Nathan shuts my door, then disappears around behind me.
I hear him open and close another door before he reappears.
He has an overstuffed duffel bag on each shoulder, the shoebox under one arm, and the crutches tucked under the other.
I hold my hands out. “Give me something. You look ridiculous.”
Nathan looks at the shoebox but makes no move to give it to me. “Can you take the crutches?”
Reaching out, I take them and settle them between my knees and onto my shoulder so they won’t catch on doorways. “You can just set everything in my lap.”
“Not gonna happen.” Nathan moves behind me, but it’s obvious to all involved that it’s going to be difficult to push my chair with that shoebox under his arm.
“Give me the… box. It’s light.”
He hesitates. “You won’t try to do anything to them, will you?”
I sigh. “Nathan, even though those letters are mine and I can do whatever I want to them, I’m not going to magically set them on fire while they’re sitting in my lap.”
He makes no move to give them up.
I lift a hand to my chest. “Swear on my love for Charles that I won’t do anything to damage them.”
“Fine,” he huffs and sets the box in my lap.
Draping my arm over the box, I nod to Nathan.
The parking garage is empty of people as Nathan pushes me down the row.
And in the quiet, I think about how staying here is too much to ask.
We may have been close all those years ago, but as adults, the reality is that we just met a few weeks ago.
I feel the weight of the box in my lap.
And now that Nathan’s read the letters, it’s like we just met all over again.
The elevator doors open, and when Nathan pushes me inside, I look at his blurry reflection in the back wall.
He looked so fucking sad when I woke up and found him with the letters.
I never wanted to make Nathan sad. He’s only ever brought happiness into my life.
I let my eyes drift closed as the elevator takes us up.
And it’s nearing the middle of the night. Nathan is probably as tired as I am.
I’ll argue with him about going home tomorrow.
EIGHTY-SIX
NATE
Rosie’s asleep by the time I get the blankets pulled up over her.
Charles jumps onto the bed—having meowed and bumped against my legs the whole way across the condo—and moves to stand beside Rosie.
“I know, bud.” I pass a palm down his back, applying pressure when he arches into my hand. “She’ll be okay.”
I try to believe my words as I go through the motions of getting ready for bed.
Physically, she’ll recover.
But the things she’s been through…
I leave a trail of clothes across the closet and grab the first pair of sleep pants I can find.
From the way she worded things in those letters… I don’t think she’s told anyone.
I don’t think anyone knows how much she’s suffered.
My fists clench.
I broke my arm. I had to tell the doctor I fell.
Her dad shoved her to the ground, and she had to fucking lie about it.
I can’t imagine how that must’ve felt. To be in pain, surrounded by a hospital full of people, but to still be alone.
Those doctors failed her.
Society failed her.
I turn off the lights and cross to the bed.
I failed her.
I get into bed as slowly as possible, not wanting to wake her.
Under the blankets, I roll onto my side, facing my Rosie.
She’s on her back, face turned away from me, hands folded on her chest.
I scoot closer.
I need to touch her.
When she let me help her change, I had to grit my teeth at all the bruises and scrapes that covered her body.
The side of her thigh.
Her knees.
Her arms.
Her ankle.
I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all.
Hasn’t she been through enough?
I slide my hand across the inches between us, then gently rest it on her stomach. The one place I know it’s safe to touch.
And with my shame hidden in the darkness, I cry.
I did earlier.
Couldn’t stop myself when I was reading those fucking letters.
But I was still trying to hold back.
I still had things to do.
But now, with her in my bed, with her visible wounds treated, I let out the pent-up rage.
The panic.
The sorrow.
The fucking guilt.
Charles clunks his hard skull against mine.
I grunt.
He does it again.
I lift a hand toward him. “Five more minutes.”
Teeth lightly close around my pointer finger.
I open my eyes. “What the fu—”
But then I stop chastising my cat because I see her.
Rosie is draped across me.
Her hair is spread across my chest. The deep red strands look perfect against my bare skin.
Her left knee is hitched up over my thigh, and I can feel the edges of her new ankle brace against my shin.
She has a hand wedged between her body and my side, and I can only hope it’s comfortable for her.
I don’t know when we changed positions, but my arm is tucked around her back. The subconscious part of me just as aware of the fact that I need her close.
I flex my arm, just a little, to hold her closer.
Her back rises with a slow inhale.
I lift my head and press a kiss to the top of her hair, and Charles drops his hold of my finger before he steps up onto my stomach.
He’s already purring when he curls up on my body. Just above Rosie’s knee.
With the arm not around Rosie, I reach down and scratch Charles behind the ears.
