Page 35 of The Rose and the Hound
I still saw Dr. Warren. Next year, seeing her would no longer be a legal obligation, but I recognized that some people need ongoing help, and I was one of those people. While I was strong and well now, I had to guard that. Not zealously or with a sense of doom or paranoia, but in the same way I managed my physical health, with care and balance. Some people saw a specialist for life due to physical health issues. I visited Dr. Warren regularly for mental health maintenance, and I no longer felt shame about that.
I had formed a great relationship with Paul and his family, particularly his wife. Sally was a bossy person, but it was the best kind of bossy. She included me in everything and was reallymore of a friend than a stepmother. The whole “father” and “stepmother” dynamic was odd, so my relationship with Sally and Paul was more of a friendly one. They were supportive of my career and loved Hound, and we frequently hung out together as a group.
Hound and I had settled into a sweet kind of domesticity, but our wilder sides were always there, simmering beneath the surface. When a carpenter had begun work on library renovations a few months ago, the Hound had been suspicious of his intentions simply because he’d bought me a coffee once. I had seen my Hound’s car a few times in the parking lot, just watching. One night, I’d come out to my car to find a polaroid tucked under my wipers. It was an image of me standing behind the desk while the carpenter explained the delays to me. Hound never scared me. He trusted me, but not others. Feelings of jealousy never created arguments between us. Quite the opposite. Hound was his hungriest and darkest when he felt jealous, which had given me some of the best nights of my life.
Surprisingly, I found I wasn’t a jealous person, likely because Hound made it known that I was his world and he tended to be cold toward women who approached him, as though he needed to constantly prove his commitment to me. I still enjoyed stalking him. Six months ago, we had a huge argument about potentially moving house. I wanted to stay, but Ace felt we needed a fresh start, which made me feel incredibly insecure. Fresh start from what? Were we getting stale? Ultimately, he confessed that he heard the neighbors talking about my past and was concerned that I would be targeted, but I told him I genuinely didn’t care. I had my people and was very settled in my life.
To show him I’d forgiven him, I waited until Brett left the office one day and confronted him in an overcoat. I was no longer unmedicated, so jumping out of the bushes naked wasbeyond my limits. I flashed him and he dragged me back into his office and locked the door. So yeah, we probably weren’t the most normal of couples, but we were happy. He had a tattoo of a rose on his left inner forearm, but I had stuck firm to my pledge to not tattoo myself for a man again.
I applied my makeup carefully, making sure I looked bright and happy. Hound was now in the kitchen, making me breakfast to go. I smiled at the sight. My boyfriend cared whether I ate. He cared if I was cold or unhappy. I was about to go to work, where children would call me “Miss Rose” and beg me to read them another story and I actually got paid for it.
My mother was proof that you can have jewelry boxes full of gifts and still die starving for love. I can’t excuse her, but I can pity the hunger that ate her whole. She thought she had so much but never realized that she had so little. I hadn’t heard from her for years but had worked on my feelings toward her a great deal with Dr. Warren. Hound was odd when I spoke of my mother and seemed quietly confident that I'd never see her again. I knew enough of Hound to not ask any further questions.
Epilogue II: The Rose—Five years later
I twisted my wedding ring on my hand as I waited for the kids to file in for story time. I loved my ring, but I loved what was under it more. Three years ago, I married Hound. It was a small ceremony in our backyard, with just our nearest and dearest. Hound had a beautiful family, and his parents were as non-judgmental and welcoming as he was. His mother was an open, warm woman and his father was much like Hound, a big beating heart shielded in body language that looked aloof and calculating.
I still remembered Hound’s vows.
“I promised myself, long before today, that I would never let you out of my sight,” Hound said, his voice low, steady, almost too intimate for the room. A few guests chuckled softly, thinking it was a playful metaphor. But my breath caught. I knew.
“You tried to run from me. Tried to forget me. But here you are ... mine. Always mine. And I swear before everyone here, and before you, Rose, that wherever you go, I will follow. Not because I have to ... but because I want to. Because you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to see when I close my eyes.”
