79. Nate

SEVENTY-NINE

NATE

I hold open the front door of Rosie's building, and Tony walks through.

"Nice security." He lifts a brow.

"I know."

But I can't think about that fucking unlocked door right now. That's a problem for later.

Tony jogs up the stairs, and I follow him.

As soon as I hung up with Presley, I called my friend.

We met a decade ago through some random mutuals on the West Coast, but he's actually from around here. Tony's in the process of finding a house to buy in Arizona, but luckily for me, he's back home house-sitting for his parents while they travel.

Tony rounds the top of the stairs and starts up the next flight.

He's a good guy.

The best sort of friend.

But he's also shady as fuck.

I don't ask questions beyond what he offers, but I know he can get me into Rosie's apartment quicker than I could track down her keys.

"So." Tony looks back and forth across the short hallway. "Which one is hers? "

"Fuck me." I clench my jaw. Two apartments occupy the third floor, and I didn't ask which one.

Tony holds up his hand, small metal tools glinting under the overhead light. "I can just open both."

I roll my eyes.

A good guy but one who doesn't always think about the consequences.

"You can't just open someone's door. What if they're home?"

He shrugs. "I'll tell them I had the wrong number."

"You're an idiot." I look back and forth between the doors.

"Do you have a better idea?" Tony leans his shoulder against the wall.

"I do." I lower to the floor and crawl over to the closest door.

"The fuck are you doing?" Tony sounds like he's trying not to laugh.

I ignore him, put my nose to the bottom of the door, and sniff.

"I need you to appreciate my restraint right now," Tony says flatly. "If this were any other situation, I'd be recording this."

"Uh-huh," I say absently.

I don't know if I expected to smell scents of her cooking or her shampoo, but the inhale of incense is an even better answer. If she lived here, I would've smelled that on her.

I point to the other door as I lean back onto my heels. "That one."

Tony pushes off the wall, and by the time I've gotten to my feet and crossed the hall, he's pushing open the now unlocked door.

He steps aside, and I walk into Rosie's apartment.

I'm tempted to look around. To touch everything. But I need to get her stuff and get to the hospital.

The fucking hospital.

The apartment is small, and I can see the door straight ahead that must lead to her bedroom.

I stride for the door.

"I'll wait here," Tony calls out as I hear furniture creak under his weight.

I don't answer. And alone, I step into Rosie's bedroom.

Turning on the light, I stand in her room and take a heartbeat to calm myself .

On the way over, I thought through what sort of clothes Rosie will need. I just need to focus and find all the comfortable things.

I start with the dresser under the window.

I pull the top drawer open. Underwear.

Reaching in, I grab a handful, then drop them because I need something to carry everything in.

Cursing myself for not bringing a suitcase, I turn to Rosie's closet.

The doors fold open to either side, revealing a standard closet with one shelf up top and a bar to hang clothes on.

Shirts and dresses hang from the single bar, and plastic storage bins line the floor—stacked three high.

I huff out a breath, then spot the large duffel bag on the top shelf.

Good enough.

I grip the side of the bag and drag it off the shelf.

Dropping it on the bed, I unzip the duffel and find another similar bag inside.

I pull out the second bag and set it on the bed next to the first.

Whether it's a break or a sprain, Rosie will have to stay off her ankle for weeks. So I should probably take as much of her stuff as I can fit.

I unzip the second bag and find a shoe box inside.

It's plain, with a rectangular lid that comes all the way off, printed with a brand that's no longer in business.

Trepidation settles around me as I lift the box out of the duffel.

I should set it aside.

I should put it back up on the shelf.

It was hidden inside two bags for a reason.

It's old.

It's none of my business.

But there's something about it that feels impossible to ignore.

Carefully, like the contents might be fragile, I set it on the nightstand.

"Forgive me," I whisper. Then I lift the lid.

Paper.

Folded letters .

The entire box is filled with folded pages, tucked together, propped upright with the long edge resting on the bottom of the box.

