Dear Rosie,: Love Letters Book Two, page 27
I’ll wait until tomorrow to tell him I’m moving out.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR
NATE
I hold Rosie’s hand on the drive home, and I note the moment she falls asleep, her grip going lax on my fingers.
I want to squeeze my hand around hers. Want to make her grip me back.
Something happened tonight when we walked up to the table.
Something passed between her and our old neighbor.
At first, I put it down to Rosie’s overall nervousness. She was stressed before we even arrived. But as dinner went on, as the questions loomed but never got asked, I thought about it. Really thought about.
The stories Rosie has told me.
The violence inside her home.
The piece of shit she lived with…
The Rooneys were across the street. Directly across the street.
They had to know.
I didn’t know.
But I was a kid. And Rosie’s dad didn’t start hurting her until years after I left.
But the Rooneys still live there.
They had to fucking know.
But they didn’t help her.
No one helped her.
As I slow for a red light, I glance at Rosie’s sleeping profile and can’t help but feel like I’m still missing something.
She knows I know about the abuse she suffered.
But I just have this… feeling that there’s more.
That there’s something else she’s keeping from me.
Because even with her asleep beside me, I can feel the walls she’s starting to rebuild.
Last night, we connected in a way I never have with anyone before.
And tonight, she’s slipping away.
I swallow and take my foot off the brake.
Tomorrow.
We’ll talk tomorrow.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FIVE
NATE
After staring at the ceiling for forty-five minutes, I carefully slide out of bed.
Rosie makes a small sound of protest, but when I tuck my pillow against her front, she settles back into sleep.
That bad feeling in the center of my gut just won’t go away.
Rosie is kind and caring and the love of my life. And I don’t know why, but it feels like my whole future is riding on tomorrow.
I can’t let her go.
Can’t let her move out.
I move quietly into the closet and tug on sweatpants and a T-shirt.
My plan is thin at best, but maybe if I can bring more of her things here, she’ll feel at home. And she’ll see how serious I am.
Society might think it’s too soon, but I don’t care what anyone but Rosie thinks.
Charles is standing in the closet doorway when I turn around, watching me.
I scoop him up and carry him over to the bed, gently setting him on the mattress. “Keep an eye on her.”
He sits, heeding my command and not rising as I walk out of the bedroom.
I pause in the kitchen and pull a small notebook out of a drawer.
I write a short note, letting her know I’ll be right back, in case she wakes up while I’m gone. Then I find her keys and leave.
I feel like an absolute creep entering her apartment in the middle of the night, but no one sees me, and no one stops me.
Locking the door, I start walking through, wondering what I should take with me.
There’s hardly anything on the walls.
Not much for decoration on the counters.
I pause in the kitchen and pull open the freezer door. She mentioned freezing homemade soups, and I spot the stack of containers. I let my fingers bump over the lids and decide to take as many as I can fit in my freezer back home.
Food is obviously Rosie’s love language, and maybe bringing her food to her will help with that at-home feeling.
After closing the freezer, I move on to the bathroom.
Ruth brought most of Rosie’s toiletries over already, and when I find nothing but cleaning products under the sink, I decide I can skip this room.
Then I step into her bedroom.
I grab both the pillows and pile them at the foot of the bed.
There’s a throw blanket crumpled up on the floor that I shake out and fold, then set next to the pillows.
I move to the nightstands and find random things—hair clips, charging cords, and nail files in the first. But in the second, I find a small velvet bag.
I smile when I pull it open, finding a slender vibrator inside.
She might get mad at me for going through her private drawer, but she’ll forgive me when I use it on her.
I toss the pouch onto the pile of bedding.
I lower myself to the ground and look under her bed but find nothing except a single sock.
I grab the sock, then turn on my knees to her closet.
Pulling the doors open, I find it much emptier than the last time I was here. Ruth cleared out most of the clothes that were still hanging, exposing more of the bottom of the closet.
I plant my hand on one of the plastic storage containers stacked along the floor and push myself up.
And as I stand, my eyes catch on something I didn’t see before.
Behind the plastic containers is a slender olive-green metal box.
A lockbox.
I stare at it. Knowing it’s private.
But the longer I stare, the harder my heart beats.
This feels like last time. But it feels worse.
And I know it’s not my place.
But I’m past doing what’s right.
I close my fingers around the cold metal and pull it free.
It has weight to it, but I think that’s just from the box itself because when I shake it, I don’t hear any noise.
Setting it on the bed, I drop the sock on the mattress, and I try to open the box.
