Rosie

ROSIE

(AGE 19)

"And we're here now with tonight's fan favorite, wide receiver Nate Waller."

I lift my gaze to the TV on the opposite wall.

The volume isn't loud, but the hospital waiting room is quiet at this time of night.

I shove my hands under my thighs and watch as a man—I used to know as a boy—steps into frame.

His hair is darker now.

Darker yet with sweat. And it's matted to his head, but he still looks incredibly handsome.

"I can only catch it if my quarterback throws it." Nathan grins at the reporter, and I close my eyes.

I feel a smile try to tug at my mouth, but it doesn't quite form.

How different our lives became.

How far apart we floated.

I inhale deeply and try to ignore the antiseptic tinge in the air.

Closing my eyes, I listen to Nathan's voice as he talks about his game tonight.

It's not the first time I've heard it since he moved away all those years ago.

The first time I heard it… I cried.

It had been a bad day—bad in every sense of the word—so I was already in a sad mood.

I was in a gas station, setting my candy bar down on the counter, and the guy working the register had a small TV playing behind the displays of energy shots.

I wasn't paying attention to the TV. Didn't care what was on, letting the audio float over me. But then the guy on the TV said Nathan's name. Upbeat. Casual. Just like the guy on the TV now.

But that day, standing in the gas station, when I heard it, I froze.

I hadn't known.

Hadn't realized Nathan had made it to the professional league.

I had no idea.

So I looked at the TV. And I watched him walk into view on camera, a decade after I'd last seen him, and I hardly recognized him.

Then he started speaking, and his voice was different too.

And it was all too much.

I left my candy on the counter and ran out the doors.

I was crying before I even got into my car.

Crying for myself.

Crying over the fact that I didn't recognize the man on the screen.

And even crying a few happy tears for Nathan. Because he'd achieved his dreams.

A nurse clears her throat, and I open my eyes.

She explains the next steps and hands me the paperwork I'll need when it's time to claim my dad's body.

I thank her and then slowly weave my way back through the hospital toward the front doors, where I entered after following the ambulance in.

And as I drive home, I think of the two men who have consumed my life.

My tormentor and my savior.

Only one knowing their role.

It's a short ride home, and when I get there, I walk past the living room, keeping my eyes averted from my dad's favorite chair, and head upstairs to my room.

I shut the door behind me, even though no one else is in the house, and I walk over to my desk.

It's sized for a child. A little wobbly. But it fits perfectly under the window, looking out into the woods.

I sit in my chair.

My dad died tonight.

And that means I'm free.

But I need to be free of Nathan too.

Reaching into the top drawer, I pull out a notebook and tear out a sheet of paper.

My hand shakes a little, and before I reach for my pen, I reach for my bag of marshmallows.

They're minis—easier for me to savor than the big ones. But I still only put one in my mouth.

I let it dissolve on my tongue as I stare down at the blank page.

When the marshmallow is gone, I grab my pen and start writing my second letter of the night.

Dear Nathan,

It's time to let you go…

Once I've signed the letter, I fold the paper into thirds, but I don't put it in an envelope.

I stand and go to my closet, where I crouch down.

When I find the right shoebox, I open it up.

Papers folded just like this one fill the box. Only the first one is in an envelope.

The first letter I ever wrote him. The one that got returned.

I press the letter currently in my hand against my chest and breathe.

I have no idea what I'm going to do now.

No idea where I'll go.

There's no one left to tell me what to do.

No one to care.

I lift the letter to my lips and place a soft kiss on the paper. Then I slip it into the box at the end of the row.

The last of dozens of letters I've written to Nathan.

Letters I've written but never mailed.