“That’s okay.” I close the door and head back down the stairs. My sticky shirt is going to remain sticky—at least until I get back to my room.
This house reminds me of a fun house at a carnival, and it’s exhilarating. Every step, every turn is filled with strange and thrilling horrors.
I carefully make my way back to the living room and search for Gina. She’s talking to a couple of guys. They laugh. A coy smirk flashes across her face and she places a hand on each guy’s chest.
“Gina! Gina!” I wave, but the party is too loud. Moving past people, I make my way toward my roommate.
Another set of girls is being couch tipped. It’s like a weird ritual. I can’t help but stare. Which is bad, because that means I’m not watching where I’m going.
I walk into a hard body. “Oof,” I say and look up.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low. “Watch it.” He smells like fresh laundry and aftershave.
I’m about to utter an apology but the words freeze on my lips. His eyes are brilliant blue. Twin glaciers. Bright. Cold. “It can’t be.” I step back, falling into someone else. My heart is pounding against my ribs, dying to break free, to run like wild horses. It’s in my throat. He’s here. Cole. Right now. In front of me. He’s here.
Cole catches hold of my arms and pulls me against his chest. I know I should twist out of his grasp, ignore the way his warm fingers ignite memories I thought I left behind. Instead, I cling to him. We promised each other all of our firsts. “Cole,” I whisper, smiling against his shirt. Smiling like I haven’t smiled in seven years.
After I don’t know how long, he gently pushes me from the stranglehold I have on him and my face turns red. How long had I been holding him like that? He’s grinning. “If you’d care to join us, I’m sure we can make room.” Sexy lips form a bigger smile, showing his straight white teeth. Last time I saw him he had braces. Cole glances to his left and I follow his gaze. Two girls, both with perfect chestnut hair and beautiful faces look at me like I’ve slaughtered a lamb.
I peek at him. Surprised. What is he asking? Doesn’t he remember me? I take in all of him at once. He’s probably two feet taller than the last time I saw him. Dark, wavy hair, a little on the longer side, hangs in his eyes. He keeps flipping it. His body is lean but muscled, like he plays a sport. He’d always liked basketball and hockey when we were friends. His skin is tanned, but then, it always was. His eyes are the same, as is the way his lips form a smile.
Cole, I think, my heart smashing itself to pieces. Have I really changed so much that you don’t know me?
Something like recognition flickers in his eyes. “Or it could just be you and me,” he whispers enticingly.
I blink several times.
The girls to his right let out a string of expletives.
My body is saying yes, yes, yes even though I have no idea what he means. But it’s Cole. The boy I’ve loved since forever. The boy I promised all of my firsts too. Before I say anything, I remember why I haven’t seen him in seven years. Even with the alcohol, I snap back to reality and pull myself from his grasp.
“Sorry.” I move away.
The smoky air, the stench of sweat and perfume, and the loud music—it twirls my stomach in knots and I no longer feel free and unencumbered, but woozy and sick. I need fresh air.
“Hey,” he calls after me.
I don’t turn back. I can’t.
* * *
Cole
“Crap!” I watch her walk away and I feel sick, like someone punched me in the stomach. I debate whether to go after her, but Simone takes my arm.
“I can’t believe you did that. We were supposed to hang together. Just the two of us. Why would you invite that… girl?”
“She’s an old friend.” Rosie looks great. Better than great. Hot. Gorgeous. Amazing. My resolve is gone. All the lies I’ve been telling myself vanish. I want Rosie. I’ve always only wanted her. And that makes me a complete and total idiot. Because she doesn’t want me.
“Ignore her. Let’s hang out. It’ll be fun.” Simone is in my face, beautiful and available. She wants me and would never stop talking to me for no reason at all.
“I’m in. Let’s go.” I grab her hand.
4
Remembering
Rosie
I don’t tell Gina I’m leaving. I hope she doesn’t get mad, but I can’t stay a second longer. My mind is reeling with thoughts. Of him. Cole Morrison. I knew there was a chance he’d be here. This is his hometown. It used to be mine. Part of me is glad. We were best friends and neighbors for the first eleven years of our lives. He was born a year before me. Our parents were good friends too. At least I thought so, until the night my mom and dad died.
