Page 8 of My Rose

“Keep it,” he said as he bagged the milk.

“I can pay,” I replied, pushing the bills back, slightly annoyed. As he refused, pushing the bagged milk and the money back, I snapped. “Is it free milk and water day or something?”

He scratched along his patchy beard and opened his comic up once more. “Sure. We can call it that.”

I scoffed and eyed the tip jar on the counter. “Fine.” I took the money and stuffed it into the empty jar.

He glanced at the jar, then back at me, and rolled his eyes. I should’ve rolled mine right back at him—the audacity alone in having a tip jar on the counter at a convenience store.

“Have a great day,” he added, smiling from behind his comic and waving his fingers at me. It took everything in me to refrain from raising my single finger right back at him and telling him where to shove it with that sly look on his face before I decidedly left the store.

The sun was finally rising above the early morning clouds on the walk back to my grandparents’ house—my house. It was still hard to grasp that I didn’t stay at their house because of some extended family sleepover. It was my home now, too. They’d done nothing but welcome me with open arms since my parents died, and I couldn’t even call it my home after fifteen years of living there. Yet, a raw feeling spread over me each time it came out of my mouth.

Home.

Like a wound I wasn’t sure would ever fully scab over and heal.

The lit porch guided me from the end of the long stretch of road all the way to our small cul-de-sac, orour little sliver of heaven,as my grandmother called it. I made sure to flip the switch off when I came in, signaling I was no longer out, and put my shoes into the basket left by the door. It was one of the many silent conversations we’d grown used to. Something that stuck around from the first months after I’d moved in with my grandparents. My therapist said it was normal to lose your voice after a traumatic event, and I’d adjust to speaking again once the memories of that night weren’t so vivid in my mind. To this day, my memories remain just as vivid, yet my voice fought through and eventually came back anyway.

Where there were signals of my own meant just for them, they, too, had created their methods of communicating—Post-It notes, like the one on the door frame as I walked into the kitchen.

Went out with friends for breakfast and mahjong. We might be gone awhile. See you later, honey!

xoxo

The trip to the store this morning was for them because they couldn’t wait for me to return home from work later with milk to go with their coffee, but I guess I’d taken too long, and they’d decided to go out instead. I sighed and took the milk out from the brown paper bag and placed it inside the fridge, tucking it between containers full of leftovers with more Post-Its telling me one was my lunch, and the next was my dinner resting below it in the second container.Another Post-It clung to the edge of a pan that was left out on the stove—

Breakfast.

I shut the fridge door, balled the bag up in my hands, and walked over to the trash bin. As I released it, I noticed black streaks along one of the folded, crumpled grooves—swooping black marks that became clearer when I retrieved the bag and unfurled it. ‘Briggs’ was scribbled neatly along the side, followed by ten numbers underneath.

I paused for a moment, my hands trying to catch up with my mind. Part of me reasoned that it was just a number and I should be adding that number to my phone’s contacts just in case. But another, larger part of me—the part that oddly sounded like August Coleman shouting in my ear—said to trash it. To forget about it, because I’d chased August for years and that had to be respected and not just forgotten. That conflicting voice countered that perhaps Briggs was only being friendly. He wasn’t being forceful about it—more of a choice or a suggestion than anything.

And that very small, barely-there, whispering voice in my head is what made me take out my phone and save his number.

Chapter 5

Briggs

“But, I think, if desire were attacking me I’d feel it.” ? Ovid

My kicks were sloppy, and my fists weren’t doing much better. Every time the black bag spun, I’d stand back and watch until it stilled. The dim yellow lights weren’t changing the color of the bag, no matter how many times I tried to blink it away, or tried to convince myself it was more navy than black. Becauseblack was the color of Rose’s lace bra that peeked out from her jacket as she unzipped it, trying to lend it to me for warmth.Me, the one whose heart was more frozen over than the streets were going to be in the next week or so.

If only she knew.

“Harder, Briggs! You aren’t using your torso!”That’s not the only thing I wasn’t using.I glared over my shoulder at my trainer, narrowing my eyes to the point where most people would feel uncomfortable, but he just stood there and crossed his arms. He was fairly new since the last one had pissed me off and even though I was usually excellent at remembering names and faces, his was unmemorable. I almost pulled the gun from my waistband when I walked in, thinking someone had broken into my gym on the outskirts of town. It was technically a warehouse, but I’d converted it when my father told me to gain more muscle or get the fuck out. I should have chosen the latter, but there was a drive in me to prove him wrong and it was the only thing my father ever complimented me on. Not that I needed his approval.

“You’re done for the day.”The fuckI am.“You should go home, I’ll draw up a better meal plan and give it to Rhonda by dinner.”

I looped an arm over the bag, steadying it. “I’m done when I say I’m done.” A bead of water dropped onto the floor, drawing my eyes down to where it splashed into the puddle of sweat I’d formed over the last few hours. The clock on the wall told me I’d been at it for three. “Kevin, was it?”

“Carl.” He unfurled his arms and pulled out a clean towel that had hung from his back pocket. “All I’m saying is, you look like you need rest, and possibly food. Dean said—”

“I know what Dean said.” Kevin-Carl was Dean’s personal trainer for years, and after firing my last one, Dean insisted I use his. And I trusted Dean enough to take his advice. That didn’t mean I had to like who his trainer was. Kevin-Carl seemed to have a list of my top irritants and mentally referred to it every time he opened his thin little mouth.

I took the towel he held out for me and picked up my bag. “Rest. Eat. Come back tomorrow.” He raised his brow and opened his mouth for a split-second before snapping it shut again. He probably wanted to point out how I needed to keep my mind on the bag, but he didn’t know my mind was on the tits of a girl who barely knew anything about me, and I doubt he’d have the balls to say anything about my dick needing to stay in the gym as well.

I slid my watch back on and then pulled my phone out from my bag, scowling when I saw Clarissa’s texts that should’ve been about the party tonight. “Tomorrow, two o’clock. Be late and you’re done.” His throat bobbed, then he nodded and started cleaning each piece of equipment I’d touched since I’d gotten there.

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