Kissed by a Rose: A Dead Roses Novel

by Workman, RaShelle

  The door thumps open and Professor Jenkins walks in. He clears his throat, scrunching his salt and pepper brows. Then he clears his throat again. “I see you two have met. Excellent. Excellent. Sorry I’m late.” He pulls some music from his briefcase and hands it to each of us. “Have a seat, and let’s go over the piece I’d like you to play.”

  Cole winks and sits at the piano he was playing moments before. I take the one across from him.

  The piece of music is kind of a letdown. Sonata in F Major, K. 533/494: III. Rondo. Allegretto. Written by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Arranged for two pianos by Grieg.

  “Let’s take a look at the first page. You’ll see the title, and arrangement. Are you both familiar with this piece?” Professor Jenkins asks.

  “Yes,” Cole says.

  Professor Jenkins glances at me.

  “I am.”

  “Excellent. Want to run through it once?”

  Cole lifts a shoulder and grins. His face is easy to read. It’s saying, I’m game if you are. I can’t help but meet his grin with one of my own.

  And I’m thinking, Game on.

  “Absolutely,” Cole says.

  Cole and I run through the piece with Professor Jenkins several times. He gives us lots of pointers, advising us on the more difficult sections. The first run through, Cole plays piano one and I play piano two. Then we swap. Piano one is my favorite. The music is so fast my fingers almost have to float above the keys. But Professor Jenkins ends up giving Cole piano one. I’m bummed, but I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter. Playing with Cole at the Winter Gala is almost a guarantee I’ll receive another year of scholarships. At least that’s what Professor Jenkins told me. That’s the important part. Screw my pride.

  “Alright, you two. That’s a good start.” Professor Jenkins nods at each of us. “Get in plenty of practice. Let’s meet back here. Same time. Same place. Next week. I expect to hear great progress from both of you.” He stands, grabs his briefcase, and walks to the door. “I think the two of you make a great duo.”

  “Thanks, Professor,” Cole and I say together as he leaves.

  Once the door clicks closed, I turn to Cole. He’s watching me, but music fills the room. It’s the same piece I heard him play earlier.

  “I wrote this for…” He pauses, clears his throat, and looks down at his hands.

  I stand beside him, waiting for him to go on. Now that he’s done playing games, we can really talk.

  “So, seven years?” he begins. “What have you been up to? Besides becoming an amazing pianist.” His brilliant blue eyes find mine. “Never would’ve guessed.” His eyes shift back to the piano keys. “I thought you wanted to be a doctor.”

  I can’t help the laugh that leaves my throat. Nor can I help my need to be closer to him.

  “Have a seat.” He scoots so I can sit beside him.

  I slide in, placing my hands in my lap. My heart pounds in my throat. So many questions, thoughts, worries, and desires. They fill me up so I can barely think.

  He glances at my lap and smirks. “You’ve got doctor’s hands.”

  I lace my fingers together, listening to the music, letting his words sink in. “I wanted to be a doctor up until I watched a video of a woman giving birth.” I can’t help the shudder that races along my spine. “After nearly passing out, I knew it wasn’t my thing. Too much blood.” I shrug. “My aunt and uncle bought me a piano, made me take lessons. Turned out I was good at it.” I meet his eyes. “Actually, I love it.”

  He nods as though he understands. It’s obvious that he does. “I love it, too.”

  “Is music your major?” It feels so weird to be talking to him like this. Having a regular conversation, like the last seven years never happened. Except as soon as I think it, the past seven years rush back, and my stomach turns with grief.

  He doesn’t seem to notice the sudden agony coursing through my body. “No, my father always wanted me to get a business degree. Music is my minor though. I couldn’t give it up.”

  His words send bile to my throat. His father. The same man who went into my house, shot and killed my parents, and then talked to me like I was nothing. My hands begin to shake. It’s hard to breathe. “Cool.” I swallow and blink several times. The room is tilting. Pain serrates my heart, and I want to scream.

