19. Rosie
Chapter 19
Rosie
I prop the new porch pillow between my shoulder and my neck, keeping it in place as I haul the rest of my neighbor-madness makeover toward the front door. I’ll be damned if I’m not going to fit everything for my project into one trip. The less chance I have to risk seeing the new neighbors, the better.
The porch steps are touch and go, but victory is mine when I use my ankle to prop open the screen door. A piece of graph paper falls to the floor, and I eye it curiously as I dump my overflowing armfuls onto the bench.
I don’t have a good reason for not wanting to pick it up except for this taste in the air that makes my throat itch. It’s like a bad omen, my hackles rising. But I can’t keep myself from reaching for it.
The note is saturated in a peculiar salty aroma that instinctively I know smells wrong. The pungent acid sets my teeth on edge. It smells like devastation, and everything inside me finds it repulsive.
We will respect your wishes and keep to our side of the playing field.
– Nash
My eyes close—as if that will somehow stop the words from reaching me. Nash’s promise aches, caving in a part of my heart, even though I know it’s stupid to be upset over.
I don’t want to see them. I don’t.
And now, I’m getting my wish. Problem solved.
Except it hurts. This whole situation is wreaking havoc on my heart, making me wish for things I shouldn’t.
I bat away an errant tear, pissed that it dared to make an appearance. He’s being a grown-up when I can’t even face him, and that makes me feel like a coward. For the last three days, everything has been a complicated mess that’s pulling me toward a past I don’t know I’ll ever be brave enough to untangle.
I shove the note in my pocket and tell myself to rally. I have a porch oasis to build and a life to live.
After making myself some tea, I pop my head into Grandma’s nest to find her engrossed in the TV. She’s a sucker for her soaps. “You need anything?”
“I’m good, sugar. After my program, I’m gonna have my bath and set my curls.” She barely tosses a smile my way before her head snaps back to whatever drama is unfolding.
I leave her to it, hauling everything out back and making a plan. It only takes one dicey trip up the step ladder to hang the flowy fabric before I find my DIY groove. I don’t have the biological urge to nest like I thought I did growing up, but even as a beta, the ritual of it is soothing. Something about designing a space for comfort and rest is healing for the soul.
By the time I’m done, the sun has set, and I can’t see any trace of the neighbors next door. I pretend that out of sight means out of mind.
I’m a lying liar.
Emotionally exhausted by the entire weekend, I order takeout and plop my ass on the couch, queuing up the latest slasher release. The film sucks me in, and I scream when the doorbell rings with our pizza.
For someone who loves horror, I’m the most basic bitch at a jump scare.
Rolling my eyes at myself, I grab our haul from Tony’s. I call for Grandma to join but realize she’s in her bath when I hear the water running.
After grabbing two slices, I put the rest in the oven to keep warm before returning to the couch.
I’m halfway through my first slice when a scream sends me running—only this wasn’t me or the movie. By the time I make it to the bathroom, Grandma Lily is splayed out on the floor, her robe twisted all around her.
“Oh, fuck,” I mumble, going to her side.
“Exactly, I broke my damn nail. Curse these old pipes and the leaking they cause,” she says, her genuine outrage drowned out by the omega whine rattling in her throat. She’s trying to make light of this, but I can tell from how she’s tensed that she’s in pain.
That’s all compounded by dripping water coming from the ceiling. I hear the rush of water above us, and the ominous-looking stain in the ceiling tells me whatever is happening upstairs can’t be good.
“What happened? Where does it hurt?”
“My hip? Back maybe? I slipped on a puddle trying to start my bath,” she says, her voice shaky but green eyes steady. Her fingers grip my arm, squeezing. “Get that eulogy out of your eyes. I always wanted a grand rescue.”
“You can’t joke at a time like this!”
“I never joke about alphas in uniform,” she argues.
“Grandma!” I scold, an inappropriate laugh tumbling out. I wipe my eyes while I call 9-1-1, praying to anyone listening that my bad luck doesn’t become hers.