Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

But he doesn’t make another sound.

I watch the clock above the microwave and stay there, silent, for another ten minutes.

Then, when I’m sure he hasn’t moved, I look away from my dad and his chair, and I walk upstairs.

I keep my eyes forward.

And when I reach my room, I step inside and close the door behind me.

I’ve imagined this moment for so long.

For years.

And now that it’s here… I don’t feel anything.

There’s too much uncertainty for me to feel relief.

But maybe there’s room for peace.

I sit at my desk, overlooking the woods.

I open my desk drawer and pull my bag of marshmallows out.

Eating one slowly, I stare into the forest.

I have another. And another. Savoring all of them, just in case…

And when the bag is done, I reach back into my drawer.

I move aside the box cutter that I stole from the restaurant I work at and pull out a piece of paper.

I get through the wordDearand have to pause, because who am I even writing this to?

Thirty minutes later, I tuck the letter under my mattress, then head back downstairs to call 911.

I tell the paramedics I was upstairs while Dad was eating and that I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.

They seem to believe me.

The doctors at the hospital seem to think it was natural heart failure.

And I seem to be getting away with murder.

That’s when I see Nathan on TV. In that cold antiseptic waiting room.

My old friend.

My confidant.

And I know… I know I can never drag the real Nathan into my life.

Not when I’m a murderer.

Not when there’s no statute of limitation on homicide.

Not when my decisions could ruin his life.

So when everything is done and I go back home, I sit at my desk and write my second letter of the night, letting Nathan go.