I walk home from a friend’s house after sneaking out earlier that night. My parents’ friends had shown up and I knew they’d be distracted playing cards. It was late. Part of me wonders if my parents even knew I’d gone. If they did, they’d be mad, and I brace myself for the consequences. As I come around the corner heading into my backyard, I see two men exiting my house by the back door. The light from the back porch is on. I hide, worried it might be my dad talking to one of his coworkers. I don’t want him to yell at me in front of the man. That’d be embarrassing.
Quickly, I realize neither of them is my dad. So, I stay hidden behind the butterfly bushes. One carries a purse. It’s purple and it looks like my mom’s. He also has something shiny in his other hand. It flashes in the porch light. It’s a gun. My heart races with worry. Why does he have a gun? “Hurry up,” he whispers furiously. “We need to find her.”
“She’s at a friend’s house. I’ll get her,” the man without the gun says.
The man with the gun turns, his gaze searching my back yard, and I see that the man holding the gun is Cole Morrison’s dad. Hatred pinches his face.
And I’m afraid. So, so scared. I never liked Cole’s dad. The man always gave me the creeps. A fierce tightening clenches my chest and I don’t know why.
When they’re gone, I run inside my house. “Mom! Dad!” I shout, searching for them. I pass through the kitchen and into the family room. My feet slide to a stop. Mom is on the floor, blood pooling under her. Dad is lying on the floor beside her, his arm draped over her waist. They look like they’re sleeping, except for all the blood. So much blood.
My mind shuts down. I’m not prepared for the scene in front of me. It can’t be right. Nothing’s happened. Nothing happened. It’s a mistake. I’m dreaming.
I run back to my friend’s and hide in her pool house. I tell myself everything will be fine in the morning, back to normal. After a while I fall asleep.
I wake to the sound of a dog barking. With swollen eyes I peek through the glass walls. There are people everywhere. They look like the police. One is talking to my friend. She points to the pool house—to the place I’m hiding. I open the door, and a hard whiff of chlorine stings my nose. A female police officer sees me, her face is grim, and I know my life is about to change.
“Are you Rose Hansen?” she asks tenderly.
I nod.
“My name is Mary. I need to speak with you. It’s about your parents. Will you come with me?”
Any hope I had leaves my body. They are dead. My parents are dead. Cole’s dad was there with a gun. I know he killed my parents and a scream wells up inside my throat. I keep my teeth clenched in my mouth, forcing myself not to let it out.
Two other police officers join her, as well as a lady in a gray suit. She sinks down to her knees so I can see her face. Her features are kind, filled with tenderness. “Do you go by Rose or something else?” Sympathy hangs over her features, but it doesn’t fill me with calm. Instead I want to scratch at her cheeks and tell her to go away. “Shall I call you Rose?” she asks.
“Rosie,” I say, blinking rapidly.
“May I hold your hand?” she asks quietly.
I nod.
They take me to the police station, and I stay there until my aunt and
uncle come. Two distinct aromas are scorched onto my brain: chlorine and the smell of donuts. A lady at the police station gave me a custard-filled donut. I ate it, and then puked it up.
The police say my parents were killed in a home robbery. My mom’s purse is gone as is my dad’s wallet. I tell them they’re wrong, that I saw Cole Morrison’s dad leave my house. That he had a gun. Their eyes get wide. One says, “You mean Chief Morrison?”
I glance around the room. It’s obvious no one believes me. I can understand. He’s handsome and has a charming smile. I used to think he was so cool, until the first time I saw him hit Cole. Since then I’ve steered clear. Even my parents told me never to go over to Cole’s if his dad was home. And my parents were his friends—at least I thought so, until last night. I didn’t see him shoot my parents, but I saw the gun. I know what he did.
My aunt touches my arm and whispers, “Don’t say another word. Not one. You hear me?” She pats my knee and gives me a stern look.
