134. Nate

ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR

NATE

I hold Rosie's hand on the drive home, and I note the moment she falls asleep, her grip going lax on my fingers.

I want to squeeze my hand around hers. Want to make her grip me back.

Something happened tonight when we walked up to the table.

Something passed between her and our old neighbor.

At first, I put it down to Rosie's overall nervousness. She was stressed before we even arrived. But as dinner went on, as the questions loomed but never got asked, I thought about it. Really thought about.

The stories Rosie has told me.

The violence inside her home.

The piece of shit she lived with…

The Rooneys were across the street. Directly across 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… feeling that 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.