Kissed by a Rose: A Dead Roses Novel

by Workman, RaShelle

  I refold the letter and tuck it back into the envelope, then set it on top of the pile for that year. I stare at the letters, written by the boy I’ve missed almost as much as my parents. I can’t give them back. Not yet. I have to read each and every letter. Each and every word, sentence, and paragraph.

  I pick up the one with the most recent date stamped on it. Slice the edge with a nail file and pull out the paper. It still looks new. And before I read, I smell it. Definitely Cole.

  Dear Rosie,

  This will be my final letter. I’ve known for a couple of years you wouldn’t respond. It used to drive my father crazy that I sent you letters in the first place. After a year he told me to stop, but I couldn’t. My cousin Evan snuck me stamps from his mom’s purse.

  Anyway, I think I finally get that you aren’t a part of my life anymore. I didn’t want to believe because it hurt too much. Writing made it easier. I would think about you reading my letters. What you might do, the way your face would light up while you read.

  But it’s not meant to be. Whatever it is you’re doing with your life, I hope you’re happy. I’ve tried to be happy. Piano has helped. Evan thinks I’m girlie for playing, and I blow it off as a hobby, but the truth is, it means the world to me. I sit on the bench and play, and play, and play.

  The music allows me to forget the hurt at losing my mom, you, and my dad. Not that he was around much anyway. Not that I even liked him around. He wasn’t my favorite person, not even close, but he was my family. I see how important that is. And it makes me sad. For me, and for you.

  Man, I miss you.

  I think about what you must look like. If you’ve grown taller. Whether your hair is long or short. You had the most beautiful legs. I’m sure they’re even better now.

  I get why you went to live with your aunt and uncle. They are all the family you have left. I’m living with Evan. Him and his mom and dad have been good to me. But it isn’t the same.

  I hope you’re okay.

  I’ve driven past your aunt and uncle’s house lots of times. Once I sat in my Jeep, across the street, for hours. Your aunt finally came out and told me what I already knew. You didn’t want to see me.

  But I want you to know I never stopped thinking about you. I never stopped caring. And I hope with all of my heart that you are living life to its fullest. That you are happy. That’s all I wish for you.

  Always,

  Cole

  Tears drip onto the page. My heart is soaked with sadness. For many reasons. Giving up on Cole, harboring so much hate for his dad. But it’s more. I feel so badly that I wasn’t around for Cole when his father died. And I’m not even sure how to feel about his dad being dead. I’m devastated. I guess because a part of me believed I would have my revenge. That justice would be served. The man is dead. But I still feel lost, hopeless. It doesn’t seem fair.

  I wipe my eyes and steel myself. I should be happy, ecstatic. But I’m empty. I feel nothing. I am nothing.

  All my life, everything I’ve done: piano, tattoos, college, it’s all been because of Cole’s father. I need to know how Chief Morrison died. I need to see his grave, spit on his gravestone.

  How? I can’t ask my aunt. I can almost hear her: “Why would you want to be within a hundred feet of that evil man’s grave? Even in death he’s probably causing trouble. Stay away. Far, far away.” What she doesn’t understand is that I can’t. I have to see for myself that he’s dead.

  I wonder if she knows he’s dead. Even as I think it, I know she does. I doubt my aunt and uncle would’ve let me go to college otherwise. When did he die?

  I’m sure I could ask Cole, but I’d rather read his letters. They’re mine anyway, addressed to me. I bet in a court of law, the judge would declare me the owner. Never mind that I swiped them from Cole’s apartment without his knowledge.

  As I ponder my predicament, the door opens. Gina stumbles in. Her eyes are glazed. A strange smile coats her lips.

  “Hey, Rose. Rosie. Rose bud. How are you?” She falls onto her bed, and stares at the ceiling.

  I do my best to hide the letters, but there’s a lot. When I’m satisfied, I walk over. “Hey, Gina. How was your night with Romney?”

  She rolls onto her side. “So good. So, so good. He’s a rock star in bed. Sweet. Kind. Plus, he took me to dinner. We partied, just the two of us.” Her smile gets big.

