Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

The dog opens its tiny mouth, and her little tongue pops out.

It makes me smile.

Likereallysmile.

And it feels… foreign.

I don’t remember the last time I smiled like this.

I crouch down and reach out to pet Snowball, forgetting all about my injured hand until my fingers connect with her long white fur.

I wince, but I stroke her coat again.

“If life was different,” I tell her, “I’d have a pet like you.”

The door across the street opens, and I look up, watching Mrs. Rooney as she crosses back to us.

When she steps onto the sidewalk, I stand and hold the leash back out for her.

She takes it, then hands me a Ziplock bag filled with ice and wrapped in a thin hand towel embroidered with little pink hearts around the edge.

I try to hand her the towel back.

She shakes her head. “You can keep the towel. It’s nothing. But use it between your hand and the ice. You shouldn’t put ice directly on your skin.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, but I won’t keep the towel. I’ll return it to her mailbox before I go to bed.

Her fingers twist in Snowball’s leash. “Would you like me to stay with you for a little while?”

I don’t have to look back at my house to know that’s a bad idea.

My dad is probably back in his chair, but there’s always a chance he’ll push aside the curtains and look out the front window.

I shake my head and take a step away.

She nods once, accepting my answer. “If you need anything…” She glances at my house, then back to me. “You can always knock on our door.”

I won’t do that either.

My problems are mine. Not hers.

I set the towel-wrapped ice on the back of my hand. “Thank you,” I tell her again. My voice is quiet but loud enough in the silent night. I lower my gaze to the little dog. “Bye, Snowball.”

Then I turn and walk through the grass with my bare feet, circling around to the back of my house so I can go into the woods.

Later, before I go back inside, I cross the street and set the folded towel in the Rooneys’ mailbox.

Her kindness was nice, but there’s no room for pity from strangers in my miserable existence.

I can’t let anyone else get tangled in my father’s web.

And I promise myself, from this day on, I’ll always run out the back door.

Mrs. Rooney clasps my trembling hand in both of hers.

“It’s nice to see you again,” I say quietly, hoping she can hear my sincerity and my plea that she won’t bring up that night.

She nods. Once. Then twice.