  It’s happening again. I haven’t had an attack like this in a couple of years, but I can feel it coming on, like riding a bike, I can’t forget. I know how it works. First the overly fast heartbeat, my breathing coming in and out like I’ve just run ten miles, a tightness, the sound of water whooshing over my head. It’s a panic attack—a bad one. I jump to my feet. I won’t lose it in front of him.

  Cole grabs my hand. “Wait. Are you okay?”

  I don’t answer. I can’t. My teeth are like a concrete wall, holding back all the agony inside my body. If I open my mouth, everything—all the pain, the hate, the anger—will spill out. I pull away from him.

  In the past, if I were feeling this kind of agony, I would run to a piano room, not away from it. But Cole is here. And I can’t be near him any longer.

  I try to be polite and wave, but I can’t even look at him, see if he noticed. If I don’t get away, I’m going to pass out, and I can’t do that in front of Cole. I’ve done plenty to embarrass myself in front of him already.

  As I climb the steps, it occurs to me I forgot my blasted music.

  17

  Embarrass Myself Again

  Rosie

  My back pocket holds my cell phone. I pull it out and dial another number I know by heart.

  “Miss Abigail Brevins’ office.” The woman’s name is Carrie. We’ve met many times and exchanged pleasantries as I scheduled appointments came in for visits over the years.

  “Hi Carrie. It’s me. Rosie… Hansen,” I finish. It dawns on me I have no idea how many people Abigail sees. People, like me, who can’t deal with the life they were dealt.

  “Oh, hi Rosie. Did you want to make an appointment? We haven’t seen you in a while. How’s college?” Carrie’s voice is mellow, full of comfort. The perfect voice for someone with her job description, and she really is sweet. Interested in what’s going on with me. Right now, it’s grating on my last nerve.

  “This is an emergency.” I plop down on a bench and place my head between my knees. Spots are floating across my vision. “Please. I. Really. Need. To.” My breathing is coming in gasps. I can’t seem to get enough air. It’s a panic attack. I haven’t had one since I started getting tattoos, since I was fourteen. All it took was for Cole to mention his father. Talk about him like he’s anything but an evil monster. It’s ripping my guts out. Tearing my heart into little pieces. I can’t wrap my head around Daniel Morrison—Cole’s father buying him a piano or doing anything nice. The man murdered my parents! He’s evil.

  More spots. I’m going to faint. Embarrass myself again and pass out.

  “Hang on, Rosie,” Carrie coos, extra gentle. She puts me on hold. Irritating music pummels my ears.

  Seconds later, Abigail is on the phone. “Hi Rosie. How’s it going?”

  Hearing her voice calms me a little. I try to take a deep breath. “I’m freaking out,” I say.

  “Deep breath. Go on. I’ll wait.”

  I suck in a breath, allowing clean air to fill my lungs. The sun is setting. I focus on the orange, purples, and pinks in the cloudless sky. I take another breath.

  “Feeling better?”

  “A little,” I say.

  “Good. Now tell me what set you off.”

  I take another cleansing breath and dive in. “My music professor asked me to play a duet for the Winter Gala. Doing so guarantees me another year of scholarships. I agreed right away because that’s exactly what I need. Then, today I met my duet partner.” I pause. My heart is racing. Even at the thought of saying his name.

  “And, how did it go?” Abigail encourages.

  “At first. Okay,” I say honestly. “But then it got messy. Really mes
sy. And I’m hurting. So, so bad.” I wrap an arm around my waist and pull my knees to my chest. I try to be as small as possible because the smaller I am, the less it’ll hurt.

  “What happened? Why did the pain start?” Abigail soothingly asks.

  “It’s Cole,” I say softly, trying not to let the words touch my body, inflict any more damage. “He’s supposed to play the duet with me.”

  I hear her mutter something under her breath before she clears her throat. “Aww, well you thought you might see him. You were conflicted about it.”

  “Yes,” I nod into the phone. “I-I keep going back and forth. It’s easy to talk to him, to be around him, until I remember who his father is. Then I lose it.”

