Page 111 of Dear Rosie

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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 ismyletter.

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 aboutmoving.

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.

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