Chapter Eleven
Rosalie
“We’re not sending her back to that house, Marcus!” A loud, raspy voice breaks through my subconscious as I blink wearily. The tone is familiar, but different from the one I’m remembering. This newcomer is aged, maybe an adult?
“I never said we were, baby.” Reassures a cool, calm male’s voice. It’s deep, but soft as he speaks with whoever is arguing with him. “We need to figure out what we’re doing…”
“She’s staying here. End of story.” Snaps the woman.
A hand brushes over my temple, and I realize I’m in someone’s bedroom. I stare at the ceiling, my vision coming into focus on the Rhea Ripley poster taped above my head.
“You’re awake?” Charlie’s gentle tone touches my ears as she bends over me. My head is resting on her thigh, and her brown locks dangle over my face as her eyes flicker across my features.
“What…what happened?” I clear my throat as I turn to look at the bedroom door.
“You don’t remember?” My friend asks.
“No.” She’s still touching me, but it’s…nice. Comforting. And I can’t find the strength to push her away right now.
“You scared the shit out of me!” Charlie says, her voice rising. “You showed up on my doorstep covered in—”
“Don’t say it,” I beg, my eyes screwing shut as my stomach churns at the memory of my soaked shirt.
She sighs, her concern fading as she brushes my strands with delicate strokes. “You passed out, and we’ve been up here. Mom cleaned you up and put a Band-Aid over your cut.”
I nod, looking down at my clothes to see that my ruined shirt has been replaced with a band t-shirt from a group who would have been considered in their prime twenty years ago. I push onto my hands, and my elbows buckle until I fall back onto Charlie’s lap.
My friend hisses. “Don’t get up. You’re weak.”
“Sorry…” I mumble as I close my eyes. “I’ll leave as soon as I can stand—”
“Shut up,” she smacks the back of my head lightly. “You’re staying here. Pretty sure Mom won that battle.”
The door to the room creeps open, and a middle-aged woman with short red hair tiptoes quietly into the room. She closes the door behind her before crossing her beige cardigan over her chest. “You’re awake.”
I don’t know who this woman is, but her resemblance to my best friend is uncanny. She’s definitely Charlie’s mom.
She steps closer to me before crouching down. Her green eyes soften when they trail the cut under my chin. “How are you feeling, kid?”
“I’m okay…” I mumble.
Her head tilts. “Okay. Do you mind telling me what happened?”
I close my eyes before shaking my head. I don’t want to talk about any of it. Not while I feel so small.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Are you hungry? I made lasagna for dinner.”
Even as my stomach gives a painful grumble, I still shake my head. I can’t think of food right now. I just want to sleep.
She nods before standing. “Get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning. Goodnight, girls.”
“Night, Mom,” Charlie calls back as her mother leaves.
We sit in silence for a little while, only soaking in each other’s presence, before I can finally find the strength to drag myself off of Charlie’s lap.
She turns off the lights before quietly sliding into bed beside me.
She covers both of us with the thick duvet, and I feel my body melt into the comfortable mattress.
“Good night,” Charlie mumbles sleepily. She’s on her stomach, facing me with her hand between us.
I don’t return her words as I carefully intertwine our fingers. The touch feels strange. I’m not used to voluntarily holding hands with anyone, but as she gives me a soft smile, it begins to feel normal—soothing.
I drift off into a dead sleep where no night terrors touch me for the first time in ten years.
Going from a silent existence to the controlled chaos of Charlie’s home life is a shock to my system.
I feel awkward as I sit at the nice dining room table and everyone flutters around me.
I stare down at the plate in front of me, piled high with pancakes, as Mr. Marcus, Charlie’s dad, slides into the chair next to me.
His style is something I would peg a music producer to wear with his ripped, dark jeans and the red flannel buttoned up to his neck. His beard is clean, and his deep brown eyes are warm enough as he smiles at me.
“Mornin’, Rose,” He greets.
I don’t respond as I stare down at the steam rolling off my breakfast.
“I told you to pick up your clothes, Charlie.” Mrs. Lennon barks from the stove as she flips pancakes.
My best friend gives me a withering look as she takes the seat to my left. “I will this afternoon.”
“Before school,” her mom commands, pointing a spatula at her from across the room.
“Listen to the boss,” Mr. Marcus smirks as he takes a sip of his coffee.
His wife’s eyes narrow on him. “Don’t think I haven’t seen the beard trimmings in the sink, love.”
Mr. Marcus winces exaggeratedly before gazing at Charlie and me. “Busted.”