  “I see. What specifically set you off?”

  At the memory of Cole at the piano, talking about his dad like he was discussing the weather, my heart buckles. “He mentioned his dad.”

  “What did he say?”

  I stand, no longer able to sit still. “He said his dad wanted him to major in business.” Tears well up. They won’t stop and my eyes become blurry, the yellowing landscape glassy.

  “Why did that upset you?”

  I grind my teeth together. I don’t want to say the words she wants to hear. But I’ve learned from experience she’ll spin the questions until I tell her exactly what’s bothering me. “Because.” My voice cracks, and I stop.

  “Because,” she coaxes.

  “Cole’s father is still walking around. Living. Breathing. Having conversations with his kid while my parents are dead. And it’s all his father’s fault!” I shout the last part into the phone. A couple holding hands moves off the sidewalk, giving me some much-needed space. I feel myself losing it with each rise and fall of my chest. A frantic anxiety is mounting. I don’t know how to reel it in. The anguish spreads like a wildfire through my body. It needs to stop, disappear.

  “I get that, Rosie. I do. And you have every right to feel the way you do.”

  Her words do little to comfort me. “I-it hurts so much.” I fall to my knees.

  The phone tumbles from my hands, and I don’t care. I’m being eaten alive inside. The grief gets bigger and bigger, so overpowering I barely notice I’m being manhandled. Words are being spoken but I can’t understand what’s said. Agony fills my pores and crevices. I want it to stop. It doesn’t. Instead it grows stronger. My world crashes, my heart shatters. I am nothing.

  * * *

  Cole

  I debate whether to go after her, but only for a second. Something’s wrong. I don’t know what I said or did, but there was devastation in her features, and she went white as a sheet. When she collapses, I run to her. One emotion burns through my body—fear. It’s everything all at once. Memories of the two of us, unanswered questions.

  Panic shoots through my heart. I can’t lose her. I won’t.

  When she drops her phone, pick up speed until I’m running. I slide next to her, grass staining the knees of my jeans, and I lift her head onto my thighs. “Rosie. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t. I can’t. It hurts too much.” Her words come out soft.

  I have to lean down to catch what she’s saying.

  “What hurts? Where?”

  “My heart. It’s—I’m ruined.”

  “No. No, you’re going to be fine. I’m here.”

  There’s a noise coming from her phone, and I pick it up. “Hello?”

  “Hello? Who is this? Put Rosie back on the phone,” a woman commands.

  “Uh, this is Cole. Morrison. Who is this?”

  There’s a sigh. “This is Abigail Brevins. I’m Rosie’s doctor.”

  “Doctor? Is she sick?”

  “Kind of.” She sighs again. “I’m her therapist.”

  “Oh.” What more can I say?

  “Is Rosie alright? Can she talk?”

  “She’s, uh, fainted. I think. Her eyes are closed.” I know I sound like a complete idiot, but I need Abigail to tell me what to do because I’m afraid for Rosie.

  “Check her pulse.”

  I do. It’s thumping steadily. “I feel it.”

  “Good. She’s going to be all right. Occasionally, her panic attacks can be severe, which is what’s happened. She’s fainted and may be out of it a while. If you want to take her to the hospital you can, but what she needs is to rest someplace safe. Can you make that happen or should I call 911?”

  “Yes. Of course. I’ll get her someplace safe.”

  “If I may be so bold…” she trails off, and I gather she’s waiting for me to agree.

  “Say what you have to say.”

  “You and Rosie have unfinished business. She doesn’t know your father died, does she?”

  “I—no. I’m not sure, but how do you know?”

  “Her aunt kept me abreast of the goings on with you and your father and your story. Sadly, they wouldn’t let me tell her. They kept her way in the dark, feeling they should protect her when her world fell apart. Rosie is too accepting of their words. Perhaps the two of you together will be a good thing.”

  “I—Really?”

  I feel the shock on my face. What’s her point? So, my father died. Does she think I’ll seem more sympathetic if Rosie knows?