  She’s higher than a kite. It isn’t cocaine. I’ve seen what she’s like on that. Maybe pot? I’m not sure. “What did you take?” I ask, sitting next to her, taking her hand.

  Gina looks at me. “Aww, Rosie. Don’t look so worried. They’re called recreational drugs for a reason. They’re fun.” She closes her eyes, inhales slowly. “I mean look at me. Do I look like I’m having a bad time?”

  Before I can say anything, she answers herself, “No. I feel great.” She lifts her hand and waves it slowly, mesmerized by the movement.

  I try to calm down. Take deep breaths. She’s right. She doesn’t seem sad or in pain, but mellow. “Okay.” I pat her on the arm. “I’m going to the library. I need a book for my research paper.” The truth is I want to read Cole’s letters in peace, without interruptions.

  I stand, but Gina grabs my arm, pulls me back down. “Wait. Don’t go. Tell me about Cole. How was he? From everything I’ve heard, you can’t still be the big V.” She makes her hands into the shape of a V in the air.

  “We kissed and he’s amazing, but I am still a big V.” I smile sadly, thinking about the fact that I’ve stolen the letters and wondering what he’ll do when he finds out. He may never want to talk to him and then I’ll remain the big V forever. I might have to join a convent, or a monastery. I’ll be known as the tattooed nun.

  “That’s a surprise. Maybe what I’ve heard is lies.” She smiles like she’s dreaming. “I’m just going to lay here. Rest. I’m tired.” She closes her eyes.

  “Get some sleep.” I cover her with a blanket. Stuff all of the letters into a bag, grab my iPod and go.

  28

  Return to Sender

  Rosie

  I push through the main doors of the Irvine dormitory and I run. And run. And run.

  But I don’t end up at the library. My heart leads my feet to the Fine Arts building. The place I go to exercise my religion. The place where I’m happiest.

  I edge down the steps and enter the long hallway. Immediately I’m more relaxed, more me. Our piano room, Cole’s and mine, is at the end, and I make my way toward it. But someone’s already there. Playing. It’s a song that breaks my heart. It’s melodious, chorded. I peer in and see Cole. Pain lines his beautiful face and I wonder what he’s thinking. Why is he hurting? Is the pain there because of his father? I want to go in and console him, but I’m afraid.

  Of rejection. Of his answers.

  Both.

  And what if it is about his father? I can’t comfort him over loss of that man. I’m glad he’s dead. I only wish it was me who took his life. At such a violent thought, I shudder. I wonder why my aunt and uncle never told me. I wonder when it happened, how it happened.

  Cole stops playing. I wait for him to start up again, but he doesn’t. I’m torn. My heart telling me one thing: go in, talk to him, and my mind: his father is bad, therefore he is bad.

  Cole makes up my mind for me. Pulls open the door.

  “Freckles. What are you doing here?” His features are tight, his voice not unfriendly, but not exactly welcoming either.

  I cross my arms, hiding the bag of letters beneath them. “Just wanted to get in some practice. I’ll find another room,” I say even though I need to apologize. Tell him I’m sorry about last night, but I don’t know where to begin. If it was the other way around, and he fell asleep on me, I’d be upset. “Is everything okay with the emergency?”

  “Yeah, I wanted to talk to campus police about… the delivery you received last night.”

  “And what’d they say?”

  He growls, frustrated. “Nothing useful, but I’m wo
rried about you. I’m just—”

  “Thanks,” I say and mean it. “But I’m going to be fine. It was probably just a joke.” I didn’t believe that, but I didn’t want to think about it either.

  “I hope so, but I’m doubt it. Someone took the time to write on the back and then put the picture in a box and deliver it to my apartment. How did they know you were there?”

  “The only person I told was Gina.” I try to think of anyone else. “I guess Romney could’ve known too, if Gina told him.” I pause as the rest of what he said sinks in. “Wait, there was something written on the back? What was it?”

  I see by his expression he doesn’t want to tell me. “Tell me.”

  “It said, you’re next, Rose.”

  “I’m next? What, do die?” As much as I want to read his letters and not think about what happened last night, I’m starting to freak out. But no. I just found out Cole’s dad is dead. He’s the only person who would’ve gone after me. “It has to be a joke.”

