9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Rosalie was doing great. She really was. She'd caught up with some old friends for dinner on Wednesday night and they'd all shared stories reminiscing about their wild twenties, before both sets of couples at the table left early, citing small children who'd be restless in the night and babysitters to relieve. She'd felt smug as she finished her glass of wine at the empty table, and then went home to her silent house. Her peaceful house, that was.

She'd impressed Shelby by announcing that on Saturday afternoons she'd started going to an indoor rock wall to learn how to climb, her arm muscles shaking and sore as she lazed in the bath that night. Then, that Sunday she'd found a new vintage market, buying on a whim, an old set of drawers she imagined figuring out how to restore. She was doing interesting stuff. Being spontaneous. Leaving the house. Maybe she'd learn French or how to throw clay or something. Then young Rosalie could stop nagging her about her not fully taking advantage of her adult freedoms. Honestly, what the hell did her sixteen year old self know about the world anyway? She'd eaten strawberry pop tarts for breakfast every day.

Lately the memories seemed to be slamming her harder than usual. It was the Republicans, she was pretty sure, because who'd have thought that things could have gotten worse for trans kids than they'd been back in 2002? That and the phone call she kept declining: her mother calling again. Not a chance, mom, she thought.

She attended a round table of state-level lobby groups, everyone exhausted but ready to fight. She presented arguments before the state legislature, a woman screaming at her that she was a pedophile kiddy groomer on her way out the door. She spoke to Savannah and got their security upgraded to around the clock after a man walked in off the street with a placard saying Save Our Children on it and shouted conspiracy theory garbage at Rosalie while she neatly closed the door to the office before he could spot Shelby. They had to temporarily shut down their phone lines after a "feminist" organization began to target them with abusive calls, because nothing says feminism like death threats from women who associated with Nazis.

She pulled her staff into a meeting, from Shelby to the receptionist, the youth workers who staffed the emergency housing and all the regular volunteers to check in.

The small boardroom at the back of the centre quickly filled with humanity and despair. Every seat at the table was taken, some with shoulders back, ready for a call to action, others propping themselves against the walls, shoulders slumped. Rosalie's heart cracked when she saw Lane, their eyes blazing with hope as Rosalie stepped to the front of the room.

"Times are rough," she said simply, then cast her eyes at the ceiling, acknowledging the understatement. "I want you to know that I see all of you, and the work you're doing under immense pressure is incredible. They see it," she gestured out to the center and all the kids they supported, "which matters even more."

She heard a sniff and saw that one of the volunteers was crying. Cracks were showing left, right and centre. She watched as one of her youth workers slipped an arm around the volunteer's shoulders, bolstering their colleague.

"These things move in cycles," she took a deep breath, trying to ground herself, "and progress is never linear. The cycle will move on eventually and everyone will be able to breathe a little easier. This won't last forever. But I'm not prepared to lose anyone. If you need a breather, you can tell me. If you need to quit, you can tell me. If you need someone to talk to, I've secured a psychologist from within the community and who specializes in burn out. I'd encourage you all to speak with her, in fact. We've got security who will escort you to and from your car if anyone feels unsafe and I'd encourage you to use that service too. Above all," she said, "you matter. Your safety, your mental health, your ability to thrive, all of it matters. So please know I'm available any time, day or night."

Afterward Shelby sat down with her.

"That was a good speech," she said. Rosalie raised her chin. Shelby was many amazing things, but a complimenter was not generally one of them. "Are you going to take your own advice?"

"Of course!" scoffed Rosalie. "Security has been walking me everywhere. I know the names of all their kids and their marital concerns at this point."

"And the burnout counselor?"

She tilted her head. "I'm good," she said.

Shelby clucked her tongue, her eyebrows making obvious her view on that. Rosalie ignored her. She was resilient. She'd coped with worse and she'd cope with this. She was relieved her staff could speak to someone, but she herself didn't need help to remain functional.

She worked through lunch, pulling in the volunteer who'd been crying, counselled them, then sent them home early. She glared at her computer screen, distantly noting that she had 107 new emails she had to wade through. Her desk phone rang.

When Shelby walked in, she found Rosalie on the floor in a ball, her back to the wall, sobbing.

"Rosa, what's wrong?"

And that's when she had to look her friend in the eye and tell her it had happened again.

"Chloe," Rosalie said, choking on the name, unable to continue for a full minute. "She didn't make it."

Chloe, with her big dark eyes and sweet singing at Kinsey's songwriting session, her obsession with early 2000s boy bands that she called retro. Chloe who only ever heard her correct pronouns once a week when she came to the center. Chloe, who was so brave for so long, until the darkness became too much.

Rosalie and Shelby sat for as long as they could, cold hands gripped tight, balled-up kleenex surrounding them as they slowed their shaking breaths. Then, they got off the floor and swung into action, following the protocols they'd developed together after one too many phone calls like the one Rosalie had just taken. Rosalie arranged the bereavement counselor while Shelby alerted the staff. The youth worker checked in on the two kids who lived on site and let the night worker know ahead of time. They sent a pair of outreach workers down to check in with the kids they knew within the homeless population, in case any of them were close to Chloe and needed support.

"I'll head down to the activity room for this afternoon's cooking session," Rosalie told Shelby. Chloe had been a regular attendee and there was about to be a collection of further traumatized kids there.

"No," said Shelby. "You won't."

Rosalie's spine stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"You're not the right person," she said. "I'm devastated too, of course I am. Every time we lose someone…" she trailed off, before she raised her chin, eyes narrowed as she made her pronouncement. "You," she said, "are triggered though. And that's different altogether."