  “If you care at all for her, you’ll ask her to tell you everything about the day her parents died, and you’ll listen. Really listen. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I respond. But I seriously have no idea what she means. Unless it has to do with our seven-year separation. But that had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Rosie. I tried many, many times to talk to her, and she never responded.

  “Good-bye, Cole Morrison.” I swear I hear her smile. “I think you’ll be good for her.”

  “Thanks. Bye.” I hang up and tuck Rosie’s phone in my pocket. Then pick her up and spin in a circle, deciding what to do next.

  “Need some help, man?” some guy asks. I notice a group of students have gathered and are talking quietly.

  “Nah, I’m good.” I start walking to my Jeep. “I’m taking her home,” I say to no one in particular.

  18

  Like a Date

  Rosie

  The smell of buttered toast infiltrates my oblivion. I roll over, groggy. Rub my eyes. Clear my throat. It’s parched, like I haven’t had water in a very long time. My eyes blink open and reality sets in. I’m not in my room. This blanket covering me isn’t mine. This bed isn’t mine, and I lift the light blue comforter. My shirt is twisted around my waist.

  “Where am I?” Fear sends my heart racing and I sit up, searching the room.

  The bedroom is small. Only a bed, a desk, and a chest of drawers. There’s a bathroom to the left of a doorway, which is wide open. Something about the room is familiar. A second later, it dawns on me. This is Cole’s bedroom. I’ve been here once before, briefly before he escorted me out.

  How did I get here? Last I remembered, I was talking to Abigail on the phone. I’d been having a panic attack—a super attack is what Abigail and I called the ones like I had. The attack was one of the worst I’ve experienced. As I search the room, I think Cole must’ve found me and taken care of me.

  “Where is he?” I throw my feet over the edge of the bed, and pause, unsure what to do next. Alert Cole I’m awake? Say nothing? Hide my face in shame? Sneak out the front? Before I can make a decision, Cole turns the corner carrying a plate and a glass of something. As soon as he sees me, his face lights up.

  “You’re awake.” He’s in faded jeans and a white tee shirt. His hair is perfectly messy. His eyes are dancing with mischief. “Are you hungry?”

  I am, in fact, starved. But I can’t tell him that. I seem to have lost the capacity to speak.

  “There’s blueberries. I remember when we were kids you loved blueberries.” He sits beside me, flashing the contents of the plate, which consists of blueberries, cantaloupe, and toast. His features soften. “Feeling better?”

  “I-uh, how long have I been here?”
My words catch in my scratchy throat.

  He hands me orange juice and I take a drink. It tastes so good I can’t help but drink it all while watching his face. When the glass is empty, he offers me the plate and I take it. Buttered toast is my favorite food on the planet. There’s something about the smell of toast and sweet cream butter combined. The taste when the crispiness of the bread and melted butter hit my tongue. But my stomach is sick, and fettered, and twisted up in so many knots I doubt I’ll ever be able to unravel them all.

  “At least take a bite,” he pleads kindly, lifting a berry to my lips.

  I open my mouth, and he plops it inside. The juice explodes between my teeth when I bite down. “Mmm.” I feel myself smile.

  He picks up another, and we repeat the process until they’re gone.

  “Toast?” he asks, picking it up, and touching the edge to my bottom lip.

  I search his features, curious about why he’s playing nursemaid. Feeding me. I’m enjoying it though. I sink my teeth into the buttery warmth. It’s so good. I take the toast from him and have another bite. “How long?” I ask again when I finish chewing.

  “Through the night. You missed English this morning. The irritating Ms. Spears was none too happy. But I sent her an email, calming her down. Hope that wasn’t too forward of me.”

  “No, I appreciate it, but how did you know my schedule?”

  “I’m a TA. It was easy.” He shrugs.

  “Gina!” I whisper-shout.

  She’s probably a wreck. I basically ditched her again and after I promised not to do that.

  He places a hand on my shoulder. When I flinch, he pulls away. “Don’t worry, I texted her with your phone. She knows where you are.”

  I can’t help my sigh of relief.