Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

I scoop him up and carry him over to the bed, gently setting him on the mattress. “Keep an eye on her.”

He sits, heeding my command and not rising as I walk out of the bedroom.

I pause in the kitchen and pull a small notebook out of a drawer.

I write a short note, letting her know I’ll be right back, in case she wakes up while I’m gone. Then I find her keys and leave.

I feel like an absolute creep entering her apartment in the middle of the night, but no one sees me, and no one stops me.

Locking the door, I start walking through, wondering what I should take with me.

There’s hardly anything on the walls.

Not much for decoration on the counters.

I pause in the kitchen and pull open the freezer door. She mentioned freezing homemade soups, and I spot the stack of containers. I let my fingers bump over the lids and decide to take as many as I can fit in my freezer back home.

Food is obviously Rosie’s love language, and maybe bringing her food to her will help with that at-home feeling.

After closing the freezer, I move on to the bathroom.

Ruth brought most of Rosie’s toiletries over already, and when I find nothing but cleaning products under the sink, I decide I can skip this room.

Then I step into her bedroom.

I grab both the pillows and pile them at the foot of the bed.

There’s a throw blanket crumpled up on the floor that I shake out and fold, then set next to the pillows.

I move to the nightstands and find random things—hair clips, charging cords, and nail files in the first. But in the second, I find a small velvet bag.

I smile when I pull it open, finding a slender vibrator inside.

She might get mad at me for going through her private drawer, but she’ll forgive me when I use it on her.

I toss the pouch onto the pile of bedding.

I lower myself to the ground and look under her bed but find nothing except a single sock.

I grab the sock, then turn on my knees to her closet.

Pulling the doors open, I find it much emptier than the last time I was here. Ruth cleared out most of the clothes that were still hanging, exposing more of the bottom of the closet.

I plant my hand on one of the plastic storage containers stacked along the floor and push myself up.

And as I stand, my eyes catch on something I didn’t see before.

Behind the plastic containers is a slender olive-green metal box.

A lockbox.

I stare at it. Knowing it’s private.

But the longer I stare, the harder my heart beats.

This feels like last time. But it feels worse.

And I know it’s not my place.