  “That’s what the campus police seem to think as well, but I don’t like it.”

  Tears well up in my eyes. I don’t want them too, but it’s like sensory overload. Why would someone want to hurt me? I hardly know anyone.

  “Hey, it’s going to be okay. I’ll keep you safe.”

  A tear fell onto my cheek and I wiped it away, frustrated. “Nothing to worry about.” I force a smile. It hurts my face.

  Cole reaches down to take my hand. He’s trying to act normal, but I can tell there’s a lot more going on in his head than he’s letting on “What are you holding?” he asks.

  I tighten my arms around the bag full of letters. I can’t let him see them. “Nothing. It’s private.”

  “Is it music?” He lightly takes hold of the bag and pulls. I know he’s trying to distract me from what he just told me, but I can’t let him see his letters because if he does, he might change his mind about protecting me, about caring for me.

  My heart is raging like a river. I don’t know what I’m more afraid of. Him seeing the letters, or him taking them away.

  He. Can’t. Have. Them. Taking them would be like stealing years of my life. That’s how it feels. I won’t let him.

  “Let go, Cole. It’s none of your business.” I twist, trying to get out of his grasp, but his hands tighten.

  He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind and maybe I have, but he still can’t have them. I shove a fist in his chest. “No, Cole. Leave me alone.” I turn to pull away and all of the letters spill to the floor. Furious embarrassment turns my face hot and I gasp. But I still don’t want him to take them. I really want to read them. But his letters are in a pile at our feet. My heart is among those letters, as is my pride.

  He bends and picks up one of the envelopes. Flips one over. He knows what they are instantly. I see the change in his expression. Tension rolls off him. His shoulders tense under his shirt. I think about running away, hiding the embarrassment flaming my cheeks. But I hold my ground. I want those letters. It means everything to me to read his words.

  When he stands, his expression changes again. To surprise. “Where did you get these?”

  “I’m sorry, Cole. I-I found them in your closet and wanted to read what you had to say. I wanted to know you, know what you wrote me.”

  He crumples the envelopes into a fist. Pain travels over his features. “Then why didn’t you read them when I wrote them? Why send them back?”

  “I didn’t know. I-I never knew.” Tears sting my lashes, but I force them away. “I would’ve read each and every one had I known. I swear.”

  He kicks the bag. “So, you snoop through my things? You steal them?” He’s raised his voice slightly and is shaking his head in disbelief. “Have you read any of them?”

  My first thought is to lie, but he’ll know the truth soon enough. I nod. “Yes, I’ve read two.”

  He grinds his teeth, his jaws hardening into a line.

  A girl with frizzy red hair, a flower dress, and cowboy boots comes out of a practice room. She’s holding her clarinet. “Can you two keep it down? Some of us are trying to practice.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I bend down and start stacking the letters.

  “You aren’t the person I knew. I don’t know what I was thinking, getting involved. You’ve changed. You’re different.” As he’s talking, he’s pulling the letters I’m stacking from my hands and placing them closer to him.

  My body start to shake. He thinks I’m different, that I’ve changed. Well no duh. I wonder how much he would’ve remained the same if he’d seen what I saw—bodies on the floor, lying in their own blood. Asleep forever.

  I rip the letter I’m holding in half. Throw it at him. The pieces smack him in the face, and he flinches. He stands, and I stand too. Shove him in the chest. He falls against the door to the piano room. I stand on my tiptoes, get up in his face.

  “You think I’ve changed? Well, yeah. I have. And you want to know why?”

  His lips are pressed together in a tight line. He’s staring at me, searching my face for what, I’m not sure. Our renewed time together flashes behind my eyes and I’m sad. That whatever we might have been building is crashing to the floor along with the letters. I don’t want him to be angry with me. I want him to understand.

  “Why?” he asks, softly.

  This wasn’t how I expected my morning to go. I should’ve thought through the consequences. I should’ve asked him for them. None of that matters right now because I’m finally going to tell him the truth. “It’s because I came home late on the night my parents died. I saw two men leave my house by the back door. One was holding a gun. He was talking to another guy. When they left, I went into the house, and my parents were dead. That picture from last night. That’s how I found them. Their eyes open. Staring into nothing.”