Locked.
My eyes bounce around the room, but I have no idea where to look for the key. And for all I know, she doesn’t even keep the key here.
But I won’t let that stop me.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and hit Tony’s contact, selecting a video call.
It only rings twice before he answers. “You know, I could be sleeping.”
I take note of the bright lights around him. “Could be, but you aren’t.”
He rolls his eyes. “What do you need?”
I pick up the lockbox and hold it so he can see it. “I need to open this.”
“Where are you?” He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You back at your girl’s place?”
I nod. “Can you walk me through breaking it open?”
He lifts a brow. “Not any quicker than I could do it myself.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have time to wait for…” I pause when he stands, and I take in more of the space around him. “Are you in a fucking airplane hangar?”
He nods. “I’ll be there in ten.” Then he hangs up.
“What the fuck?” I shake my head as I carry the box to the kitchen and set it on Rosie’s small island.
Then I pace.
Until ten minutes later, as promised, Rosie’s locked door opens, and Tony Stoleman steps into her apartment.
I take in his head-to-toe black. “Did you just get into town, or are you just leaving?”
He tips his head at me. “You want me to open that? Or you want to ask your girl to do it?”
I run my tongue along my teeth. “New deal, I won’t ask you what the fuck you’re doing hanging out in a private hangar.” I sniff the air. “Or why you smell like gasoline. And you won’t lecture me about women.”
Tony flashes me a grin. “I agree to your terms.”
Without another question, Tony picks up the box and has it open in a matter of seconds.
He sets it on the counter.
“You find something that needs taking care of, let me know.” Tony backs toward the door.
“You offer that to all your friends?” I remember the last time we were in this apartment together and the offer he gave me then.
“Just my favorites.” He smirks.
“I appreciate that. Truly.”
His nod tells me he understands, then he pulls the front door open. “Gotta go catch that flight.”
The door shuts behind him, and I turn to the box.
Inhaling slowly, I lift the lid.
And then I hold my breath as I take out the single sheet of lined paper, folded into thirds.
It’s just like the others.
Until I open it.
Because this one isn’t written to me.
Dear _____
I don’t actually know who I’m writing this to.
There’s no one left. No one to care.
Hasn’t been anyone for a long time.
Honestly, I thought writing this would be harder.
Maybe I’m just too numb.
And maybe that’s the point. That there’s nothing left to fight for.
But if you’re reading this, then I’m sorry you had to find my body.
I step back.
Feeling like someone just hit my chest with a baseball bat as I reread that last line.
Her body.
Find her fucking body.
Is this…
I tug on the collar of my shirt, feeling like I can’t breathe.
I didn’t want to be anyone’s problem, but I can’t go to prison. I just can’t.
And if you’re here, looking for me, then you already know I murdered my dad tonight.
I had to.
It was him or me. And I only had enough pills for one of us.
I assume I’ll get caught.
I didn’t do anything to cover it up.
I can’t. I’m too tired.
And I just don’t want to be tired anymore.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX
ROSIE
(AGE 19)
I hunch my shoulders as Dad shouts my name, but I keep my hands steady.
I can’t drop this. If I drop this…
My throat tightens.
I won’t drop this.
Keeping my eyes down, I move into the living room and set the meal on the small TV tray next to my dad’s chair. “Here’s dinner.”
“About fucking time. And bring me another beer,” Dad snaps before noticing I already have one on the tray for him. “What’s that?” He points to the bowl.
I’m already stepping away, getting out of reach, before I reply. “French onion soup.”
He grunts.
It’s one of his favorites, but he’ll never say thank you.
Not hitting me is the closest thing to a compliment he’s capable of.
Sticking with my usual routine, I back out of the living room. But instead of retreating to my bedroom, I silently step into the kitchen.
From this far corner, I can see the back of his chair and the back of his head.
It would take effort for him to turn all the way around to see me, so I stay where I am, ready to crouch down behind the U-shaped counter, out of sight.
It’s a risk, staying down here. But even with the bruise around my eye finally faded from our last encounter, tonight is worth the risk.
I need to see.
Need to watch.
Need him to eat his fucking poison.
He shifts, reaching for the bowl.
My heart races.
Eat it.
Just fucking eat it.
The TV volume is loud, but I still hear the clink of his spoon against the ceramic dish.
My research was done at the library, and only when I had spare moments between my jobs, but I double-checked everything.
The pills I’ve saved from my hospital visits.
The extra blood pressure medication I’ve been adding to his morning coffee all week.
