Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

EIGHTY-TWO

ROSALYN

The low rumble of masculine voices pulls me out of sleep.

There’s a lamp on in the corner, and without turning my head, I can tell it’s dark beyond the curtains.

I don’t know what time it is. But it’s late.

Focusing on the voices, I see Nathan talking to the doctor when my eyes adjust.

They’re standing just inside the doorway, bodies angled toward me, but they’re both looking down at the clipboard the doctor is holding.

Nathan is leaning in, with a look of concentration on his face, and I imagine the doctor is going over my diagnosis, or medication, with him.

It seems like that’s breaking some sort of rule. Like the doctor shouldn’t be sharing my information with some random man in my room.

Some random man.

If it wouldn’t hurt so much to scoff, I’d do it.

The man in my room is more than my long-lost childhood friend. He’s literally a famous football player.

The doctor surely recognized him.

As I watch the two talk, I think about Nathan being here. And there’s only one way he’d know to come.

Presley.

I don’t know how she got a hold of him, but she’s the only one who even knows about the accident.

She’s also the one who rode in the ambulance with me. Holding my hand and crying the whole time. Saying she owed me her life.

She doesn’t owe me anything, but she’s the best sort of over-the-top friend, and I appreciated her being with me.

My eyes trail down Nathan’s frame. To the shoebox tucked under his arm.

My heart throbs all over again at the sight of it.

I was too stunned when I first saw it to even think abouthowhe found them. And the times I’ve woken up and dozed back off since finding Nathan in my room, I’ve been too out of it to try and figure out what happened. But lying here, watching this man I know talk to my doctor like it’s his job, I can picture it all perfectly.

Presley calls him. Tells him about the accident. Tells him to stop by my place and bring some clothes—since I’m pretty sure my pants were cut off…

And if he went to my apartment and opened my closet, he’d have thought it was a good idea to use one of my duffel bags. And just like that… shoebox.

He shouldn’t have opened the box.

It’s obviously personal.

But if I’m honest, if our roles were reversed, I’d have opened it.

Presley must’ve given him the keys to my place. But I still think about that comment Nathan made the other day—about tracking my phone—and I wonder if his tech company can break into houses.

I pull my eyes away from the box and look back toward the chairs.

Under the second one is the duffel I expect to see.

But it looks awfully full for one change of clothes.