24. Rose
rose
It’s amazing what hot water and zesty citrus body wash can do to boost my mood.
I’m warm and clean, wearing a fresh pajama set, my hair braided down my back.
The effort fully exhausted me, but I don’t smell like a locker room anymore.
I almost feel like a person again instead of a clump of hair someone pulled out of a drain and set on fire.
My phone rings on my nightstand. I grab it, hoping to see my sweet, bearded nurse’s name on the screen, but my excitement fizzles out like a sparkler dunked in a bucket of water.
My parents. I let their call yesterday go to voicemail and texted I wasn’t feeling well.
I said I’d get in touch when I was better. I guess they’re overriding that.
I stretch out on my bed until my toes poke out from beneath the top sheet and answer the call.
“Rosie, how are you doing sweet girl?” Mom’s voice has a thread of panic as if I texted her I was in the ICU instead of just battling a summer cold.
“I’m doing better. Fever’s down today.”
“Are you drinking enough orange juice? Vitamin C is good for you when you’re sick.”
“I know, and I am.”
“You need to make sure you’re sleeping enough.”
“Not a problem.” I snoozed through four movies today.
“Did you get anything to eat? I wish I could be there to make you my special chicken noodle soup.”
“I’m okay, Mom. Reed made chicken and rice soup for me.” Best not to add I prefer it to her version. I can’t tell if it truly tastes better or if I just appreciate the chef’s efforts more.
“Reed’s been there? While you’re sick?”
“Yes. He’s been really sweet.” Sweeter than anyone would guess my gargoyle could be.
“Oh, Rosie. Having him there when you’re under the weather isn’t a good idea. You need to show him your best side, not give him a front row pass to you at your worst.”
I clench my jaw, Reed’s advice clanging against Mom’s in my head. “He’s my boyfriend. He should see all my sides.”
Mom’s laugh has me burrowing deeper into my bed. “Honey, it might be like that in your romance books, but in real life, men don’t want to see you when you’re sick. Your dad didn’t see me without a full face of makeup until we’d been married three years.”
“Came as a shock, too.” Dad laughs in the background.
I stop and think. Have I seen my mom without makeup? Surely I have. But…I can’t remember it. She’s always got flawless skin, rosy cheeks, and dark eyelashes.
“Why do you think your dad goes golfing all day when I get sick?”
“I don’t think Reed minded being with me,” I mumble.
Not when he went out of his way to take care of me and even stayed the night just in case I needed him. He held me close and kissed my sweaty forehead and helped me eat. He sure didn’t seem worried that I didn’t look my best.
“He’s a really good guy.” I’d get more flowery with my description, but it won’t make a difference. Not with them.
“Oh, Rosie. We know he’s a good guy. But romance isn’t about finding the perfect person. It’s about being the perfect person for whoever you find.”
Her favorite slogan. When I was younger, that advice sounded empowering. I even made a poster and stuck it in the corner of my dresser mirror. Be the perfect version of yourself. Working on yourself is the theme of every self-help book, right? A solid suggestion.
But it didn’t take long to learn she didn’t mean my version of perfect.
It wasn’t about embracing my creativity or indulging my social side or even setting goals for my twenties.
She meant I should conform to fit the definition dictated by whoever I was dating.
Squeeze myself down to make sure I fit all the boxes they wanted checked.
Be agreeable. Don’t argue. Don’t rock the boat.
Reed likes it best when I rock the boat. And I think I do, too.
“I’ve been thinking again about painting.” I take a deep breath, letting her sit with that a beat. “A fresh color would really liven up the living room.” And make it feel more me.
“Rosie.” Mom breaks out her stern voice.
She uses it infrequently enough, it still makes my stomach squirm even though she’s across the ocean, and I’m a full-grown adult.
“We worked so hard to get the house exactly the way we wanted it. I hate to think of you changing it all up on a whim. Who knows what you might do to it without an interior designer’s advice?
” Her laugh squishes me down until I’m two inches tall. “We’ve seen your room, Rosie.”
I glance around at the knick knacks I’ve collected, the brightly colored throw blankets, the pops of fuchsia and teal and orange. I love my room. I want to love my house, too.
“What about all your things?” I ask. “Everything’s still here.”
Like you never left.
“Well, what are we supposed to do?”
“You could put your furniture in storage.” Along with a hundred pounds of metal sculpture. “Or sell it, since you’ll probably want to downsize when you do come back to stay.”
“Why would we downsize? We have the house.”
