Page 55 of Dear Rosie

The wine sits on my tongue, and I close my eyes as I soak in the rich flavor.

My lower back aches from maneuvering all the large tubs and lids in my cramped sink, but I got everything washed.

I could’ve saved some for the morning, but now I can sleep in.

It’s a mild evening, and the breeze from the open balcony door feels nice after a day dodging the sun, moving from umbrella to umbrella.

I adjust my feet on my little coffee table and lift the wineglass back to my lips.

But before I can tip my glass back, my phone vibrates with a notification.

I lift it off the couch arm.

It’s a new email for my business account.

Opening it, I see it’s the confirmation for the final payment for today’s event.

Then I set my wine down and hold the phone closer to my face.

Is that…?

He wouldn’t.

I close the email, then reopen it.

“What the fuck?” I whisper into the darkening room.

I pull up my bank account.

My pulse is skittering.

I don’t know how to feel about this.

I refresh my bank app, and sure enough, the extra eight thousand dollars is still there.

An eight-thousand-dollar tip.

I plant my feet on the floor and lean forward.

What is he doing?

I’ve gotten some big tips before. Even a few thousand dollars once.

But nothing this big, and certainly not for this small of a job.

Eight. Thousand.

My head spins, and—probably against better judgment—I pick my wine back up and take another sip.

Then another.

I can’t accept this.

I can’t…

Eight.

An image of myself, sitting on the forest floor, crying my eight-year-old eyes out flashes into my mind.

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