CHAPTER 28 - Rosie

A mon leaves after I push him away and lock him out. And, of course, this is expected because that's what I told him to do. Leave me alone. So that's what he does.

But it's not what I want. What I want is someone to tell me it's gonna be OK. That everything is gonna work out, and Cross will come home, and Erol will go back to where he disappeared to, and my life will pick back up with Amon and I falling in love and living happily ever after.

The problem is, if I let Amon stay, he would say all those things. He would make all the promises. And then I would start to believe him because… well, he's Amon Parrish. He's just got that vibe about him. The kind of vibe that comes off as competence. Which, in turn, lends itself to being believed.

But competent as he is, this really isn't about Amon and me. So solving it won't depend on something as simple as competence because Erol Cross is… well, I'm not sure what he is, but he's not a nobody, that I understand. And he's not simple, either. He's complicated and part of something big, and secretive, and mysterious. I mean, if I'm being honest, he comes off as one of those super-soldier spy thriller protagonists. Like he's ten steps ahead of everyone else and the plot only exists so he can play his part in it.

It's the puzzles, I think. What a creepy, yet creative, way to get the attention of the woman you walked out on twelve years ago just as she was about to give birth to your child.

And this is the problem. My child is the whole point of everything at the moment.

Of course Erol was spying on us. He had to be. Because he knew what was on Cross's mind. He understood his longing to grow up and be a part of something important. And then he used it against me.

I don't know how he actually snatched him up or how he got Cross to agree to go with him last night, but it doesn't matter. The timer is a-tickin'.

You've got twenty-four hours, Rosie . That's what he said.

And if I say no? That's what I said.

You're not gonna say no .

This is the part that really kinda pisses me off. This assumption that this man is anything but a stranger to me. That he knows me.

He doesn't know me.

Sure, maybe he's been watching. And he knows where I work. All my different jobs. So good for him, I guess. Following me around must've been an eye-opener.

But it don't mean nothin', these facts that he now possesses. Because the actual jobs, or the location thereof, aren't the point of doing them. It's not even the costume. It's not even the fantasy.

See, you put that costume on and you turn into something else. Lots of people like doing this. I mean, they have that damn Confederate reenactment going on all over the South every single fuckin' year. There are whole conventions where people dress up and don't even get me started on Hollywood. That town is nothing but pretend.

It's not the costume, or the implied fantasy that comes with it. Not in my mind, anyway. I can't speak for anyone else who likes to play dress-up, of course.

But for me, it's the story I'm after.

My life is a story—as is everyone's. But I take this storytelling a little more literal than most. That's why I run that stupid printing press every week. Though it's only stupid in an affectionate way, obviously, since I love it. That's why I work in the diner dressed up like Flo from that vintage TV show. That's why I stuck around this town when they all wanted to shame me out.

My life is a story and I'm the writer, and the narrator, and the main character. And Erol Cross can't just follow me around for a few weeks and claim to know my story. Because he doesn't.

And that's what he did. He claimed to know my story. You're not gonna say no. We both know that.

Erol Cross thinks he can just swagger his way back into our lives lookin' all Jack fuckin' Reacher and rewrite my story, and I'm just gonna go on record right now and say that's not the case.

It's just not the case.

My story has a big fat copyright sign on it. It belongs to me, and me only. And he can't have it.

But the ownership of my story—absolute as it is—doesn't solve my current problem. Because my current problem is that Cross is in the middle of writing his story as well. And since he's mine, and has lived with me all his life, and has watched me carefully craft my story as he grew—using costumes, and jobs, and anything else I could get my hands on—well, how could my boy not aspire to bigger things?

He does, after all, possess a matching set of ‘bold' genes.

And I can respect that. I can. I do.

I see the draw of his secret-spy father. I absolutely get it. Underground cities runnin' military operations? It's a very exciting story. Especially since Cross's story, so far, has consisted of singing old-timey hymns in the children's choir under a big ol' tent.

Which isn't enough for Cross Harlow. It's just not enough.

The sad part of my actualization is that it's coming a couple of days too late.

Yes. This is my true problem. I'm late to the game. It started without me and I'm behind a few points.

But doesn't everybody love an underdog?

Just as I'm thinking these words I glance at the clock and realize that it's dinner time. Seven-thirty. And when I step over to the window and look out, there's nothing to see because the whole town is home right now. Sitting around their table, chatting about their day, and just being a family.

I turn, glancing at my own dinner table. Which is depressing because it's empty. I haven't eaten all day, but I'm not hungry. I just miss my son and want him back.

Noon tomorrow. Sixteen and a half hours until I can see him again.

The roar of a truck pulls my attention back to the window. Amon is here. His truck slides into the driveway next to mine and as he gets out, I walk to the door, open it, and step out onto the porch.

Because I have made up my mind. I know what I have to do.

"Rosie!" Amon rushes up to the porch. He's just about to open his mouth and say something when I put up a hand. A look of confusion crosses his face, but it's enough to make him pause. And this pause is all I need.

