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Nothing much had changed from four years ago. Same paint and wallpaper. Some posters had been taken down. Her old high school desk was a riot of papers, journals and books, with a laptop on a stand looming about it all. A manilla folder was open for something she was working on. She had a suitcase of her clothes beside her neat, made-up bed. She hadn’t unpacked yet.
I eased Rosie to sit on the edge of her bed and knocked over a wastepaper bin, scattering its contents. In the gloom, a cut-up photo of a couple stared back. One was Rosie, dressed up. The other was a man in academic robes. It was him. Richard. The douchebag ex.
I retrieved the second bottle of water and handed it to her and then placed her things on her desk. An empty water glass was on her bedside table.
I stepped over the mess, grabbed it, and poured some water into the glass.
“I’m going to find some painkillers in the bathroom. Drink this.”
I moulded her fingers around the glass and then headed into the corridor. The dogs had started barking again, but no one was awake that I could tell. I quickly found paracetamol in the bathroom next to Rosie’s room and cringed, seeing my reflection. I did not want to meet her parents or sisters and explain why the remains of Rosie’s lipstick was smeared across my mouth and neck.
When I got back to Rosie’s room, she’d collapsed onto her pillow, the half-full glass of water on her bedside.
“Hey, wake up, sleeping beauty.” She groaned and cracked open an eye. “You should take these.” I held up the drugs.
Rosie grunted and sat up, swallowed the pills with several gulps of water.
“Why are you helping me?” she sobbed.
“I, um—”
‘I’m being nice to get my revenge’ made no sense at all now. If it ever did.
“I hate you,” Rosie mumbled as she lay down. “I hated you so much these last four years.”
“I hate you, too,” I whispered, brushing away errant curls across her forehead, aware the tone of my voice said anything but hate.
“But …”
“But what, Rosie?” I whispered back.
“I don’t know why I should hate you anymore,” she said into her pillow, barely audible. “I don’t want to hate you.”
The Zanetti dogs were still barking. Someone ran into the house, letting the back door bang shut.
“I missed you so much,” she murmured in the lowest tone.
Those words again. What was left of my revenge plan evaporated.
But she’s drunk. She won’t remember saying this. And what did she mean exactly by those words?
Someone stirred next door and I could hear Mama Z rapidly talking in a low voice.
“What’s going on?” Rosie mumbled into her pillow.
I pulled her doona over her. This felt … good. Too good.
“Stay here. You sleep,” I whispered. “I’ll take care of it.”And you.
11
TOM
Tom’s unsent letters:
Dear Rosie,
What I missed the most today was the smell of you. Struggling to remember now. Been over a month since you lay here with me. The scent of your shampoo has washed out of my sheets. I used to remember how your skin smelled like sunshine and freshly turned earth, the crunch of a fresh grape leaf.