"That's not a fair thing to say," Rosalie said quietly. "We've all lost people we love."

"Yeah," said Shelby. "We weren't all sixteen at the time. And a lot of us have done a whole pile of work processing our shit. You know, like with burnout counselors."

"I'm a social worker," Rosalie reminded her. "I've got a master's degree. Do you know how much professional supervision I had to go through to get that? I've processed a lot of shit."

"You know as well as I do that that's not the same thing as going to see someone." Their eyes locked, neither woman backing down. "Rosa," Shelby said. "I'm worried about you."

"We literally just had a death-"

"Yeah. We work with the most vulnerable youth on the planet. It's not the first time and it's not the last time. We both cried when we heard the news, but you still haven't stopped."

"What?" Rosalie touched her cheek, fingers coming away wet, and looked down at her shirt. Tear drops soaked the cotton, the fabric sticking to her hot clammy skin. Shelby nodded meaningfully as Rosalie slowly registered the state she was in.

"Okay," she acknowledged, eventually, wiping her eyes. "I'm always going to struggle when a child dies because the world fucking sucks. But I know Chloe isn't Rachel."

"Do you?"

"What does that mean?"

"I can see the guilt in your eyes. We did what we could, Rosalie. We did everything we could. Just like you did back then."

It wasn't enough though, was it, came the voice in her head.

Rosalie finally managed to stop crying, but she let Shelby go and speak with the kids in the cooking session. She sat in the office and stared blindly at her stack of admin tasks. She went through Chloe's file, trying to understand if she'd missed something she shouldn't have. She made a note of which school Chloe had attended and sent an email to the principal, providing details of support options for queer kids at her school which she knew from past experience would probably be ignored. She took a couple of calls - one from a distressed kid and another from an abusive TERF.

"Kids are dying," she snapped into the phone. "Go fuck yourself you fascist cunt."

"Nice to know you haven't lost any of your finesse."

Rosalie's head snapped up, and there in the doorway, blonde, beautiful, and looking like a billion bucks, stood Savannah Grace. "I heard," she said simply, her eyes meeting Rosalie's. Rosalie covered her face and cried. Savannah tugged her up out of her chair, into her arms and held her.

An hour later the two of them sat on Rosalie's sofa, curled up like bookends. She felt Savannah's eyes on her face. After security had escorted them to Rosalie's car, Savannah had straight up pretended she still knew how to drive after too many years of being chauffeured from place to place. Rosalie was grateful to have made it home alive. She looked back at her friend.

"I think," she said slowly, "that I'm maybe having a mid-life crisis."

Savannah snorted.

"Only if you're only planning to live until-"she paused and did a mental calculation."Oh shit, maybe you are," she breathed, her eyes going wide. Rosalie laughed. "What are your symptoms?" Savannah asked her, topping up her glass of wine before curling back up on the couch. "Have you started purchasing luxury vehicles?"

"No, but I did start rock climbing," she said. "And I considered starting a language class or maybe doing pottery."

" Pottery… " Savannah whispered, looking truly disturbed. "Ros," she said, her face serious, "it's been forever. I think you probably need to go and get laid."

"Ugh." Rosalie tipped her head back and stared up at the ceiling. She scrunched back down on the sofa as if she could hide from her own actions. "That's maybe what kicked all this off," she said with a slight wince. "I had some super hot sex with someone I shouldn't have."

"Oh my god, finally! This is why we're still friends," Savannah said, sitting up straight, her eyes bright. "Tell me everything. In detail."

Rosalie opened her mouth. Then she closed it again."I don't want to. I feel like if I talk about it, it'll ruin the…magic."

"You don't want to tell me because you don't want me to ruin your ability to fantasize about it," Savannah accused, looking straight up intrigued.

"It was really hot," Rosalie admitted, cheeks burning at the memory.

"Someone you shouldn't, huh?" Savannah tapped her chin thoughtfully with one perfectly manicured finger. "Well, that's going to drive me nuts."

"I'm not telling you," Rosalie said. "But it all seems to have left me spiraling a little, and I don't really know why."

Savannah raised her eyebrows.

"I mean, sure. That, and the burnout," she said.

Rosalie frowned. "Have you been talking to Shelby?"

"No," she said, cocking her head, "I just have eyes, Ros. And ears. I know the state of things. But if Shelby is saying the same thing then I'm really worried."

"I'm okay, honestly," Rosalie said and attempted a shrug. "It's rough on everyone. And today… god," she fought back tears again. "She was fifteen, you know?"

"A baby." Savannah's voice cracked. "Her poor parents."

"Fuck her parents," Rosalie snapped. "They should have done better by her."

Savannah took a sharp breath. Her slow exhale sounded like a warning.

"Honey," she said, "I think you need to take a break."

"What? No. Absolutely not. This is not the time to take leave. Everyone is in crisis."

"The crisis is ongoing," Savannah pointed out. "It's not going anywhere any time soon. But you are."

"The hell I am."

They squared off across the couch, Rosalie's chin raised and Savannah's eyes reflecting steel. Then Savannah sighed.

"I don't pull this very often, but technically, if it comes down to it, I'm your boss. You're taking a vacation. I'm not giving you the option because I know you won't take it."

"Savannah!" Rosalie's voice got sharp. She felt panicked, and very fucking angry. "Don't do this."

"I'm doing it. I'm going to call the board and put arrangements in place, effective immediately. Oh my god, sit down, what are you going to do? Tackle me? I have kids, Rosalie."

And that was how, to her horror, twenty-four hours later, Rosalie found herself on a private jet to Vermont.