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One afternoon she’d returned from hanging out with Caitlin, listening to her talk about her crush, Jake, for what felt like a thousand years. She tried to dodge her mom at the door as she came in, but endured a meltdown. Her mom had already lost one child and couldn’t cope with losing another one and why wouldn’t Rosalie just talk to her?
“Because you didn’t lose Rachel, mom,” Rosalie said wearily, “you gave her no choice but to go and now we’re stuck not knowing if she’s even alive.”
Her mom stared at her, then burst into noisy wails.
Rosalie walked away feeling like she might explode into a thousand pieces. She flopped down on her bed. Afternoon, evening and night, all of it seemed to stretch before her like infinity, like she’d never ever see the end of it.
The late afternoon sun flooded into her room, making her squint. Her vision snagged on something. Stuck to the outside of her bedroom window with a small wad of pink chewing gum, was a piece of paper. She sat bolt upright and raced for the window. It was awkward pulling the window up and trying to grab the paper from the other side of the glass but she managed it, her heart racing as she unfolded the white square of note paper.
Her shoulders dropped. The looping, curving handwriting didn’t belong to Rachel, her sister’s print spiky like chicken scratch. It simply stated Rosalie’s name with a little heart next to it, then underneath an address in downtown Nashville, and a time, 10PM.
That night when she snuck out, a tingle ran down her spine. She’d stolen one of Rachel’s cute low-cut tops and wore her own cut-off jeans. Part of her felt like Rachel was right there with her, nodding her begrudging approval as she slipped her feet out of the window and jumped down to the ground.
She made her way downtown, hearing snatches of music leak out of the bars, weaving around buskers hoping to make it big, trying to stay out of the way of the groups of tourists and drunk adult men who eyed her body and cat-called.
The note's address led her to a small double story house, the top floor windows flashing with party lights. Downstairs seemed dark and quiet. Venturing around the side of the house, she found an open door leading directly to the top apartment. Music and laughter spilled down towards her, along with the heady scent of alcohol.
“Hey,” she said, to the first people she saw as she climbed the stairs but no one seemed to care. They were in their own world, lazing back comfortably on the stairs like they were in a living room, drinking out of a shared wine bottle, strumming a guitar and laughing.
She walked in the open door of the apartment, finding it packed with people everywhere, some faces vaguely familiar. Was that Daria? Rosalie wove her way through the living room toward her, ducking around clusters of friends, raucous with laughter and conversation. Just as Daria raised her head and spotted her Rosalie spun away. She couldn’t face the conversation she knew would follow - any news of Rachel - and she squeezed her eyes tightly closed for a moment, the room seeming to spin.
When she opened them, a couple of stoned young guys were watching her with bleary-eyed concern. She shrugged at them and forced her face into a smile. They burst into slow giggles, clutching at each other, making her roll her eyes and turn away.
She felt awkward and out of place. This was stupid. Here she was, jumping to follow the hope the note on her window had promised her, only to find a room full of strangers in a world that had nothing to do with her.
On her way back toward the door, she spotted Coral, tall, gorgeous, her hand on her upper chest as she laughed at something some well-built guy was saying. Rosalie hesitated, for one long second, hating herself for the questions hovering on her tongue. Have you seen her? Is she here? She clenched her teeth against them and forced her feet to keep moving.
A warm hand grabbed hold of her arm and even as she turned, she knew exactly who it belonged to.
“You came!” Savannah said brightly. Rosalie stared at her. She’d trimmed her hair, golden locks tumbling down her back in neat waves and she wore a cute red sundress. Rosalie wanted to hug her and yell at her in equal measures. And okay, maybe also kiss her, but she tried not to focus on that.
“So you’re not dead,” Rosalie said flatly.
Savannah tried to laugh but it came out a little off. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what exactly?” Rosalie asked. “Sad? Angry? Confused?”
“It’s only been a few weeks,” Savannah said, her expression some kind of attempt at sunny, like she could just smile Rosalie out of having this conversation altogether.
“Several, actually,” Rosalie disagreed. “And I didn’t hear a word from you, so yeah, I’ve been feeling some fucking feelings.” Savannah opened her mouth, but she didn’t say a word. She looked like she was regretting inviting Rosalie at all. Rosalie didn’t care. She folded her arms across her chest and snapped, “You know what I’ve just been through, but you disappeared on me all the same.”
Savannah’s mask broke. Her brow furrowed and for a second it looked like she might be about to cry. She grabbed Rosalie’s hand and pulled her through the party and into a small bedroom. Even in the low light it was clear there were no less than two couples making out on the bed.
“Jesus christ!” Savannah snapped at them and flicked the overhead light on. “Are you kidding me? Get out!”
They hustled out. As they left, Rosalie looked around. The room was small but neat, the bed taking up most of the floorspace. There was a set of bookshelves, made out of cinder blocks and planks of wood, housing a growing collection of battered second hand paperbacks. A small green houseplant perched on the wooden windowsill. Despite her anger, Rosalie felt her shoulders drop. Savannah was right. It was nice seeing her have an actual home, one that was really hers.
Savannah turned to her as the door shut behind the uninvited guests.
“I should have called,” she said softly. “Or wrote you a letter. Or something.”
“Or literally just come through my window and said ‘hi’ like a normal person.” Rosalie rolled her eyes.
“Maybe not that one,” Savannah said, looking away.
“Why not? What is so horribly bad about seeing me?”
“It’s not bad seeing you,” Savannah pushed back. “I just needed a bit of space.” Her voice wavered, one hand coming up as if to push back her own hair before it stilled, hanging awkwardly in the air.