Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  “Ray,” I say, boring my eyes into his. “Stop. I mean it.”

  “I’ll stop when I’m done.” He manages to slide my underwear down to my knees.

  “Stop!”

  There’s banging at my window. I turn my head, and there’s Mary, pounding with her fists against the glass pane.

  “Ray! Get off me. Mary is right there! She’s gonna call the cops, I swear.”

  He bites my breast through the dress. “Let the stupid bitch call the cops. I’ll be long gone by then, anyway.”

  She keeps pounding, pounding, while my head grows foggy with the smell of Ray.

  “That’s it,” he says. “You know you want it. You always did. It’s probably a good thing you started hooking. Maybe you’ll know what you’re doing now.” He grabs the condom and rips it open with his teeth.

  “No, Ray. Please. You have to stop.”

  “No, you stop,” he says. “Stop fighting me.” He bites the other breast and I scream out. He tugs down his boxers to put on the rubber.

  There’s a blinding pain in my head, and then Mary’s pounding stops. Now there is only an eerie silence and a dusky purple glow lighting up my room. But she must still be outside, because she just said, “I’m here, Rosie. I’m here.” And I imagine those words spilling softly from her raspberry-glossed lips.

  Now there’s more banging. It sounds hollow and far away. The scraping of footsteps nearby.

  “Rosie!”

  And then Ray is gone, as if a giant crane has lifted him off me.

  I shuffle backward, onto the far side of the bed, and watch in horror and relief as Mac, in a fine navy suit, pummels Ray with both hands.

  He lands some good blows to the face, but when Mac misses a shot, Ray drops to the floor and slithers out into the hallway. He kicks at Mac’s shins while pulling up his sweatpants. He looks like a beetle, trying to right himself.

  “Get off me, you lunatic!” Ray screams, his back against the wall.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Mac says, before dealing him a final blow in the gut. “Or you can hang around while I call the cops.”

  He checks Mac’s posture before attempting to stand, then wipes the sweat from his forehead. “I want the ring back.”

  Mac shoots me a look. “You know this guy?”

  I don’t answer him. I answer Ray. “I pawned it,” I say, feeling courageous now that Mac’s here. He lunges at me, but Mac shoves him back.

  “You’ll sell anything, won’t you?” The disgust in Ray’s voice makes me wince, even though he’s wrong.

  “Yep. Got a whopping twenty-five bucks for it, too. Mary and I were able to split a salad for lunch. Thanks.”

  Ray puts a hand on Mac’s shoulder and gives it a congratulatory pat, like they’re friends. “She’s all yours, bro.” He grabs his shirt off the floor, mumbling, “Couple of losers.” And then he disappears into the same hallway he snuck down a dozen times when Lucy and Judd were passed out in their bedroom.

  I hear the front door open, then slam against the outside wall. As I fall on my side, letting the tears come, I imagine him walking the dark streets of my neighborhood, hoping to find a stray cat he can kick around. I’m disgusted with myself, knowing I was once that cat.

  Mac returns to my bedroom after locking the front door. He scoops me up and lets me cry against the soft blue fabric of his suit. I cry even harder because he doesn’t seem to care that I’m sure to leave dark wet stains on it.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, stroking my hair I blow-dried just for him.

  Exhausted, I nod into his chest, but then move to break free. “Where’s my phone? I need to call Mary.”

  “Wait,” he says. “Who the hell was that?”

  I don’t answer fast enough. He holds me at arm’s length and says, “Oh, God, Rosie—was that—that guy ‘Joe’ who was sending you those harassing texts?”

  I dip my head in silent agreement. Technically, it’s the truth.

  “You said you thought it was that guy Todd.” Mac bolts from my bed and slams his fists on my dresser.

  “I know. Obviously I was wrong!” I snap. Grabbing the sheet, I dry my face and wipe off what’s left of my makeup. Copper eye shadow and kohl mascara smear across the white cotton fabric. What a mess I’ve made, and not just on the sheet. Remnants of last night’s scuffle are all over his face—the slightly swollen upper lip and the scrape near his chin. I’m drowning in guilt and can only place a reassuring hand on his back.

  Swiftly, he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out his cell. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “No!” I yank the phone from his hands.

  Mac’s head jerks back. “That scumbag attacked you. Now he’s on the streets, angry and bloody, and probably looking to take out his frustration on someone else.”

  “He won’t. Trust me.” I grasp his forearm, tense beneath his sleeve. “I don’t want Ray getting picked up by the cops. That would only piss him off more.”

  “But he tried to rape you, Rosie, which is attempted sexual assault. Not to mention breaking and entering, trespassing . . . did he have a weapon?”

  “No.” I shake my head, fairly certain. I didn’t feel anything on him, but even if he did have something, he never used it to threaten me. Probably figured his strength would be enough.

  “Because if he did, that would be aggravated assault—”

  “Mac, there was no weapon.”

  He almost looks disappointed. “You could still press charges.”

  “I don’t want to. Why kick the hornet’s nest?” That’s how I’d always handled Ray—avoiding the hornet’s nest because I didn’t want him to stop loving me. But now I know that wasn’t possible because he’d never started loving me in the first place.