This damn cat is getting just as attached to Rosie as I am.
I open my eyes.
The buzzing continues, and my brain finally clicks on.
I dart my hand out to grab my phone off the nightstand and tap the screen to send the call to voicemail.
The phone stops vibrating, and I look down at the woman still sprawled across me to make sure she didn’t wake up.
Once I confirm her breathing is still steady, I relax.
Charles, however, is staring at me out of one eye.
Sorry, I mouth to him.
In response, he stretches his front legs, flexing his paws and jabbing me with his little claws.
I slip my phone under his paws, stopping the attempted stabbing.
Bitch, I mouth this time.
My phone buzzes once, and I snatch it back away from my body, not wanting the vibration to somehow transfer through my body and wake up Rosie.
I look at the screen.
Hannah: I know you’re off today, but we have that call with the potential merger people in ten.
Me: I’ll be there.
Hannah: I emailed you a breakdown of all the numbers.
Me: Appreciate it.
Fucking hell. I forgot all about that damn call.
I look back down at my sleeping girl.
No part of me wants to get up. But if I cancel the call, I’ll just have to reschedule it—probably within the next few weeks while she’s still here. So if I can do it while Rosie’s sleeping, then that’s probably the best option.
Using the top edge of my phone, I nudge Charles.
He doesn’t react.
I nudge him again, and he turns his head away from me.
I nudge him harder. “Get up, you furry fuck,” I whisper as quietly as possible.
Charles yawns.
I pull out the big guns.
“Hungry?”
His head pops up.
That’s what I thought.
I gesture with my chin for him to get up, and he finally listens.
He stands on his little orange paws, slowly turning around and swooshing his tail in my face before jumping off the bed.
The attitude on this feline.
With one obstacle out of the way, I start to slide myself away from my warm Little Rose.
She makes a small noise but doesn’t wake as I replace my body with pillows. Tucking one under her cheek and another under her knee, leaving her in the same position.
Charles bonks his forehead into my leg, reminding me I promised him food, then with my phone in hand, I stride out of the room, famished cat in tow.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
ROSALYN
Nathan’s voice comes from somewhere in the condo, so I do my best to stay quiet.
He’d help.
He’d insist on it.
But I have to pee, badly, and I don’t want help doing that.
Plus the bathroom is right there.
Every inch of my body aches when I sit up and swing my feet over the side of the bed.
The crutches are propped against the nightstand, so I’m able to reach them.
It’s a little bit of a struggle to get to my feet, balancing only on my good leg, but I manage.
The first step on crutches is sketchy.
So is the second and the third. But then I finally get the hang of it and make it into the bathroom.
I don’t want to turn the lights on, but I also don’t want to trip on anything, so I squint my eyes and flip on the light.
Of course there’s nothing in the way. I should’ve remembered that the floor in here is pristine, like the rest of Nathan’s home—as far as I can tell.
My head is throbbing by the time I make it to the little toilet room, water closet, whatever it’s called. But as I pull the door shut behind me, I feel pride at making it on my own.
There’s another light switch inside this room, and I turn it on, then notice the dimmer and slide it to its lowest setting.
The glow is just enough to see by and perfect for my headache.
After leaning my crutches against the closed door, I push my sleep pants down my hips, so they drop to the floor, then lower myself onto the toilet.
My knees sting, and my thighs are sore, but nothing can take away from the relief of going when you really have to go.
Finished, I’m reaching for the toilet paper when I hear a sound.
I freeze, trying to listen, and that’s when the door handle jiggles.
Like all the door handles in this place, it’s a lever—not a round knob—and it starts to lower.
I didn’t lock the handle. Didn’t think I had to. Because it’s not like anyone else would be using the bathroom.
“Um, I’m in here.” I feel like an idiot saying it out loud, but seriously, what is Nathan doing?
Instead of a response, the handle jerks all the way down, unlatching the door.
“Nathan!” I shout, mad he’d invade my privacy like this.
Then several things happen at once.
The weight of my crutches pushes the door open.
They clatter loudly against the tile floor.
Charles lets out a yowl as he leaps out of the way.
And my own shriek mixes with the cat’s.
But there’s no Nathan.
No human on the other side of the door.
Just Charles.
The cat in question picks his way over the downed crutches and walks into my little room with a noisy purr.
“Jesus Christ, Charles.” I try to huff out a laugh, but all those loud noises have amplified my headache.
My sliver of humor is quickly cut off by the sound of running feet.
“Rosie!” Nathan’s voice echoes through the condo.
Oh god.
“Rosie!” He’s closer now.