  I’m so upset I’m seeing red. It’s dripping into my eyes, blinding me. And I’m so furious I’m beating him with my fists, pushing him against the door. All I want is to hurt him the way I’ve been hurting. “You want to know who the guy with the gun was? The person who stole my family right out from under me?”

  “Rosie,” I hear him whisper, but it doesn’t register.

  “It. Was. Your. Father!” I’m shouting now. In a voice I don’t recognize. I think it’s the sound of anguish. “He killed my parents. Destroyed everything that meant anything.” I heave a deep breath. Lower my voice. “So, yeah. I’ve changed.”

  I fist my hands into his shirt before quickly releasing them and turn away.

  The letters fall from Cole’s arms. I hear them as they hit the floor. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk-thunk. Thunk.

  Cole spins me back toward him, hugging me so tight I can barely breathe. “I’m sorry, Rosie.”

  I can’t take his kindness. I can’t deal with him being nice to me. So, I push away, the need to run the most powerful thing on Earth. But he won’t let go.

  “Rosie, don’t. Stay. Talk to me.” He lifts my face up to meet his. The pain is back, etched into his features like cuts on a carving board. He leans down. I know he’s going to kiss me, and I let him.

  A surge of intense desire rushes into my lower belly. Fury becomes yearning. For him. I wrap my hands around his neck, pressing him to me like he’s my air. He lifts me into his arms, and I circle his hips with my legs. My hands move to his glorious hair, his hands hold me up.

  I need this, the feeling. His touch burns away all of my grief. My body hums with need, pushing away the pain. His lips on mine, his hands on my body, every inch of me pressed against him; it’s better than playing the piano, stronger than the forgetful pain of a tattoo or the numbing warmth of alcohol. It’s all-consuming, all-encompassing.

  “Cole.” I breathe out and he breathes in, like we are one. The perfect melody.

  The girl in the cowboy boots, the one holding the clarinet, says, “Intense much? Sheesh.”

  I don’t look at her. Neither does Cole.

  Cole pushes open the practice room door and walks us in.<
br />
  “The letters,” I say.

  “Forget the letters.” He closes the door behind us and presses me against it. His eyes say everything. The way he’s feeling. He’s hurting and, in some way, understands what I’m feeling. That increases my craving for him.

  “I need you,” I say between kisses.

  His lips crash into mine, pressing open my mouth as he deepens the kiss.

  I meet him all the way. No holding back. No nervousness. Only heat.

  His hands are in my hair before they move down to caress my arms. He looks at my shirt and smiles. “Is this okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say breathlessly, too thrilled by what’s happening to be ashamed. I don’t even care that someone might walk in at any minute. I run my fingers through his mussed hair. He kisses me lightly on the mouth and skims his hands down my body to the waist of my jeans.

  That snaps me back to reality. “Wait,” I say, finding it hard to catch my breath. I want more, but in such a public place.

  His eyes search mine, questioning.

  “Not here.” I look down, embarrassed.

  “Freckles, I love making out with you. In fact, I think you and I should make out every day for the rest of our lives.” He smiles and kisses my cheek. “I’m sorry.” He adjusts my shirt and combs down my hair with his fingers. “You’re so hot.” He caresses my cheek with the palm of his hand, and I lean into him. “Most girls—” He shakes his head. “No, more like every girl I’ve kissed before wants more, but you’re different. Better.” He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry.”

  I take his face in my hands and lean up to kiss his mouth. “Thank you,” I say, trying not to focus on his comment about every girl he’s been with. I worry I won’t be enough. But he did ask me to make out with him every day. I focus on that. “Every day, huh?” I ask, brushing his bottom lip with my thumb.

  He growls and lifts me into his arms. “Exactly. Starting now.”

  We kiss until we’re breathless. I feel like I know him by heart, that I could pick him out of a dark, crowded room. And I’m thankful he’s kissing me and wants to kiss me every day for the rest of our lives because that means he isn’t angry about my stealing his letters. But I’m also confused. I told him about his father. He said he was sorry but nothing else. Did he know? I try to force that question down and focus on the present. Focus on him. Cole. My Cole.