Page 42 of Dear Rosie

TWENTY-THREE

ROSALYN

“Oh shit!” I rush the rest of the way down the short hallway from my bedroom to the kitchen.

The oven timer is beeping, and I’m sure it’s been going off for several minutes.

The towel around my hair tips to the side as I bend down, and I have to hold it back with one hand while I open the oven door with the other.

Smoke billows out, stinging my eyes.

“Fuck me.” I slam the oven door shut, hurry across to the opposite wall of my apartment, and open my sliding patio door.

The tiny balcony is literally only good for fresh air. And even though I’m sacrificing my air-conditioned air, I leave the door wide open.

Giving up on my hair towel, I yank it from the top of my head and toss it toward the hallway.

My wet hair slaps against my shoulders, soaking through my robe, but I ignore it and go back to the oven.

Sighing, I turn off the oven and grab my hot mitts. Then I yank open the door and use the mitts to fan away the remaining smoke.

I try not to pout as I pull out the pan of burnt tarts. But sincethey’re still trailing smoke, I carry the pan out to the balcony and set the whole smoking mess on the small iron side table.

I originally bought this table so I could have a plant. Maybe two. But I’ve killed everything green I’ve ever put out here, so now it’s become myFuck, I burned ittable.

Standing on my balcony in my robe, I drop my head forward in defeat.

Then my smoke alarm goes off.

“Of course.”

Hands still inside the mitts, I grip the pan, tip the burnt tarts onto the table, then hurry back inside.

Guess I won’t be tasting this test recipe.

Using the pan as a giant fan, I wave it back and forth under the smoke detector, sending crumbs everywhere, but I’m beyond giving a fuck.

Finally, after a long minute, the shrill beeping stops.

I’m not sure I should be thankful the smoke detector doesn’t call the fire station, but in this case, I am.

Though a hot, muscled firefighter might just be the thing I need to stop thinking about Nathan.

Not Nathan. Nate. Calling him Nathan is exactly what got you caught.

I drop the pan in the sink and shuffle back down the hall to my bedroom.

It’s been almost a week since that night in the pantry. Since I ran away from my childhood friend like the giant chicken I am. And no matter what I do, I can’t get him off my mind.

Every night, late at night, when I can’t stop myself from thinking about our encounter, I question myself.

Should I have stayed?

Should I have told him who I was before he put his hands down my pants?

Should I have laughed it off, dropped to my knees, and sucked his cock?

Should I just tell him everything?

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