They ease into a relaxed conversation about everyone’s plans for the day.
Mr. Marcus mentions fine-tuning a composition one of his musicians in California has been working on, while Mrs. Lennon shares details about the high-profile case she’s currently handling at her law firm.
Charlie talks about the final project that could make or break our music grade, but it’s all lost on me.
Their talking melts together into nothing as I focus on the pancakes. I don’t even feel like I’m present as the last twenty-four hours crash over me like tidal waves during a storm.
“Rose?”
I blink, dragging my eyes up to Mrs. Lennon as she stares at me with concern. Her fork is halfway to her mouth, but she isn’t concerned with eating. “Are you okay, hun?”
All eyes are on me, and it feels suffocating. I’m exposed to them, and I can’t stand it.
I push my chair out. “I-I need some space…”
Mr. Marcus shrugs. “Why don’t you take the day off? When you’re ready to talk, we’ll be here.”
Skipping school should make any kid happy, but it feels more like a command than a light-hearted request. It sounds too tempting to pass up, and with the state I’m in, I really can’t find any reason to argue with him.
I think they know that too.
“That sounds like a good idea,” Mrs. Lennon smiles. “Marcus could use some help in the studio.”
“Mom,” Charlie fusses.
“She’s right,” Mr. Marcus says as he stands. “Any help is more than welcome. Just think about it.”
I nod before heading back to Charlie’s room and barricading myself under the covers.
I stay there for most of the day, my mind repeating the events of the last day to me like a fucking broken record.
With every fresh replay, I notice new things popping up in my memory—how if I had taken the trash out, Dad wouldn’t have found the glass, or that the electricity was out since the trailer was sweltering and we were bathed in darkness as the afternoon sun began to set.
Every do-over is horribly new in its own way, and it makes my teeth grit as I imagine the glass cutting into the knick at my throat.
It’s fresh Hell over and over again, and I can’t escape it.
I sink lower into the abyss that’s threatening to swallow me, that black shadow curling around my limbs and causing me to feel heavy.
Breathing becomes hard, and I sense panic gripping my chest.
“Oh, come on!” Mr. Marcus shouts from down the hall, causing everything to crash around me. The darkness recedes, and I’m left panting as sweat pools beneath me. I yank myself upright in bed, shocked to see that most of the day has passed.
I blink, blurry-eyed and disoriented, before dragging myself out of Charlie’s bed. I rub the sleep from my eyes as I shuffle towards the end of the hall where a door is ajar. Neon blue lights filter out of the crack, and I’m drawn to it.
I push the door open, a small gasp leaving me as a full recording booth comes into view.
Guitars and keyboards line the walls, hung up or propped as if they belong in this space.
The mixing board is massive, stretching along the booth with Mr. Marcus seated in a rolling chair before it as he flips dials with one hand and holds his phone with the other.
He seems agitated as he argues with whoever is on the phone. “Listen, if Harlow can’t hit a falsetto, then consider this a fucking wrap. I’ll find someone who can.”
He sits back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And you still aren’t fucking listening to me. Background vocals are going to sell this. Without it, you might as well count this project as a loss.”
He stands abruptly, causing me to back up as he throws a hand up. “Find someone who can hit the falsetto. End of discussion.” He slams a finger on the red button, hanging up on whoever was on the other end, before he rests his head back against his shoulders and sighs.
I try to close the door gently, but end up scuffing my foot along the carpet as I hiss at the loud sound.
Mr. Marcus turns, his brows lifting. “I guess you heard that…”
I push the door open, abandoning my idea of sneaking away. “Yes…”
He nods. “Music is cutthroat. Now I need to find someone who can hit a falsetto before I trash this whole project.”
That sounds serious.
I don’t know what all goes into making music, but from what little experience I do have, I know it isn’t easy.
Marching band is nothing compared to the big leagues, and the part of me that once wanted to fix everyone and everything seems to come back to life as I shift my weight.
I play with my fingers, nerves wracking me as I stumble over my words. “I…I can hit a falsetto…”
Mr. Marcus’s lips thin as his head tilts. “Can you?”
I nod.
“Huh,” he hums. “What are the odds? Get in the booth, and let’s see what you got.”
I hold my hands up, shaking my head. “I-I don’t think I can do that—”
“Stage fright,” he winces with a hiss. “Oh, that won’t do. Get in the booth, and we’re gonna fix that right now.”
“What?” Panic seizes me as he opens the booth’s door for me.