The folded paper fills the box end to end.

Slowly, I drag my fingers across the surface, the top edges dancing under my touch.

There are dozens.

But they aren't all the same.

The pages are different shades of white. Some lined, some not. But all folded the same in the perfect tri-fold of a proper letter.

Except the first one.

The one at the far end of the box is different.

I hesitate, then I reach for the sole envelope.

As I lift it, I turn it so the front faces me.

And nothing in the world could have prepared me for what was written there.

My mouth opens, and every molecule of air slips from my lungs.

It's a child's handwriting.

And I know it's hers.

Nathan Waller

323 Kendel Way

Cleveland, OH 44111

But it's not the writing that makes my hand shake. It's the bright red ink.

It's the UNDELIVERABLE that makes it impossible to breathe.

I stare at the envelope in my hand.

She wrote to me.

She got my letter. And she wrote to me.

But the address is wrong.

Dread.

Dread like I've never known locks my feet to the floor.

Rosie is meticulous. Even back then. Even twenty-five years ago, Rosie wouldn't have made a mistake.

It had to have been me .

I must've written it down wrong.

I left her. Moved away. And when Rosie wrote to me, it got sent back to her.

I swallow, feeling like I'm going to be sick.

I turn the envelope over and lift the torn seal.

There are two pieces of paper inside.

I pull them both out.

When the first paper is half unfolded, I recognize my handwriting. The letter I left for Rosie the night before I moved.

And even though I don't want to look, I do.

Dear Rosie,

I'm sorry I waited so long to tell you…

I force my eyes down to the address.

The incorrect address. I messed up the numbers.

My heart breaks a little for myself.

I thought she didn't get the letter. Or ignored it.

I was sad she never wrote me.

I trace my fingertip along the edge of the page.

It's worn. Soft. Like it's been handled many times.

Like someone has run their fingers across the paper over and over.

"Fuck." My curse comes out broken. "Fuck."

I refold the letter and slide it back into the envelope.

Then I look at the one still left in my hand.

This is my letter.

The one she wrote to me.

So I won't feel bad about reading it.

But as soon as I start, I wish I hadn't.

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,

Rosie

Heat builds in my eyes as I fold the letter and put it back into the envelope.

My dad won't like that.

I haven't forgotten about him.

Haven't forgotten the franticness that laced Rosie's sobs when I told her I was moving.

Haven't forgotten her answer when I asked if he hurt her.

Not like that.

"Rosie." I say her name like a prayer.

I slide the envelope back into its spot at the end of the row inside the box.

Is this why I see that sadness in her eyes?

Because she tried to write to me, but I fucked it all up?

Because eight-year-old Rosie wanted to ask twelve-year-old me for a hug.

I pull in a deep breath.

My best friend writing me because she wanted a fucking hug.

But I wasn't there.

My eyes trail over the rest of the folded letters.

They have to be something else.

A collection of letters from something else.

But the longer I stare, the worse I feel.

And I need to know.

I pull out the next folded piece of paper.

And when I open it, I feel the weight of it on my sternum.

It's to me.

I glance at the box, and I know.

All these letters are to me.

Dear Nathan,

I know I can't send you this letter. But I can't stop myself from writing it.

I miss you a lot.

Like so much.

And I keep wondering if you miss me too.

Love,

Rosie

I suck in a breath.

I missed her too.

I'd missed her so fucking much, and I couldn't tell her.

Didn't tell her.

That fucking day.

That fucking day I told her I was moving. How I'd waited because I was a coward. How if I'd told her sooner, maybe we could have talked about it, and I could have gotten her the right address.

How different all this would be if I'd just gotten that first fucking letter.

I put the paper back in the box and pick up the next.

And the next.

And the next.

They're all to me.

And they're all sad.

Only one letter hasn't been sad.

Just one .

Dear Nathan,

I saw a bunny today. I was sitting in the woods in our spot, and I was still for so long that he hopped right up to me.

