Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

Stress about wearing my thick, straight hair down.

Stress about the low-cut tank top I chose to wear. About the flowy pants that felt casual before but now feel a bit too dressy.

My sandals are silent amid the noise as I shuffle and glance around.

In my hand, my phone vibrates.

Nathan: Back left corner, Beautiful.

Old friends who call each other Beautiful.

I slowly lift my gaze.

The lighting is dim.

Tall tables fill the center of the room, booths border the perimeter, and people are standing everywhere. But in the back, standing tall, with a hood pulled up over his hair, is the man I’m looking for.

I slip my phone into my purse.

I have the length of the room to compose myself.

It’s just drinks.

Just some catch-up.

No expectations.

FORTY-TWO

NATE

I watch her duck and swerve through the throng of bodies. And I think about what Hannah said.

I haven’t stopped thinking about what Hannah said.

How do I look at her?

Like you already love her.

I rest my hands on the tabletop to keep myself from pressing my palm over my heart.

It’s impossible.

Impossible to love someone I don’t even know.

But… it’s Rosie.

Her deep red hair flashes as she passes under an overhead light.

It’smyRosie.

And I probably don’t love her. I don’t know that I’ve ever really loved a woman. Not like that. But there’s something there.

Something I’ve never felt before.

Something that feels a little like destiny.

She emerges from the crowd before me.