Rosie

ROSIE

I shove the branch out of my way, my stumbling steps taking me off my usual path.

The deep, hiccuping sobs make it hard to walk straight.

I was planning to come out here today.

Planning to see Nathan one more time.

Hoping he'd come out here too.

But when I looked out our front window, after eating the cheese sandwich I made for lunch, I saw it.

The moving truck.

Leaving.

It almost made me throw up.

I had to slap my hands over my mouth to keep my sounds in.

I was planning to see him.

But last night I cried myself to sleep. And then I slept in late.

Too late.

Because Nathan is gone.

My foot catches on a root, and I fall forward, my palms meeting dirt and pine needles.

Wincing, I get back on my feet and brush my hands on my pants.

"Stupid," I hiss at myself.

Using the back of my hands, I wipe the tears from my eyes.

A spot of white catches my attention, and for one tiny second, I think it's Nathan.

It's not him.

It's the marshmallow bag.

More tears fall.

I wanted to take it last night. He usually lets me keep them. But it didn't feel right. Even when my grumbling stomach sent me back home.

After I got home, I ate ramen in my bedroom, then I took a shower. And I swear I heard the doorbell while I was in the bathroom, but when I got out, everything was still the same.

My hands are too sore to boost myself up onto the log, so I just grab the bag with plans to sit on the ground.

But a piece of paper slides off the log and floats through the air.

I catch it.

And with shaking hands, I unfold the paper and flatten it on the log.

Dear ,

I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you. I knew it would suck, and I didn't want to make you sad. But now we're both sad, and I didn't get to tell you goodbye.

I don't want to leave you.

If your dad

If you ever don't feel safe, call someone.

I don't know what our phone number will be yet, but maybe you can write to me?

Our new address is:

323 Kendel Way

Cleveland, OH 44111

Your friend,

Nathan

I crouch at the top of the stairs, waiting for Dad to leave.

He doesn't leave the house much, just to go get food and beer.

He left once last week, but it was the day after Nathan moved, and I didn't know how long it would take them to get to Ohio. So I decided to wait.

But it's been two weeks since he left, and I think that's enough time for Nathan to get to his new house.

The front door slams, and I wait a handful of long seconds before I scurry down the staircase.

The sound of an engine starting signals the next step, and I hook just one finger around the edge of the living room curtains to peek out.

Dad's pickup is backing down the driveway.

That foreign sense of safety fills the house with his absence.

If you don't feel safe, call someone.

I reread that sentence so many times.

Call who?

His truck disappears out of view, and I turn to look at the clock on the wall in the kitchen.

Once two minutes go by, I open the door.

If Dad caught me doing this… I don't know what would happen.

The letter itself is bad enough, but using Mom's envelopes and stamps, even though they've just been sitting in her nightstand since she died? He might actually kill me for touching them.

But staying in contact with Nathan is worth the risk.

With my pulse beating wildly, I run across the yard and sidewalk to our mailbox.

I open the door and slip the envelope inside, then lift the little metal flag on the side of the box.

It should be fully dark by the time Dad gets back, and all I can do is hope he won't notice there's outgoing mail.

Holding my breath, I close the mailbox and wonder how long until Nathan gets it and writes back.

Dear Nathan,

I'm sorry too. I never even asked you how you felt about moving.

And I'm sorry for crying so much. And for not saying goodbye.

I wish I would have asked you for a hug before you left.

A hug would be really nice.

I hope your new house is nice.

If you send me your new phone number, I can call you. But don't call me. My dad won't like that.

I miss you.

Your best friend,

My fingers tremble as I reach into the mailbox.

I've checked it every single day since I mailed my letter to Nathan, getting more and more defeated as each day passes without a response.

But this time, an envelope sticks out from the rest.

It's the same size as the one I sent him.

It must be…

I drag the rectangle out of the stack of mail.

It's upside down.

Holding it on either side, I twist it in my fingers until the top side is up.

But it's not addressed to me. It's addressed by me.

UNDELIVERABLE

I blink at the bold red letters stamped across the front of the envelope.

Undeliverable.

No.

Something inside me breaks.

Please no.

I slam the mailbox shut, leaving the other mail there, and sprint back to my house.

It can't be.

I rush through the front door and up the stairs.

Dad shouts something at me, but he doesn't get up from his chair.

I'm gasping for breath when I get to my room, but I still manage to shut my door quietly before leaning against it.

My eyes jump over the envelope.

Nathan Waller

323 Kendel Way

Cleveland, OH 44111

I checked it so many times when I wrote it, but I must've messed it up.

I press my ear to the door, making sure Dad didn't decide to come upstairs to yell at me for running in the house, but I don't hear anything.

I move to my bed and drop to my knees, digging the notebook out from between my mattress and box spring.

Setting it on the bed, I open the notebook and take out Nathan's letter, then spread it open next to the envelope I just took out of the mailbox.

Word by word, I check that I copied it right.

I check it again.

And again.

I keep checking it, and my heart sinks deeper each time. Because I copied it right.

I copied it right, but it's wrong.

That's what undeliverable means. It means I don't have Nathan's real address.

I don't have any way to contact him.

Struggling to breathe, I rip another page out of my notebook, carry it over to my small desk, and pick up my pen.

My hand is shaking so badly that it's hard to read the words I write.