Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

I need her to tell me what happened.

But even though I understand criers, I can’t ignore the emotion in her voice.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sorry. She just… Rosalyn saw the car, and she just pushed me. I scraped my elbow on the sidewalk when I landed. But… but she didn’t have time.” Presley sucks in a breath. “The car hit her.”

A sound of distress that I don’t recognize leaves my throat.

“She’s okay,” Presley says again. “But she hit her head pretty bad and has some scrapes… and her ankle… They don’t know if it’s broken or just sprained.”

“But she’s okay?” I whisper.

Presley said it already. But I need her to say it again.

“She’s going to be totally okay. The doctors said it was all treatable, and she’ll be fine once she heals. But… she needs a place to stay. Her apartment is a walk-up. I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but she can’t go there. Even if someone could help her up the first time, it’s not safe for her to be stranded up on the third floor if?—”

“She’ll stay here.” I don’t need to hear any more reasoning.

“I’d have her stay with me, but I already have two roommates, and there’s no extra space.”

“She’ll stay with me,” I repeat.

Presley exhales. “I’m sure she’ll fight you on it. She never wants to accept help. But you’re the only person I could think of to call. She doesn’t have an emergency contact.”

Another hit to my chest.

Rosie doesn’t have an emergency contact.

I remember her mom died when she was young.

I remember she was an only child.

I remember her dad being scary.

I already know she works too much.

And now I know she doesn’t even have an emergency fucking contact.

I tighten my grip on the phone. “She has me.”

“Good. Okay, good.” Presley’s breathing evens out. “We’re at Health Place in St. Paul.”

“I know where it is.” I continue toward the door.

“You need to go to Rosalyn’s place first.”

“What? Why?”

“She’ll need to go from the hospital right to your place. If you take her to her apartment to get her stuff, she’ll insist on staying. So go there first and get clothes and… whatever else.”

“Good point,” I admit.

I hate the idea of going anywhere but straight to Rosie’s side. But Presley is right.

“Do you know where her apartment is?”

“Yeah.”