25. Nate

TWENTY-FIVE

NATE

From the conference room, I look down at the courtyard below.

Where my company picnic will be held in less than an hour.

A dozen stories down, I watch the head of red hair move between tables and umbrellas, organizing the food she's worked so hard to prepare.

It's been nearly two weeks since I saw Rosie. Since I had my hands on her. But now that I know it's her , I can recognize her from this distance.

How I didn't recognize her…

How I forgot…

I slide my hands into my pants pockets.

I've done a lot of thinking since she ran out of that pantry.

A lot of thinking and a lot of remembering. And every unlocked memory makes me feel just a little worse.

I remember that last day in the woods.

I felt sick all morning.

I'd been dreading telling her I was moving.

We were just kids, but I knew it would hurt to tell her goodbye.

And it did. It sucked. It was hard for my twelve-year-old self to face .

But her reaction was… bad.

I'd forgotten about it. Somehow pushed it out of my brain. But I remember her crying.

Sobbing.

And I remember that she'd said something about her dad that made me believe he might be hurting her.

My stomach twists.

Please let that not be true.

He was there when I tried to see her one last time. And even in my distant memory, I remember him being scary.

I think of those less than legal people I know and wonder if we need to go fuck up his life. Some belated justice for scaring young Rosie.

I inhale deeply.

That same night, I wrote Rosie a letter. Left it at our spot in the woods, under that bag of marshmallows. But I never heard back from her. And I have to wonder if she even got the letter.

She might have gotten it and chosen not to write. But it's just as likely a squirrel took off with the bag of marshmallows, and the letter disappeared into the woods.

Leaning closer to the glass, I watch Rosie tip her face back, like she's soaking in the sun.

Since the pantry, I've thought about that first moment when Rosie opened the door.

Over and over, I've replayed it.

Her nervousness.

How quiet she was.

That constant shimmer of tears.

How I offered her a fucking signature because I thought she was an overwhelmed fan.

I rock back on my heels.

I'd say I owe her an apology for that. But considering Rosie let me finger her without telling me who she really was… I think we're even.

With that in mind, I step away from the windows.

Time to go check in with my caterer before the picnic starts.