A sick terror races up my spine at the urgency in her voice. I give her a look, one that questions why she wouldn’t want me to tell the truth. It seems so unfair. I know what I saw.
“I mean it,” she adds.
At that moment Chief Morrison walks in, wearing his uniform. His features appear concerned. But I know the look. He’s arrogant, daring me to say something.
I want to reach over and rip the smug look off his face. But my aunt is like a second mother, so I remember her words and stay quiet.
I will not cry, I think, even as tears leak from my eyes. And I wish there was some way I could make him pay.
One of the officers asks, “Is this the man you saw leaving your parent’s house last night?”
I shake my head.
“Is that a no?” the female asks.
“No,” I say firmly. I give my aunt a sideways look. She nods. “I must’ve been mistaken. It was dark,” I continue in a whisper.
Chief Daniel Morrison smiles. His large black and white mustache rises into his nose, and I wish it would suffocate him. “You’ve had a rough night, kiddo. I’m so sorry.”
I cringe, pressing my body to my aunt’s side.
A while later we leave. My aunt and uncle take me to live with them in Sugar River, Wyoming, a small town twenty minutes from my home in Bellam. We bury my parents in a cemetery about a mile from my aunt and uncle’s house.
I don’t get to tell Cole or my friends from school goodbye. We pack up a few of my favorite things and leave.
Cole calls my aunt and uncle’s house, of course. He’s my best friend, after all. More than once I go to the phone, pick it up, and freeze. I want to talk to him. I do, but the words won’t come. I don’t know how to wrap my brain around his father killing my parents and getting away with it. When I think about talking to him, my mind sees his father coming out of my house holding the gun. I know what he did, and I can’t figure out how to separate the father and the son.
My aunt doesn’t help. She tells me the chief is a dangerous man. That the world is full of scary people and Daniel Morrison is one of them.
My aunt says, “I don’t know what Phillip and Sophie saw in that man, but know this, Rosie. Bad parents raise bad kids. It’s a fact, I tell you. It’s better you don’t ever speak to Cole again. That’s a promise.”
I am beyond sick with grief at losing my parents, so I accept what she says.
After a while I become angry and throw raging fits, breaking anything I get my hands on. When I shatter every piece of my aunt’s favorite china, I know for sure she’ll send me away, and that’s what I want. A gaping crater replaces the space where my heart used to be, and I don’t care what happens.
Instead, my aunt and uncle take me to see Abigail, my shrink, and they buy a black baby grand piano. They force me to take lessons five days a week from Mrs. Nelson, an older woman. She was a concert pianist years ago. She loves music. Mrs. Nelson kindly and tenderly pours all of that love into me. It helps fill the hole, patches it up, and slowly I’m able to live again.
Until tonight.
Cole doesn’t remember me. I recognized him immediately.
It feels as though my body is being torn in half.
Seeing Cole has brought back every moment we shared. He’s the boy I loved. The boy I used to dream of marrying. The boy I made a pact with. First kiss. First date. And I secretly believed he’d be more. My first and only husband. I dreamed of our wedding, what I’d wear, what he’d wear. The colors. The words we’d say to each other. I used to make myself cry at how touching his words were, almost like a poem or lyrics to a beautiful song. Then he would confess his everlasting love. And kiss me.
He was all I ever wanted.
But seeing him also brings back fresh wounds, stabbing, ripping my heart to shreds. His father killed my parents and got away with it.
My hands shake and tears spill onto my cheeks as I make my way across the field and into my dorm. I ride up the elevator, keeping my face down. Hurriedly wiping at the tears, hoping no one notices.
“This can’t be happening.” I slam the door to my room and rip off my shirt, tossing the smelly thing into my hamper. My bra is stained too, and I unhook it, throwing it into the hamper as well. Pulling off my jeans, I kick them near the hamper and put on an oversized t-shirt. It was my dad’s. Across the front are the words: Bellam Police Force.
I curl into bed, pulling my comforter around me for warmth and protection. I lay there crying for a long time, until the sun comes up and I finally sleep.
