Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

The Rooneys were across the street.Directlyacross the street.

They had to know.

I didn’t know.

But I was a kid. And Rosie’s dad didn’t start hurting her until years after I left.

But the Rooneys still live there.

They had to fucking know.

But they didn’t help her.

No one helped her.

As I slow for a red light, I glance at Rosie’s sleeping profile and can’t help but feel like I’m still missing something.

She knows I know about the abuse she suffered.

But I just have this…feelingthat there’s more.

That there’s something else she’s keeping from me.

Because even with her asleep beside me, I can feel the walls she’s starting to rebuild.

Last night, we connected in a way I never have with anyone before.

And tonight, she’s slipping away.

I swallow and take my foot off the brake.

Tomorrow.

We’ll talk tomorrow.

ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FIVE

NATE

After staring at the ceiling for forty-five minutes, I carefully slide out of bed.

Rosie makes a small sound of protest, but when I tuck my pillow against her front, she settles back into sleep.

That bad feeling in the center of my gut just won’t go away.

Rosie is kind and caring and the love of my life. And I don’t know why, but it feels like my whole future is riding on tomorrow.

I can’t let her go.

Can’t let her move out.

I move quietly into the closet and tug on sweatpants and a T-shirt.

My plan is thin at best, but maybe if I can bring more of her things here, she’ll feel at home. And she’ll see how serious I am.

Society might think it’s too soon, but I don’t care what anyone but Rosie thinks.

Charles is standing in the closet doorway when I turn around, watching me.