Chapter 7 Rose
ROSE
Leaving a trail of heels across the living room floor, I beelined to the kitchen with one mission.
Wine.
I ripped the cork from my favorite Bordeaux like a rabid hyena and poured a glass fit for a lumberjack. Earthy, smoky perfection curled into my senses. I closed my eyes. Sipped.
Heaven in a bottle.
Clutching the glass to my chest, I leaned against the kitchen doorway and stared at the flowers still sitting in the entryway.
For the millionth time, I questioned the decision I’d made eight weeks ago to end the relationship.
A part of me hated him for not letting go.
A darker part liked that he hadn’t. The result: a swirling cocktail of guilt and self-doubt.
The same poison that had landed me here in the first place.
I swirled my wine, eyes locked on the flowers. That’s when I noticed the envelope nestled between the petals.
A note.
Of course there was a note.
I didn’t have to read it. Obviously. I could be the bigger person.
So, I lifted my chin and moved into the living room.
I clicked on a light. Rearranged the couch pillows.
Alphabetized the Vogue magazines on the coffee table by month—then by color.
But after five minutes of pretending I didn’t care, I gave in.
I plucked the envelope like it might bite me.
Three simple words: I miss you.
My shoulders sagged.
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I just love him? Every other woman in town did. Why did I run from every relationship I’d ever had? Why couldn’t I give someone a real chance?
I knew why.
I’d always known.
It wasn’t something therapy could fix. It was deep trauma, plain and simple. The kind that had sculpted me into the terminally-single woman I’d become.
I tossed the card on the table and decided the only thing that would help was wine—and a scalding hot bubble-bath.
But the second I flicked on the bedroom light, I stopped cold.
There, in the middle of my bed, sat a teddy bear.
I didn’t own a teddy bear.
Never had. Not even as a kid.
It wore a red velvet bow with gold trim, its beady black eyes staring at me like it knew something.
I glanced back toward the orchids at the door, then at the bear. My eyes swept the windows, slow and searching. I set the wine on the dresser and crossed the room like I was walking into a trap.
I stared at the bear. Picked it up.
I hated it instantly.
No card. No stitched-on "To/From." No sweet little message. Just… nothing.
My mind spun.
Why would my ex leave flowers on the porch during a thunderstorm, but sneak a stuffed animal onto my bed? He didn’t even have a key. I changed the locks the day I ended things.
I bit down on my lip—a nervous tic I despised.
Maybe I forgot to lock the door earlier? No. I always locked it.
Had someone broken in?
My heart kicked hard in my chest.
I put down the bear and moved through the house room by room—three total. Every door, every window—locked. No signs of forced entry. I considered calling the police, but then remembered the last two times I did that.
Both calls had ended the same way: with them implying I was losing my mind, and me starting to believe it.
I stood in the center of my living room, eyes drifting to the bookcases flanking the fireplace. I frowned.
The vesuvianite bookends—were they always positioned like that?
Were they?
Or was I losing it?
I walked back to the bedroom. Stared at the bear.
I didn’t know who sent it. I didn’t know how it got in. But I knew one thing for sure:
I didn’t like it.
And those warning bells in my head?
They weren’t just ringing.
They were screaming.