Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

“You’re a good boy,” I tell him as I hug him close. “You’re such a good boy, and you’re going to be okay.”

I pick up my pace, crossing to the front door.

My van keys are in a bowl on a side table next to the shoes.

I shift Charles into one arm, then snag the keys while shoving my feet into my sandals. My ankle brace easily fits in the loose footwear.

Then I pause for a second before also grabbing the bowl.

I’m pretty sure it’s crystal, but if Charles has to puke again, I want to give him a place to do it.

I juggle everything into my arms, then remember my purse.

“Fuck.”

I’ve never been to an emergency vet before, but I’m sure it’s not free.

My purse is back on the table.

I spin around too fast, and that’s the movement that tweaks my stupid ankle.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I shuffle across the room as quickly as I can and one-handedly shove the little bowl and keys into my purse, then sling it over my shoulder. “Promise we’re going now,” I tell Charles. But then I look back at the gross spots on the floor.

Do I need to bring in a sample?

Forty-five seconds later, I have a sandwich bag on my hand, inside out.

I hold my breath, then bend over, twisting to keep my purse on my shoulder, and I pick up the slimy clump.

I gag.

This is so disgusting, but I have no time to spare.

Heaving out a breath, I hug Charles to my chest and awkwardly get the bag off my hand and sealed.

I gag again.

And I gag one last time when I shove thevom baginto my purse.

Charles blinks up at me like I’m crazy. But all I can think about is that he needs to be okay.

Charles has to be okay.

I wouldn’t be able to handle it if he wasn’t okay.

And if I was the reason something happened to him…

Hugging Charles tighter, I rush back across the condo and out the door.

His heart is beating against mine, and like this, right now, he feels fragile.

Tears burn as they fill my eyes.

This sweet, beautiful creature is sick because of me.

The tears fall as I enter the empty elevator.

This can’t be my legacy.