I wanted to feed him a marshmallow, but I don't think they're supposed to eat them. So I guess I'll have to finish the bag myself.

PS It's a new bag I bought for myself with a five I found on the ground in the park. I finished the bag you left a long time ago.

Love,

Rosie

I can picture it. Her sitting quietly in the woods.

I fold the page and put it back.

There are so many letters.

And I read them.

Because they're mine.

I pull out another.

After the first few, she started dating them. And the date at the top of the letter in my hand is four years after I moved.

To the day.

Dear Nathan,

He hit me today.

My knees give out, and I drop onto Rosie's bed.

"No." The paper trembles in my hand.

He's never hurt me like that before.

It was always just words.

Do you remember when you left? Do you remember asking me if he hurt me?

I wish I'd told you then. I wish I'd told you how mean he was.

But it was always just words.

Tear marks stain the page, and I feel like I'm going to throw up.

He wasn't always like this. But ever since Mom died…

It's been bad, Nathan.

I wish I'd told you.

I wish I could've gone with you.

But that's just not how my life works.

I miss you.

Rosie

I drop my head forward.

The bastard hit her.

She was twelve. She was the age I was when I moved away. And her dad fucking hit her.

I can't even imagine.

Memories of my own family drag through my mind.

Laughter. Dinners at the table. Homework. Movies.

I lived in comfort while my Rosie was living in hell.

As I slide the paper back into the box and pull out the next, a part of me understands that I was just a kid too. I'm not responsible for her dad. But if I'd known… If I'd seen the signs or asked more questions, I could've told someone.

My parents would have done something.

That uselessness I felt walking into this room has nothing on the way I feel now.

I might have been a kid. But I still hate myself for what I unknowingly let happen.

I open the next letter.

I fell asleep in the woods today. I didn't feel like going home.

And the next.

I broke my arm. I had to tell the doctor I fell.

Another and another.

I read them until my vision is blurry.

Until my tears fall onto the pages, mixing with Rosie's.

And I can't stop.

I need to know.

I need to read them.

I owe her that much.

I owe her the friend she lost.

I feel like years have passed when I pull out the last letter. The final one in the box.

She was nineteen when she wrote it.

Dear Nathan,

It's time to let you go.

You don't know it, but you've been saving me for years.

I pretend you read these letters.

I make up your responses in my head.

I pretend you understand.

Pretend you think of me when I think about you.

I pretend a lot of things…

But today is different. Because my dad died today.

It was a long time coming. And I feel like I can finally breathe for the first time in my life.

While I was in the waiting room at the hospital, I saw you.

You were being interviewed after a game for catching the winning touchdown.

Your eyes are the same, you know?

Somewhere inside that athlete's body, you're still that sweet boy from down the street.

The one who befriended me when no one else would.

I'm so proud of you. And I still miss you. But I'm finally free.

And I need to be free of you too.

Because you don't read these letters.

Because I don't send them.

Because even if I could, you probably don't remember me.

Maybe you've forgotten all about me.

And that's okay.

But I need to stop pretending now.

Goodbye, Nathan.

I'll always love who you were to me. But this will be my last letter.

Your friend,

The girl from the woods

Something splits inside me.

I drop the letter on top of the box and press my palms into my eyes.

My blood feels like it's on fire.

I feel like this sense of failure is going to pull me through the floor.

Because she's right.

I didn't read her cries for help.

And I wasn't thinking of her when she was thinking of me.

Because I'd forgotten.

Like her last letter said. I'd forgotten all about my Rosie.

She was all alone, and I was living out my dreams.

I didn't help her.

My lungs struggle to inhale.

I didn't help her.

No one did.

"We gotta take care of somebody?" Tony's low voice comes from the doorway.

He's never sounded so serious. And it's like I'm hearing the real him for the first time.

Because I know exactly what he means, and I kinda love him for it.

I shake my head. "He's already dead."

Tony grunts.

"I wish he wasn't," I whisper. "Whatever end he got… It wasn't enough."