There was no mistaking the promise under the promise, the vow under the vow. I felt the heat of his words burn straight into my chest. The officiant cleared her throat, smiling as if this were nothing more than a romantic flourish.
When it was my turn, my voice was softer but no less steady. “You’ve always been behind me,” I said, my lips quirking, my eyes never leaving his. “Even when I didn’t know it. Even when I thought I didn’t want it. And I promise ... I’ll let you catch me, every time.”
The rings came next. Hound slid the band onto my finger, his thumb lingering against my skin. I glanced down, and in thatinstant caught the glint of the engraving hidden inside the gold:With every step.
My stomach flipped, part thrill, part deep, aching love. He had marked me again—not just with vows, not just with touch, but with a secret I alone could read.
I gazed lovingly at the tattoo under my ring. It was Hound, written in Arabic. I broke my promise to never tattoo my body with a man’s name or image. But my Hound wasn’t just a man. He was my husband, my stalker, and my protector. Since Ben came along, we’d toned our oddness down a little, but Ben was now one and we were returning to “our ways,” as his friend and colleague Brett tactfully called it.
I loved being a mother. I’d always wanted a baby, and in my desperation for a family or roots of my own, I’d clung to the thought of mothering Harriet and Blake’s baby, but Ben ... he was truly my own and I loved him for the little person he was. He wasn’t an accessory to me, or some kind of sign that I had true foundations in life. He was a symbol of my love for Hound and a beautiful human being in his own right. I’d love to have another and had already begun cajoling Hound. It wasn’t hard. He always said he’d give me whatever I wanted, and Hound loved being a dad.
“Welcome everyone! I hope you’re all ready for some fun because today we’re going to read about—” My breath caught in my throat. At the side of the room was Harriet, sitting with a preschooler and an older girl. She had a baby in her arms. She stared at me intensely, her face a picture of horror and shock. I glanced down at my book, desperate for somewhere to look. I forced myself to meet her eye and gave her a weak smile, begging her silently not to make a scene. She jostled the baby in her arms gently, hushing and soothing her.
“Today we’re going to read about Eloise. She lives in a hotel and has a lot of adventures! After the story, I have some coloringfor you all to do. You can choose your favorite picture and use whatever colors you want!”
I always liked to provide an activity after the book. It gave the parents a break and helped the kids engage more with the story.
I read the book in a steady voice, making different voices for each character and forcing myself to look around the room evenly, not avoiding Harriet and her children, but also not looking at them too frequently or for too long. It had been so long since I’d had to closely watch my behavior and put up a front. Returning to that dynamic made me feel physically sick.
By the time I’d finished the book, Harriet's preschooler and older child were enthralled. Her eldest daughter likely felt she was too old forEloise, but her face told me she had really enjoyed it. I moved to the tables I’d set up and began helping children select drawings to color. I thought Harriet might leave, but she settled her children at a table and stood behind them, all the while rocking her baby. Her preschooler looked like Blake, an observation that soothed me. They’d stayed together. I hadn’t ruined her life. I had brought her great pain, and I had a burning need to apologize, to talk to her and explain. But that wasn’t my right, and soothing my conscience wouldn’t help Harriet, so I hung back, avoiding that particular table.
“Miss Rose?” Her preschool-aged daughter called me, making it impossible to stay away.
“Yes honey?” I asked, carefully ensuring I remained at a respectful distance. “Do you want a different picture? Or maybe a blank page so you can draw your own picture?”
“No, I wanted to read my little sisterThe Paper Bag Princess. Do you have it?”
Harriet remained still, her eyes firmly on her baby, though they did glance at my wedding ring briefly.
“Of course I do,” I said gently, glancing at Harriet but addressing the children. I led them to the shelf, pulled the book down, and crouched so I was at eye level with them.
“It’s a story about a girl who makes a mistake about what really matters,” I said softly, holding the cover so both kids could see. “But she learns, and she gets braver because of it.”
The girl grinned. “I like brave girls.”