5
Interpersonal Relationships
Rosie
A door slams and I blink, sitting up. “Wha—” I rub sleep from my eyes and work to focus on Gina. She’s still wearing her slinky black dress, but her makeup is smeared and she has bed-head.
“Why did you leave the party?” She sits gingerly on the edge of her bed, grabbing a fluffy cream teddy bear from the rumpled covers and squeezing.
I don’t answer. Warning bells are flashing behind my eyes. Something’s wrong. “Gina,” I stand and move toward her. “Are you… okay?”
She waves me away. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I notice her lashes are wet. She sniffs and lies down on her side. “I asked for it.” She rolls over, facing the wall.
I stand there, unsure whether to comfort her or leave her alone. My homeschooling days haven’t prepared me for real interpersonal relationships. I’m not sure what she thinks she asked for, but I’m terrified for her.
I’ve been sheltered since I went to live with my aunt and uncle. They’re only in their late 50’s, but they act older. “Technology is not our friend” is my aunt’s motto, while my uncle always says, “Remember the Titans.” Neither saying makes any sense to me. They own one TV and one DVD player. All they watch are sitcoms from the sixties and seventies like I Dream of Genie, The Brady Bunch, and Bewitched. Occasionally my uncle will watch old movies. His favorite is Remember the Titans. He says it’s because “It’s a story of true friendship combined with football, and there’s nothing better.” Sometimes I watch TV with them, but mostly I prefer to read the dusty classics tucked away in old boxes, or practice piano.
Finally, I whisper to Gina, “Can I get you something? A coffee?” I hope that sounds appropriate. I’m astonished at the gnawing worry in my gut. But it’s there, and I’m concerned. Just because I hurt doesn’t mean I want anyone else to.
She turns over gently. I see she’s crying. “Why do you care if I’m okay?”
She’s flinging my words from last night back at me. My first instinct is to agree and walk out. But she’s hugging the teddy bear so tightly I feel sorry for it.
I sigh and sit on her bed. “I think it’s because you and I are meant to be friends. And friends care about each other. If you’re sad, or hurt, I want to help.” My voice sounds calmer than I feel.
Two enormous tears drop on her pillow. “You mean it? You don’t think I’m outrageous?”
I force back a snort at her c
hoice of word. She’s the epitome of outrageous with her crazy outfits, hair, and makeup, and music. Even her black boots scream outrageous. She seems to know it though, because she eases one hand from the stranglehold she has on the bear and picks up the edge of her dress.
I force myself to smile. “I think your outrageousness is going to be one of my favorite things about you.”
My hands are tucked into the end of my shirt, but I feel like I need to comfort her somehow. I grab a tissue from the table between our beds and hand it to her. She takes it and wipes her eyes, then blows. When she’s finished, she chucks the wadded tissue toward the trash. It lands on the end of her bed. She reeks of alcohol and cigarettes.
“You wanna talk about it?” I ask.
She takes a deep breath, yanks off her boots, and lies back down. “First I need to sleep.” She pulls her covers up and rolls over.
“‘Kay,” I say softly, wishing I knew what else to do. But I’m tired, and it feels like I have grass growing on my teeth and tongue. I need a shower, some toothpaste, and some toast. Maybe when I get back from the cafeteria, she’ll be ready to share what happened. I know it isn’t good. “I’ll try to keep it down.”
When I get back from eating, she’s gone, and I don’t see her again until Monday morning. She came in after three and is sound asleep. It’s the first day of classes. I feel like I should remind her about going. But she seems so broken. I can’t bring myself to speak the words.
I quietly pick up my towel and bathroom necessities, pulling on a pair of fluffy pink slippers. I grab my keycard and open the door.
As I’m leaving, Gina whispers, “Thanks, Rosie.”
She didn’t call me Rose. “You’re welcome.”
There’s only one other person in the bathroom. She gives me a curt smile, takes her stuff, and walks out. The black and white checkered floor is wet. Most of the shower stalls are dripping water. I step inside one, close the bright white curtain, and set my stuff on the ledge. I keep on my shower shoes and hang my shirt on a hook before turning on the water.
Kissed by a Rose: A Dead Roses Novel Page 3