  “Because he broke the law—numerous laws—and he needs to be held accountable for that, and . . . he hurt you, Rosie. You can’t let him get away with this.”

  Seeing Mac’s determination makes me understand that forcing Ray to pay is right on so many levels, but I’m tapped out. The thought of dealing with cops right now will only put me over the edge. I just want this whole Joe thing behind me, so I use a strong, unwavering voice to convince him. “I’ll think about it, okay? I’m shaken up, but I’m fine. Nothing happened.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I nod, furiously wiping what’s left of the tears on my cheeks.

  He takes a deep breath and checks his watch. “It’s almost seven thirty.”

  “I don’t feel like going.”

  “Then we won’t,” he says. “We can order takeout from Lou’s and watch ESPN until you fall asleep from boredom.”

  “As appealing as that sounds, I don’t think my absence is going to fly.” I check myself in the mirror, raking both hands through my hair that was so pretty and smooth before Ray got ahold of it. “We have to go. Let me take a quick shower first.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again. “He didn’t—”

  “Yes, I’m okay, and no, he didn’t,” I say. “And you? You’ve already had to defend me twice in two days.”

  “This isn’t going to become a regular occurrence, is it?” His smile makes me want to burrow into his arms again.

  “Nope. That ought to do it,” I say, because nothing else should come crawling out from a dirty corner to make him think twice about me.

  “In that case, we have a wedding to attend.”

  We both look down at the puddle of water and smashed petals. “Maybe we should clean this up first,” he says.

  “No, I’ll take care of it.”

  He doesn’t press me, shoves the cell back in his pocket. “I’ll wait in the living room.”

  “Hey, Mac?”

  He stops at the threshold of my door. His golden-brown hair is disheveled, a single gelled clump falling over one eye. His tie
has pulled loose from the collar and exposes his neck, red and flushed.

  “How did you know I was in trouble? Did you see Mary? Did you hear her banging on my window?”

  “What? No. I didn’t see her. She was here?”

  “Yes. She must’ve taken off when you pulled up.”

  Mac lowers his head, squinting at me. “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know . . .” My head starts to grow foggy again.

  “Well, the minute I approached the door, I heard screaming, so I ran in.”

  “It was open?” I ask, confused because I thought for sure it had been locked. After all these months, Ray must have still had a key.

  “Criminals don’t usually make a habit of locking the door behind them. Now go take a shower,” he says, beginning to close the door. “Take your time. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  I remain on my bed, unable to move. I take stock of what hurts. Ankle throbs, neck burns from where the chain was ripped off, and wrists are raw from Ray twisting them.

  Then I think of Mary. Why did she show up and then leave? What did she see? Or worse—what did she think she saw?

  36

  “I HOPE LUCY won’t be able to tell,” I say, carefully strapping myself into the passenger seat of Mac’s convertible. The dress had ripped near one of the armpits, but I managed to get creative with two safety pins and a crystal hoop earring.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, pulling out of my driveway. “You did a good job patching it together. If you don’t make it as a designer, you can definitely be one of those sewing people.”

  “You mean a seamstress.”

  “Right.” Mac flashes me an award-winning smile.

  I pull out my phone and text Mary. I want to let her know I’m okay, but I also want to know why she took off like that.

  “Can we put the top down?”

  “You’ll get blown to bits,” he warns.

  “I don’t care. This is a want-to-feel-the-wind-in-my-hair kinda night.” I can’t have anything pinning me down or holding me tight. I pull off the rubber band and shake out my hair so it’s wild and free.

  At the stop sign, he pushes a button on the dash. When nothing happens, he says it sticks sometimes. After a few more tries, the canvas top releases, then folds into the back of the car. The dark blue summer sky becomes our roof. I pull down the visor to get one last look at myself in the mirror before supposed bits get blown.

  “You don’t need to check,” he says, reaching over and flipping it back up. “You look fine.”

  “Fine, huh?” I tease.

  “Spectacularly fine.” He puts a hand on my knee, and I wonder if he can feel it trembling under the mint-colored silk.

  “You, too,” I say, “but I was looking forward to seeing you in that top hat.”

  We both snicker, and that ends the conversation for a while. Sounds of the city swirl around us in the way only a convertible can offer. I don’t feel much like talking, anyway. But I am curious about something and turn to him with a question. “What made you believe me? On your card, it said you believe me.”

  “Remember the story I told you about running for sixth-grade vice president?”

  “Yes.”

  “What I didn’t tell you was that more than one kid got in trouble when I uncovered the truth. Another boy got suspended, too.”

  “Okay.” I don’t know where he’s going with this, but I’ve learned the Brooks logic isn’t always dispensed in a straight line.

  “They both got in trouble because they were always lumped together.” He turns to me. “Like you and Mary.”

  Lumped together. That was the exact phrase I’d used on the phone with Ray. Mac understands. But his expression has turned somber, and I can’t bear to see those green eyes of his so sad.

  At a stoplight, when he hasn’t said anything in like five minutes, I say, “I wouldn’t blame you if you just want to drop me off at the restaurant.”

  “And waste this good suit?”

  “Seriously, Mac. This has all gotten way too—”

  “Complicated?”