The extra time I spent on this particular batch of soup, making sure the flavor was intense enough to cover the taste of my special additions.
It should work.
It has to fucking work.
My throat is dry, but I don’t dare lift my cup of water off the counter.
I can’t let him know I’m here. Watching.
I need this to work.
I don’t know if I’ll survive this life after he’s gone, but I need to outlive him.
Even if it’s just by hours.
Dad tips his head back, and I lean over the counter, trying to get a better view of him gulping down the last of the soup.
Excitement and nervousness swirl inside me.
This has to work.
Nothing happens.
Dad sets his bowl down.
Long minutes go by.
What if this doesn’t work?
The amount I gave him is supposed to act quickly.
He picks up his beer.
I grip the counter, thinking back over everything I researched.
Where did I go wrong?
He tips his head back, chugging down the bottle.
Until he’s not.
His body lurches.
Liquid sprays from his mouth.
Then he’s convulsing.
He’s making sounds.
Maybe trying to call for help.
But I don’t move.
I grip the counter harder and stay where I am.
He thrashes.
Tries to get up.
Gurgles.
And then… stillness.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
But he doesn’t make another sound.
I watch the clock above the microwave and stay there, silent, for another ten minutes.
Then, when I’m sure he hasn’t moved, I look away from my dad and his chair, and I walk upstairs.
I keep my eyes forward.
And when I reach my room, I step inside and close the door behind me.
I’ve imagined this moment for so long.
For years.
And now that it’s here… I don’t feel anything.
There’s too much uncertainty for me to feel relief.
But maybe there’s room for peace.
I sit at my desk, overlooking the woods.
I open my desk drawer and pull my bag of marshmallows out.
Eating one slowly, I stare into the forest.
I have another. And another. Savoring all of them, just in case…
And when the bag is done, I reach back into my drawer.
I move aside the box cutter that I stole from the restaurant I work at and pull out a piece of paper.
I get through the word Dear and have to pause, because who am I even writing this to?
Thirty minutes later, I tuck the letter under my mattress, then head back downstairs to call 911.
I tell the paramedics I was upstairs while Dad was eating and that I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.
They seem to believe me.
The doctors at the hospital seem to think it was natural heart failure.
And I seem to be getting away with murder.
That’s when I see Nathan on TV. In that cold antiseptic waiting room.
My old friend.
My confidant.
And I know… I know I can never drag the real Nathan into my life.
Not when I’m a murderer.
Not when there’s no statute of limitation on homicide.
Not when my decisions could ruin his life.
So when everything is done and I go back home, I sit at my desk and write my second letter of the night, letting Nathan go.
ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SEVEN
NATE
“Rosie, Rosie, Rosie.” My vision blurs as I bump into the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Agony radiates through my body as I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor.
I clutch Rosie’s fucking suicide letter in one hand and press the other hand to my chest.
And then I cry.
I’ve never cried so much in my life.
I’ve never felt so much in my life.
Not until Rosie.
Not until this beautiful woman.
This lonely girl.
This child version of my person who went through so much hell.
I curl forward.
And I remember the last letter in the box.
The last one she wrote me.
The one where she said she saw me on the TV in the hospital.
I think of the way my heart broke reading that.
How I read it… but how I didn’t fucking understand.
A sound crawls out of my throat. And it’s anguish.
This is the secret.
This is the barbed wire Rosie keeps wrapped around her soul.
And she called it murder.
It wasn’t fucking murder.
It was self-defense.
I press my hand harder against my chest, like I can push my heart back in time.
Like I can help her.
She was just a kid.
At fucking nineteen, Rosie was still a child who had to kill her father in self-defense.
It was him or me. And I only had enough pills for one of us.
I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on trying to breathe.
I was so close to losing Rosie.
A sob seizes my lungs.
I was so close to never having her.
Behind my eyelids, I picture the life I want us to have together.
I picture her happy.
I picture her safe.
I picture the children we’ll have.
And I cry even more for the future we almost lost.
And then I think about Rosie, right now, all alone in my bed.
I shove up to my feet and stumble toward the door.
She’ll never feel alone again.
Not ever.
Not for a moment.
With the letter in hand, I forget about everything else I was going to take with me, and I leave Rosie’s apartment.
She’s not coming back here.
She’s not leaving me.
I won’t let her go.
I won’t let her go.
I repeat those words in my head as I drive back.
As I enter my condo.
As I walk straight to my bedroom.
And when I see her.
When I see my Rosie.
I drop the letter and strip my shirt and sweatpants off.
