Page 111 of Dear Rosie

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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