  “I was going to say messy.”

  “Maybe I like messy.”

  I glance around his immaculate car and say, “I doubt that.”

  We travel a few more blocks before he replies. “I’m not dropping you off. I’m staying with you. Besides, I may have just saved your life,” he says. “You’re eternally indebted.”

  “I don’t have any money,” I say, knowing we’ll both get the joke.

  “Good thing I’ve got a job.” He takes his hand off the gearshift and gives my knee a quick squeeze.

  “So how late do you think we’ll be?” I ask, when he checks his watch.

  “You think I can fight? Wait till you see how I drive.” He picks up the expressway, zooming through traffic with supreme skill. My body sinks into the seat, exhausted. “Close your eyes, Rosie. I’ll let you know when we get there.”

  • • •

  Roland Potillo is the first person I spot as Mac and I descend the stairs of La Rosa’s and enter the basement. The room is lit by wall sconces and candles in the center of four large tables. Small vases of swimming yellow roses accompany place cards on white linen tablecloths. The place looks decent, even wedding-worthy. Everyone’s dressed up, including Roland, whose tight black suit is doing its best to stay buttoned.

  “Well, don’t you look lovely,” Roland says, grabbing both of my hands and pulling me in for a kiss on the cheek. “And who’s the lucky fellow?”

  “This is Mac,” I say, presenting him like a prize. Well, I do feel like I’ve won something—an amazing guy who can forget my past, even when it keeps literally slamming him in the face.

  “Nice to meet you, sir.” They shake hands vigorously, up and down like a saw.

  “Roland Potillo, Scrap Metal Mania,” he says, a verbal business card that has me expecting phone number and e-mail address to follow.

  Mac’s mouth twitches, as if a bee just buzzed near it. He recognized the company name. “It’s a pleasure,” he says, then puts his hand on the small of my back. I love the feel of his fingers pressing against me.

  I scan the crowd, looking for signs of the happy couple. “No one’s seen them yet,” Roland says. “But I suppose that’s the way it should be. The bride and groom need to make a grand entrance.” Roland wipes his forehead with a hankie he pulls from his suit pocket. I don’t know why he’s sweating—it’s like fifty degrees down here.

  He stuffs the cotton square back in its home, then leans into me. “Your little surprise gift made quite an impression.”

  “What?” I say, my attention snapping back like a boomerang.

  “Whatever you left for Lucy in her desk last week.”

  Mac’s light touch on my back goes into full-grasp mode.

  “Why?” I ask. “What did she do?”

  “Became sort of frantic, come to think of it . . .” Roland scrunches up his face, as if only now realizing her behavior was strange. “You’d think you had taken something, rather than left something.” He’s the only one who chuckles at his theory.

  So that’s that. She knows I took the will. Mac and I squeeze each other’s hands at the exact same moment. A waiter approaches us with a tray of bite-sized garlic bread knots. Mac takes two and pops them both in his mouth at the same time. Roland takes one but only studies it, says he hopes there’s no cheese inside.

  I can’t stand here anymore while he inspects his appetizer and my heart hammers in my chest. So I excuse us with the usual claim of having to use the restroom, and hope he can’t detect the shaking in my voice.

  • • •

  We tried not to look like we were racing, but Mac and I hightailed it up the stairs, through the main dining room, and out to the balcony. It overlooks an alley, still slick and wet from yest
erday’s rain.

  “I think the temp sold me out,” I say. “She was eyeing my bag when I left.”

  I rest my weight against the railing, circling my ankle, testing to see if it feels any better. It doesn’t. And my neck’s still sore and my wrists still hurt and now Lucy knows I took the will. For some reason, that makes me nervous.

  “Okay, so let’s assume she knows. What’s the difference? Last night you were resigned to letting her have her share of the money, anyway,” Mac says.

  “She’s obviously got something up her sleeve. Why else wouldn’t she call me out?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s as simple as avoiding a confrontation.”

  “Lucy? Avoiding a confrontation? I don’t think so.” I focus on a large puddle below, rippling from the vibration of nearby traffic. “Seriously, Mac. Why hasn’t she said anything?”

  “Why haven’t you?” he challenges.

  “What was I supposed to do? Charge into the house after our meeting last week and tell her I know she’s a big fat liar?”

  Mac crosses his arms. He’s got something to say.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “I would have.”

  “Well, I’m not you, Mac, and you’re not me. You’ve got parents that love you and an uncle who’s given you office space. Sisters that pull pranks on you. I have none of that.”

  Mac’s face falls, as if having those things is a curse, not a blessing.

  “I’ve always wanted that. I’ve always wanted Lucy’s love. Especially after my dad died, I thought maybe . . . maybe she’d want to be closer to me, too, since I was a part of him. But that didn’t happen, and then she met Judd—”

  “So you blame him? I mean, for the demise of your relationship.”

  “Maybe” is all I say, because my feelings about Judd are complicated—almost as complicated as my feelings about Lucy.

  “I didn’t know you felt that way about her,” Mac says, kind of surprised.

  “Because I’m embarrassed, if you must know the truth. Imagine being desperate for your mother’s love and never getting it.”