My house. The one they gave me, that’s signed over into my name. They just…what? Don’t plan on moving out? How did we never fully discuss this before? Except, obviously I know. I was too focused on being agreeable to let their fuzzy future plans bother me.
“What are you doing today?” I hate how strained and weak my voice sounds, but I’ll chalk it up to the lingering sickness.
“Spending another day in Hyde Park. We only explored half of it yesterday. There’s an outdoor art installation going on, too. So many beautiful things to see.”
“I can’t wait to see the pictures. I should probably get more rest now, though.”
“You do that, Rosie. And put some makeup on if Reed’s coming by. You should put in some effort after all he’s done for you. Better yet, tell him to wait until you’re back up to speed.”
We say goodbye, and I thumb off the phone, staring at the ceiling.
Then I grab my phone again.
Rose: Please bring sweet treats
Reed: Already on it
When Reed shows up a couple of hours later, I’m wearing a slightly less skimpy pajama set than last night, but no makeup. I’m sick. He’s not coming over to Netflix and chill.
I mean, yes, he is, but also no.
He’s on my front porch with a plastic takeout bag in one hand and a reusable tote in the other. His expression brightens the moment he sees me.
“Hey. You look better.” Then his eyebrows tug together. Frown Mode: Activated. “What’s wrong?”
“Come on in.” I can’t spew everything at him in my entryway. I already have to ignore the echo of my mom’s voice reminding me I shouldn’t tell him anything, anywhere. Ranting to your boyfriend isn’t attractive. Among countless other things.
He steps right up to me, gazing down as if he’s mapping my face. “What happened?”
I take his arm and guide him toward the dining room. “Let’s get some food first, big guy.”
Hmm. Probably a bad idea to test out pet names when I’m still mildly contagious.
He frowns down at me but doesn’t resist. “Sit on the couch. I’ll dish up plates for us.”
Oh, thank goodness. My energy hasn’t bounced back enough for me to do much wandering around the house. I flop down and pull my soft, yellow blanket over my bare legs while he moves around in the kitchen. He looks good in there. At ease. Like he belongs. Ugh, no. He just looks good everywhere.
After a minute, he brings me a plate of chicken lo mein with steaming potstickers on the side, a glass of Sprite, and another plate of golden-brown cookies.
“I think I’m in love.”
He lifts an eyebrow at me as he heads into the kitchen to get his own meal. “Do I need to check your temperature again?”
I’m not delirious, but I still probably shouldn’t blurt out everything I think.
I use one of the overly firm pillows to create a makeshift table in my lap and wait approximately two seconds to dive into my meal. I can’t even care about all the yummy sounds I make as I eat. I needed this food, and it’s too heavenly to slow down.
“Thank you for bringing all this,” I say between bites. “Forgive me for eating like a feral animal.”
“I like that you’re enjoying your food.”
“That’s good because I don’t think I can stop. What is the magical goodness inside potstickers? They’re so tasty.”
He peers into half of one of his. “Cabbage, meat, and…deliciousness.”
“I like that recipe. How was work?”
“I spent half the day fielding questions about where you were. Our customers can’t handle you being gone two days in a row.”
“Aww. People missed me?”
“We all did.”
Aww.
“I think I’ll be able to come in tomorrow.”
He frowns over at me. “You’ll take as much time as you need. Customers can wait.”
When he uses that stern voice, every cell in my body perks up, ready to do as he says. Super unhelpful at the moment.
“Did you want to tell me what had you upset when you opened the door?” he asks after a few minutes.
Now I’m the one frowning. “I thought you didn’t notice things about me.”
“Lies and deception.”
I exhale a laugh, spinning noodles on my fork. “I don’t know where to start.”
Probably not with my childhood, where I was both the center of attention and the focus of criticism. Gentle criticism, of course, and well-intentioned. But even given out of love, constant critiques chip away at you.
“What does your cabin look like?” I ask.
“You were upset thinking about my cabin?”
“No. I’m just curious.”
“It’s, ah…” He moves his mostly empty plate to the coffee table.
“Spartan is a good word for it. There’s an entryway where I keep my coats and boots.
Storage bins for extra outdoor gear. The main room has a wood burning stove, a kitchenette with a table and chair. And, uh, the bed. That’s about it.”
“Does it suit you, do you think?” That’s what he said when he saw my room the night of the raccoon incident. It suits you. But that’s the only part of the house that does.
His jaw works beneath his beard. “Probably not.”
“If you had a house to fill, what would you do with it?”
He elbows the stiff back of the couch we’re on. “I’d start with something more comfortable than this.”