Page 90 of My Rose

“This…” I was speechless. My thumb rubbed along the glass of the frame as I clutched the blanket around me tighter, then glanced over my shoulder to find Briggs right at my side, taking the frame from me with gentle fingers.

"When…how…" My mind went blank, yet spun like a merry-go-round all at once, searching for a reason. Photoshop, maybe? “Was this fabricated?”

The insinuation took Briggs aback, his forehead scrunching with concern as he looked me over and put the frame back in my still-open hand.

“No, Rose. I wish I could tell you differently, but this is real.”

“I…I don’t understand.” My thumb touched the edge of where a little girl stood, with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair, a wide smile plastered on for the photo. Right behind that girl stood a boy with light blond hair and vibrant green eyes that still danced the same way while his focus fell on the girl in front of him, that familiar dimple resting in the same spot as he smiled anyway for a picture he didn’t care to look at the photographer for. At least ten other children stood around the two, but all I saw was them.

Because they were us.

“I don’t remember this,” I finally got out, my breathing turning in a way that made Briggs wrap his arm around me, steadying me as he looked down at the photo with me.

“I know,” he admitted. My jaw slackened as he continued, “The first therapist you had after the fire said you didn’t seem to remember much from that year besides the fire. He said you clung to every detail of it like a lifeline and could write all about it but couldn’t recall your teacher’s name, what school you went to, what your classroom looked like, or…”

“You?”

He nodded. “Not just me, but yeah. I guess I was part of the unlucky batch your trauma took from you.”

He made it sound like I had no choice, and for that, I was grateful. I didn’t feel the need to apologize like I normally would have. Instead, I only felt like crying from the unfairness of it all, from the amount of questions I now had bubbling to the surface from a blacked-out memory. Or several memories—who knew how much I’d forgotten and never been told? I couldn’t fault him for not telling me before, either. He looked somber enough, his fingers wrapping around my shoulder and pulling me closer to his side.

“How did you know what my therapist said?” I knew the answer somehow before he could confirm it. He’d told me he’d been following me for longer than he should have, and with his bank account, I’m sure he could afford to buy doctor’s notes, even though that was illegal and a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality.

His hold on me tightened. “I think you know exactly how.”

I rolled my watery eyes. “Was it you who personally followed me, or did you hire people?”

He smiled grimly back at me, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I used to outsource it, but—”

“Usedto?” I tried to keep my voice from shaking as I continued. “What, ever since you were a young kid, you’ve been paying people to watch me?”

“No. That didn’t start until we were in high school. You were homeschooled after the”—his jaw worked as he struggled to find his next words—“after the fire until you started back up again in middle school, but we didn’t go to the same one. I found you in high schooland you looked right past me like you didn’t remember me at all. So, I looked into it.”

“And then, what? You decided you weren’t going to stop?”

He shook his head and took a seat along the edge of the navy blue bed. “You might want to sit down for—”

“I don’t want to sit!” I bit out. “I want you to tell me everything you know because right now, I feel like I’ve been lied to for a lot longer than I thought possible, and that isn’t fair. I get that you maybe didn’t want to trigger a trauma response or something, but that doesn’t help when you lo—”

He held up his hand, and my slightly misguided anger at the cruelty of the accident that took more than I knew from me turned to rage fully centered on him as he silenced me. “Please, don’t tell me that. Wait and see how you feel until after I’m done. Just, please don’t run away. Don’t run from this, no matter how you feel after.”

I took a few deep breaths and closed my eyes, stilling the swirling, uneasy sensation in my gut and head. My speech therapist always told me that words had power, but something else I learned was that sometimes you needed to be silenced to truly hear. To listen. That first year or so that I struggled to regain my voice had proven the worth, the value, of your ears. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He didn’t sound convinced, even glancing at the door, probably thinking he should lock me in here with him. But he’d never do that. He may do illegal things and get away with it, but he’d never harm me.

I nodded slowly. “I’m ready.”

His chest and the rose that lay there expanded on a deep inhale. I fixated on it as he began, “You and I shared that classroom. The teacher, Ms. Hudson, used to lightly joke about how we’d end up together one day because I never took my eyes off you. Even as a young kid, you were my everything, just in the ways a young boy could see the world—you were the entire thing to me. She paired us up on reading days, and we sat next to each other in class and ate lunch together. And then, one day, the class had all our parents come in to talk about their careers, not that mine showed. Your mother came in and talked about her career, and right before she left, you dragged me over to her and introduced me to her as your future husband, which made Ms. Hudson laugh, along with your mother and half the class that could hear you. But I didn’t laugh. I took it for what it was—the truth. Your face turned all red, and you got so mad, you punched me in the arm and ran back to your seat, but your mother leaned into my ear and told me that must mean you love me a whole bunch.” He grinned up at me, even though his face was beginning to pale over. My heart sank to my stomach as he gave me a minute to think before he continued, rubbing his knuckles along his stubbled jaw. “It’s kind of funny how even I forgot that part until just now. You’ve always been such a little viper with your tongue.”

I narrowed my eyes on him. “You’re not done. Keep going.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Okay.” His eyes popped open as he resettled himself along the bed, sitting up straighter. “That night, I went home and told my mom all about career day and, well, you. And then my father came home. We sat and ate dinner in mostly silence, like usual, until my father askedwhat we were talking about before he entered the kitchen. Even back then, I didn’t share things with him. Not like Beck did. I knew he couldn’t ever be trusted, but as an eight-year-old kid, you can’t always conceal things that well. Sometimes, you slip. As my mother told him, she omitted your name and just saidsome girl in his class, like that’s all you were to me, and I corrected her without realizing what she was doing. But I realized why she did that, eventually.” His fingers pressed to his temple, his eyes now unable to meet mine while my palms grew cold with a sweat I couldn’t control. “My father ended dinner soon after and told me to get in the car. He asked me questions, like what your name was because all he’d heard wasFields, what you looked like, and what I liked about you so much, all the while I pointed him in the direction of your house, knowing you lived right next to the school we went to. I used to watch you walk home every day while I sat waiting for my mother in the car line. I’ve always been watching you, Rose. There’s not a single fucking day of my existence where I wasn’t concerned with where you were and how you were. You’ve always been on my mind.”

My legs grew weak, and I finally moved to sit beside him on the bed, piecing together the things that he was saying—his age, the time frame, and the time of day he went to my house while the image of a black SUV hung like a delicate thread in my memories, along with the sounds of gunshots and then…then the fire that still marked my skin. The mark Briggs made a point to kiss or touch any time he could as if validating he loved all parts of me.

Or felt guilty.

“Please keep going,” I whispered. “I need to know.”

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