132. Rosalyn

ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-TWO

ROSALYN

My heart is beating wildly behind my ribs.

He's remembering correctly.

I hold my hand out to Mrs. Rooney. And as she clasps my fingers in hers, her eyes widen, and in that moment, I know she remembers too.

Tears stream down my face as I rush out the front door.

My fingers hurt from where my dad slammed them in a drawer.

I was just looking for tape for a school project. I wasn't looking for fucking money.

Not that there would be money in there anyway. Not in that drawer. Not anywhere.

My bare feet are silent on the cracked pavers, and I slow.

I should've run out the back door into the woods, but the front door was closer. And I needed to get out.

I need to get fucking out.

Pausing when I reach the sidewalk, I tip my head back and stare at the stars above, the light from the streetlamps making them hazy.

Holding my arm across my chest, I flex my fingers.

They hurt like hell, but I don't think they're broken.

Another round of tears spills from my eyes.

I hate him .

I hate him so fucking much.

"Are you okay, dear?" A soft voice startles me, and I stumble back a step.

I lower my gaze from the heavens. There's nothing up there for me anyway.

Standing a few feet away is a woman.

She has a sad smile on her face and a tiny fluffy dog on a leash at her feet.

My heart is still racing from adrenaline and anger and pain. And the buzz of it all in my ears prevented me from hearing their approach.

I blink, trying to dissipate my tears.

But I don't answer her.

I can't.

Because I'm not okay.

"I can call the police if you'd like," she whispers.

Embarrassment and shame flood me as I realize this is our neighbor from across the street. The house with The Rooneys on the front door.

More tears fall. Wishing I could tell her yes.

But I shake my head.

I'm only seventeen. If she calls the cops, there are only two outcomes.

One, they don't do anything, and I keep living with a monster. Only now, that monster will become even meaner because I'd gone to the authorities. The one thing he always warned me never to do. And him being worse than he is now… I don't know if I can survive that.

Or two, they believe me and take him away. And then I go into the system, taking my chances with strangers, with nothing and no one to look out for me. It could possibly be better, or it could be worse in ways that I don't even want to imagine.

The woman is silent for a moment.

I know she wants to do something. Ask questions. But I can see it when she accepts the truth of the situation.

That there is no good outcome for me.

Not today. Not tomorrow.

Mrs. Rooney tips her head to the hand clutched to my chest. "Would you like some ice for that?"

Pain throbs across all my fingers, and I know I shouldn't accept… but I nod.

"Here." She holds out the leash. "You hold on to Snowball for me, and I'll be right back. We just stepped outside, so she might have to do her business," she adds, making it seem like I'm doing her a favor rather than her using the dog as a ploy to keep me in place.

But I like dogs, so I reach out with my uninjured hand and grip the leash.

I hold it as tightly as I can so the dog can't run away.

Mrs. Rooney nods, then turns and hurries across the street to her house.

The dog watches her owner walk away but doesn't attempt to follow.

When the woman enters her house, I look down at the dog. "Hi, Snowball."

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

It makes me smile.

Like really smile.

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.

"It is so very good to see you." Her eyes shine, but she swallows and nods again. "So very good."