"I need you to know something, Amon. And I need you to just… not say anything and let me get it out." Which spurs him into trying to reply, but I push my hand forward, causing him to pause again. "Just hear me out. Because my life has taken a turn here, Amon. In many ways. It's not just you, either. It's Cross—before he was kidnapped—and me, as well. You see, my boy was flashing me all the signs. He was giving me all the warnings. And I was just turning my cheek to him, pretending he's still a child who can be molded into the person I envisioned him to be. But I can't. It is time now for me to let go."

"Are you saying"—Amon's brow is thoroughly crinkled—"that you're not going with Erol?"

"Oh, I'm saying that and much more."

"But… Cross, Rosie. You can't choose me over Cross."

I walk towards him and place my hand on his chest. "I'm not choosing you over him. I'm choosing me."

Amon starts shaking his head. "I don't get it."

"Will you marry me, Amon?"

His smile is so immediate, it lights up my whole life. It is enough to illuminate the darkest black hole. "Did you just ask me to marry you?"

"I did. You see, there's only one way out of this and that's together."

"But what about Cross?"

"Oh, I didn't forget about Cross. This is the selfish part of my proposal because while he might not choose me over his exciting secret-spy-thriller daddy, you and me are a whole different story. And that's the best part. We get to write a brand-new story."

He chuckles. "Did you just admit to using me to lure your son back home?"

"I did."

"Well"—he smiles real big—"my answer is yes, of course. I will marry you, Rosie Harlow. And I am happy to be used as bait for a young boy who craves adventure in order to lure him home. But I'm gonna have to say no here, Rosie, you do realize that, right?"

"No? No to which part?"

"You can't ask me to marry you."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because that's my line. As the potential groom, I have one job and this is it." He points to the ground with his finger. "This is it. You stole my line."

"Oh, I see. I got a page ahead of you, didn't I?"

"What?"

"The story we're in. I read ahead."

He places a hand on my cheek and looks down at me like I am the illuminating one. "You can read ahead all you want. I don't mind it a bit. But you don't need to do everything yourself anymore, Rosie. I'm more than happy to do my share."

"Sorry." I giggle a little. "I didn't mean to steal your thunder, I just felt the need to make it clear that I choose you, Amon Parrish. And there isn't a chance in hell that I would even consider surrendering to the whims of one Erol Cross. He's out of his freaking mind if he thinks he can waltz back into my life with puzzles, and threats, and promises of underground cities thinking I will cower or even be impressed. I am not afraid of him, nor am I dazzled. And he will not outshine me in front of my son. I am shining, Amon. I shine. I am bright, and quirky, and a bundle of fun."

Amon takes a step towards me, closing any and all distance between us. He takes my hands in his and looks me right in the eyes. "You shine so bright you make me dizzy. You're a force of nature, Rosie Harlow. You are the definition of joy. You exemplify the idea of life lived to its fullest. You are big fancy dresses, and cheap, pink uniforms, and you play every part with your whole heart. And that's why I love you. And I want you to marry me ."

Without taking his eyes off mine, Amon Parrish slowly lowers himself down onto one knee. And when he looks up at me, he's shining too. "Marry me. Marry me in the Revival tent for real, Rosie. We'll have our own day with no tourists, and we'll have a big sit-down dinner, and you'll get a dress made special that isn't a costume, and everyone will come wearing whatever the hell they want, and not a single person in the tent will be acting, or have a script, or?—"

I place two fingers on his lips. "You don't need to convince me. I'm a ‘yes.'"

He stands up, smiling as he lets out a long breath. "OK. Good." Then he blinks. "But"—he holds up a finger—"I didn't really come here tonight to propose. You see, I have a way to get Cross back and it's guaranteed to work."

"How?"

"Well, let's go to the Revival tent and then I'll only have to explain it once."

"We're gettin' married right now?"

He laughs. "We can if you want. But I was kinda set on having our boy there as my best man, so how about we table the wedding and just concentrate on the rescue for now?"

And then he pulls me down the porch steps and we get in the truck.

A couple minutes later we're standing on the stage inside the tent and the call to Revival is blasting through Disciple. The murmur of people coming out of their houses at dusk rumbles back to us. And then they all start making their way to the tent.

Jim Bob, who lives right across the street in a big ol' white house, is one of the first to arrive. "Why in the red-hot hell is the call to Revival sounding on a Monday night!" His cheeks are all puffed out with anger and his red and white checkered dinner napkin is still hanging from his collar. Jim Bob is a beast on his best day, but he's particularly snarly when he's hungry and we have interrupted his dinner, so to say that he is vexed would be an understatement.

Amon starts talking before Jim Bob can continue his bellowing. "Just hear me out," he says while pushing the air towards Jim Bob with his palm. "There's a good reason for this call." Now he directs his attention to the people who are filing into the tent. "Everyone please take a seat. Rosie and I have something to discuss with y'all."

And then he starts telling them.