“When I was a kid, I actually thought I deserved it. When you’re told you’re something over and over again—in my case, bad—you start to believe it. I believed I was a bad kid.”
“I didn’t know you then, but I’d bet my life that you weren’t.” Rosalie doesn’t sneeze. She’s being completely honest.
Slowly, she rises from the bed. My pulse goes wild when sits next to me. I’m hyperaware of her closeness. The way the cushion dips. Her scent. Her heat.
“Can I show you something?” Before I can answer, she’s unzipping her fanny pack. She hands me a folded piece of paper and sighs, “Go ahead and read it. I’ll warn you, though—it’s dumb. I never told Jessa about it because it’s silly.”
When I unfold the paper, different colored ink has been scrawled onto the worn sheet. It’s a bucket list. And what’s written isn’t anything off-the-wall or difficult to achieve.
What Rosalie wants most are average, every-day occurrences that people take for granted.
She just wants a normal life.
I can relate.
Aren’t we a pair? Two people who have no idea where we came from but are totally sure of what we need in our future.
“Basic bitch?” Grinning, I raise an eyebrow at the last item on the list.
“That’s the dream.” Rosalie chuckles, then points at the winging eyeliner goal. “You helped me with the first one. I don’t know how you know how to do makeup so well, but you made me realize I shouldn’t be pulling and stretching my skin while I do it, because it always ended up being droopy. Oh! And this one can be crossed off now, too.”
She leans over to the small dining table, grabs a pen, and draws a line through Kiss someone.
“I’m glad I made a difference for you.” I give her list back. “There’s nothing dumb or silly about this. In fact, I think you’ve got your priorities straight. I’d consider myself extremely lucky—like win-the-lotto-lucky—if I got to cross even half of those off.”
She gives me a surprised look. “So, the mysterious bachelor wants to get married.”
Our hands are clasped with the paper between our fingers. I don’t know how we ended up holding hands, but I guess we touched and neither of us moved away.
I clear my throat, and my voice comes out a little deeper when I reply, “Yeah. If it’s the right person.”
“How do you know when it’s her?”
The answer is loud in my mind. When she makes my heart pound just by glancing at me. When her nearness makes me sweat. When one look from her can convince me I’m the right man for her.
Like the way Rosalie’s looking at me right now. Like I hung the moon. Like I’m her hero.
As I think about her list, the part about marriage and motherhood stands out, and call it a hunch, but I understand her reaction earlier with the fake ID and the preggo disguise.
She seemed sad about it.
Now I know why.
She wants it to be real.
I could give her that. I just feel like I’d be taking advantage of her innocence if I rope her into a relationship right away.
After all, I’m all she knows. Maybe she should understand she’s got options before she settles for someone like me. Then again, maybe not. The selfish part of me wants her. All of her. Now.
“I’ll just know,” I rasp out the answer to her question, breaking the mesmerizing eye contact. I can’t forget where we are or what we have to do. There are pressing matters at hand, so I change the subject back to our getaway. “I need to get some sleep before I even think about driving again. You tired?”
“Not really.”
I hand her the remote. “You can watch TV while I snooze on the couch.”
“No, you take the bed,” Rosalie insists, wiggling in place as she gets cozy.
I’m not going to argue. I’m too tired for that. Dragging myself over to the bed to pull back the covers, I instruct, “Don’t call anyone. Don’t answer the door. Don’t go outside.”
“Yes, sir,” she smarts.
“That’s my good girl,” I say groggily, pulling a happy look from Rosalie.
The TV provides some quiet background noise, and I get settled in, relishing in the soft pillow under my head.
I’m asleep in less than a minute.
Being yanked from deep sleep is always unpleasant. My body and brain protests as my shoulder is shaken violently and a frantic voice speaks quickly next to my ear. “Preston. Preston! Babe. Whatever the fuck I’m supposed to call you. Wake up!”
Awareness kicks in and my eyes snap open to find Rosalie wide-eyed and fearful. “What?”
I shoot up in the bed, fists at the ready. While assessing the room for danger, I shove her behind me to shield her body with mine.
“No.” Her arm snakes around my chest. Alternating between patting me and pointing at the TV, she cries, “Look!”
My eyes land on the screen.
Shit.
Motherfucking shit.
It’s Loralee Pearson, in the flesh. The big faded pink and purple Victorian house is in the background, and there’s a press conference set up on the lawn.
Loralee’s behind the podium. Her mostly gray hair is perfectly curled around her shoulders, and she’s wearing an expensive-looking powder-blue pantsuit. A string of pearls completes her put-together ensemble, and there are tears swimming in her blue eyes as she stares back at us.
The Maryville mayor is beside her, and several police officers are surrounding the pair.
The headline at the bottom reads ‘Mentally-ill Teenager on the Loose.’
Grappling for the remote, I push the volume up.
“… very unwell. Not only is she a danger to herself, she’s a danger to others. Last night she broke into my safe and took my money and my gun, so she’s armed.”
Rosalie gasps. “That’s not true. I didn’t take any weapons—”
I silence her with a slashing motion of my hand and continue to listen to the bullshit Loralee’s spewing.
“As long as she’s away from home, she’ll be unmedicated, and I don’t know what she’ll do. She’s never run away before. I’m afraid this might be some kind of psychotic break.”
“That’s not true either,” Rosalie growls, lifting a plastic baggie from her fanny pack. “I’ve been taking half my dose and saving the rest—”
I believe her, so I just pat her hand reassuringly without looking away from the TV.
“If you see my daughter, please don’t harm her,” Loralee begs. “I just want her back home where she can’t hurt herself or anyone else.”
“Thank you, Ms. Pearson,” the mayor says, smoothing his red tie as he takes her place in front of the microphone to address the camera. “I’d like to assure the people that we’re doing everything we can to find Rosalie Pearson and bring her home. We know she might be in the company of a man named Preston Walker, a conman. He was hired by the Pearsons two months ago, and we think the pair might’ve left together. It’s likely he’s armed and dangerous as well.”
Both of our pictures show up side by side. Rosalie’s appears to be a recent Christmas photo, and she’s sitting in a fancy wingback chair with a fake smile plastered on her face.