“I’m fine!” I try to shout back, but my headache spikes.
“Rosie, where are you?” His voice has entered the bedroom.
“I’m fine. Please go away,” I say at a normal speaking voice, knowing he can hear me now.
But he doesn’t listen.
He’s a man. Of course he doesn’t listen.
“Rosie.” Nathan appears in the doorway, wearing sleep pants and a white T-shirt.
I slap my hands over my lap and slam my knees together, causing pain to zip up and down my limbs.
“Nathan. Get out.”
“Are you okay?” His eyes jump from Charles to the crutches to me. To my hands. “What happened?”
“Your cat opened the door.” I press my legs together tighter.
“But you’re okay?” His eyes roam over me. “Do you need help with…” He gestures toward the toilet paper.
“Oh my god.” I strive for a calm tone. “I appreciate the concern, but I need you to go away.”
He sighs, like I’m the one being absurd. “Rosie, I hate to have to remind you, but I’ve already seen those pretty little curls between your legs.” He drops his eyes to my lap, then back up to mine. “And when you’re feeling better, I’m going to put my mouth on them. So there’s no need to cover yourself.”
I blink at him once.
The thought of Nathan going down on me is appealing.
Very appealing.
But not when I’m currently sitting on a toilet. With my pajama pants pooled around my feet.
“Nathan, if you ever want to have sex with me again, you will get the fuck out of the bathroom. Right. Now.”
His eyes rove over me once more, his expression turning more serious. “Come to the living room when you’re done.”
Crouching, he picks up my crutches and leans them against the wall of the toilet room where I can reach them.
He takes a step back. “C’mon, buddy.” Nathan pats his thigh, and Charles lets out a sound of assent, then follows his human out of the bathroom.
Pinching my eyes shut, I don’t move until I hear the main bathroom door shut.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
NATE
Only a few minutes pass before Rosie crutches her way down the hall and into the great room.
She eyes the wall of windows.
When the sun started rising and the light started filling the condo, I realized it would be too bright for my concussed girl, so I had the hidden shades roll down to filter the light.
“On the couch,” I direct her.
I want to help her. Want to scoop her up into my arms and carry her.
But I won’t.
Because she’s still not ready for the amount of attention I plan to give her.
Staying on my side of the island, I watch her move and try not to think about her scraped-up knees.
When I heard her yell from the bathroom, I nearly had a damn heart attack.
And then when I saw the cuts and bruises on her legs… I got pissed at the world all over again.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Rosie asks as she drops down onto the end spot of the couch.
“I called in,” I answer while she shifts the extra pillows I piled up for her.
Rosie makes a humming sound but doesn’t comment more.
When Charles jumps up on the cushion next to her, she immediately reaches out to pet him. “When’d you learn to open doors, huh?” she says to the cat.
“He’s been doing that since I got him,” I tell her as I carry over a tray holding a bowl of sugary cereal, a small plate of scrambled eggs, and a glass of orange juice. “Think he might be a prison breakout.”
It’s a joke, but my tone doesn’t come out right.
Rosie eyes me as I set the tray on the end table next to her armrest. It’s not the greatest combination of food, but I wanted to give her choices.
“Eat. Then you’re going back to bed,” I demand.
She just got up, but she looks exhausted.
Rosie doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t argue either.
I go back into the kitchen and grab my own eggs and a mug of coffee rather than juice.
Her gaze is on me as I sit on the opposite end of the couch from her.
She looks from me to my mug. “Can I have coffee?”
I set the mug on the coffee table and shake my head. “No. Not for a few days.”
She digs her teeth into her lower lip.
I set my plate next to my mug. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Charles walks onto her lap, and she wraps her arms around him.
“Bite your lip,” I tell her. “Don’t do it.”
She lowers her face to Charles’s fur but eyes me over his back. “Are you… mad at me?”
“What?” I shift forward until I’m perched on the edge of the couch and turned to face her. “No. Rosie, I’m not mad at you.” I force my jaw to relax. “I’m just… I’m mad at fucking all of it. And…” I suck in a deep breath. “I feel like shit. Every time I think about what you wrote in those damned letters… I feel like fucking shit.”
Rosie lifts her head from Charles’s side, and that goddamn sadness is back in her eyes.
I fucking hate it now more than ever. Because now I know what put the sadness there.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is soft. “I never meant to upset you.”
“Don’t apologize.” Anger bubbles inside me. “You went through hell. None of that is your fault. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I never should have written those letters. It was stupid, and I’m sorry if they weirded you out. I wasn’t obsessed with you. I just…”
