78. Nate

SEVENTY-EIGHT

NATE

I drum my fingers against the couch armrest.

It's still early. Not quite the time we agreed to meet. But late enough that Rosie should be done with her event by now.

I drum my fingers again.

Maybe I should just order food.

Another moment ticks by.

I pick up the remote and turn off the TV. I'm not watching it anyway.

I stand and start to pace.

I already put the mixing bowls and all the stuff we'll need for marshmallows on the counter. But now, as I think about it, maybe it's a stupid idea. Rosie literally spends all day cooking, and then I ask her to come over and do more…

I'm an asshole.

My feet change direction, and I head into the kitchen.

I'll put everything away, and if she really wants to make them, then I can take everything back out.

My fingers wrap around the rim of a mixing bowl when my phone vibrates with a call .

Thinking it's Rosie, I drop my hold of the bowl and yank my phone out.

It's not a number I have saved in my phone.

Usually I wouldn't answer, but…

I hit accept.

"Hello?"

"Hi, um, is this Nate Waller?" a female asks.

"Who's calling?" I ask instead of answering. The caller's voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't place it.

"This is Presley. I'm the one who works with Rosalyn." Coldness twists around my heart. "You gave me your card at that picnic and said to call if Rosalyn ever needed anything."

I brace my free hand on the counter. "What happened?" My throat is tight.

"Um." Presley's voice trembles, and I lean harder against the counter. "We—Someone—She's gonna be okay." She stops to suck in a noisy breath.

"Presley." I try to snap her name, but it comes out as a whisper.

"Sorry, sorry. She's okay. But… she's hurt."

That coldness crackles through my veins. "Where is she?"

"The hospital."

"Which one?" I push away from the counter, willing my legs to keep me upright.

My Rosie is hurt.

"Just wait, okay."

"Where's Rosie?" My voice is stronger now.

I stride toward the front door.

"Let me explain."

"Explain what?"

"She's gonna need your help." Presley's voice cracks again. "You said to tell you if she needs help."

Her words slice through me.

My girl is hurt and needs my help, and I'm just standing here.

"I'll do anything for her. Just tell me where she is," I grit out.

Presley's exhale is rough. "They're taking her back for a CT scan, or something like that, in just a moment. So even if you raced here, you wouldn't see her."

I stop walking and close my eyes, forcing a slow breath. "Tell me what happened."

"I promise she'll be okay, but I'm a crier. So I'm going to cry while I tell you this, but it doesn't mean anything bad." She finishes on a hitch.

"Okay." I keep my eyes closed. "My mom's a crier too."

She sniffs. "So, we were loading the van, and some guy driving down the road had, like, a medical emergency or something behind the wheel." My heart rate trips with each word out of her mouth. "Rosalyn, she… she saw them and shoved me out of the way." Presley's voice cracks.

My eyes open as I listen to her take another choppy breath.

I need her to keep talking.

I need her to tell me what happened.

But even though I understand criers, I can't ignore the emotion in her voice.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. Sorry. She just… Rosalyn saw the car, and she just pushed me. I scraped my elbow on the sidewalk when I landed. But… but she didn't have time." Presley sucks in a breath. "The car hit her."

A sound of distress that I don't recognize leaves my throat.

"She's okay," Presley says again. "But she hit her head pretty bad and has some scrapes… and her ankle… They don't know if it's broken or just sprained."

"But she's okay?" I whisper.

Presley said it already. But I need her to say it again.

"She's going to be totally okay. The doctors said it was all treatable, and she'll be fine once she heals. But… she needs a place to stay. Her apartment is a walk-up. I don't know if you've seen it, but she can't go there. Even if someone could help her up the first time, it's not safe for her to be stranded up on the third floor if?—"

"She'll stay here." I don't need to hear any more reasoning.

"I'd have her stay with me, but I already have two roommates, and there's no extra space."

"She'll stay with me," I repeat .

Presley exhales. "I'm sure she'll fight you on it. She never wants to accept help. But you're the only person I could think of to call. She doesn't have an emergency contact."

Another hit to my chest.

Rosie doesn't have an emergency contact.

I remember her mom died when she was young.

I remember she was an only child.

I remember her dad being scary.

I already know she works too much.

And now I know she doesn't even have an emergency fucking contact.

I tighten my grip on the phone. "She has me."

"Good. Okay, good." Presley's breathing evens out. "We're at Health Place in St. Paul."

"I know where it is." I continue toward the door.

"You need to go to Rosalyn's place first."

"What? Why?"

"She'll need to go from the hospital right to your place. If you take her to her apartment to get her stuff, she'll insist on staying. So go there first and get clothes and… whatever else."

"Good point," I admit.

I hate the idea of going anywhere but straight to Rosie's side. But Presley is right.

"Do you know where her apartment is?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Oh, and she won't have to do stairs in your house, right? I didn't even think?—"

"No stairs. And there's an elevator up to my condo."

"Thank fuck." Presley's relief is thick through the line. But even if my house was made of nothing but stairs, I'd rent out a place that wasn't. "I'll text you her room number. They said only family could visit, so I lied and said she was my sister. But they'll probably let you in since you're… you."

"I'll get in," I say with confidence.

"Oh shit, you'll need her apartment keys."

"I'll get in," I repeat, still meaning it .

"How…?"

"I know a guy."

"Okay. Just make sure the locksmith doesn't break anything. I don't want Rosie getting in trouble with her building."

I think of my buddy Tony Stoleman.

Not a locksmith.

Then I head for the door. "We won't make a mark."