Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

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.