Page 2 of Dear Rosie

It’s become a tradition, him bringing the fluffy snack.

He’s shown up with them every couple of weeks, ever since he found out they were my favorite.

“Hey.” I keep my voice quiet, like I always do, as I step into the little clearing we made around the log.

“Hey.” Nathan digs the toe of his shoe into the dirt, still keeping his gaze down.

He’s gotten taller in the last year.

When I boost myself up onto the log, my sneakers dangle several inches above the ground.

I start to reach for the open bag between us, but I pause, noticing the flattened marshmallow in Nathan’s hand.

“You okay?” I ask. Nathan never wastes food.

He shrugs.

And my stomach starts to twist.

Nathan has been my best friend for two years. And I’ve never felt this weird sort of feeling from him before.

“What’s wrong?” I start to shift toward him, but then he stands.

“I gotta tell you something.”

That twisting inside me starts to hurt.

He still won’t look at me, his face aimed toward the ground.

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, and I watch the way the tree-filtered light hits his hair.

I stare at the shades of brown, feeling the sudden need to memorize them.

As the silence stretches, I slide off the log.

I want to stand if he’s standing.

“What do you need to tell me?” I whisper.

Nathan’s shoulders lift as he takes a deep breath.

But he still doesn’t speak.

My nerves are on fire.

Whatever this is, it isn’t going to be good.

“Please tell me,” I say so quietly that I’m not sure he hears me.

Then he lifts his head, and I finally get to see his face.

He looks… sad. Like the kind of sad you feel at a funeral.

Oh god, I hope his mom didn’t die too.

I take a step toward him.

But then he speaks. “We’re moving.”

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