On Sunday, Rosie jogs into the bus shelter.
“Oh. Hi.”
It figures we’d be taking the same bus up to the university district. They don’t run that often on Sundays.
We sit side by side on the hard wooden bench. Maybe she’ll chat about the weather or how the bus is running late. No such luck.
“I’m sorry I ran out of the coffee shop the other night.”
“That’s okay. I get it.”
“It’s just…well, your poems bring up a lot of stuff for me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want an apology. I want to explain—”
I’m not sure I want to hear whatever she has to say.
“My aunt—the one who…died— she wasn’t like a regular aunt. I mean, she was, but she was more like a second mom to me and my brothers. She was my mom’s sister and she lived with us.
Because my mom worked full-time to support us, Auntie Erica was always there. She helped raise us, you know?”
“Your dad didn’t live with you?”
She shakes her head. “We joked about how Auntie Erica liked her quiet time in the evenings. We weren’t supposed to bother her when her door was shut.”
A chill passes through me. How many times did I stand outside Hannah’s door, wanting to knock but not wanting to upset her? Even worse, how many times did I walk past, relieved I didn’t have to deal with her sour moods?
“Then one morning a week before Christmas she didn’t come downstairs. My mom had already left for work. Auntie Erica was supposed to drive us to school. It was still dark, and when I went in her room I thought she was sleeping. She wasn’t sleeping.”
Rosie’s voice has dropped so low I have to lean close to hear her. I put my arm around her shoulder. She shrugs my hand away.
“Booze and pills. She had puked all over her bed. My mom still says it was an accident, that Auntie Erica had always had trouble sleeping.”
“Look who’s here!” I say, interrupting.
Rosie looks lost for a moment, and then relieved. “Hey, Ossie. You going to Persephone’s? Where’s Karl?”
“He got called in to work.” Ossie shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “I’m here to, you know, support you guys.”
We step out of the shelter and onto the sidewalk when the bus comes around the corner. The massive front end bears down on us. I draw in a sharp breath and stop, heart pounding. It’s okay. The bus won’t drive over the curb and crush me. I’m not going to fall into the road. I am not like Hannah. What if I lose my balance? What if someone pushes me? If the worst happens, everyone will think I did the same thing as Hannah. They’ll look for a note, they’ll search for reasons, they’ll—
A gentle pressure on my elbow breaks through the panic. “Where’s your bus pass?” Ossie asks.
Right. That’s what normal people think about when a bus stops. My heart slows a little and I reach for the handrail with one hand, root around in my bag with the other.
Ossie sits beside me and Rosie sits in front of us. He leans forward and rests his chin on the back of her seat. “Have you got a plan for tonight?”
“A plan?” She turns her head, and the sinking sun catches the curve of her cheek. Her fine, red hair is short and frizzy. “I plan to win.”
Ossie laughs and reaches over to pat my knee. “Tara might have something to say about that!”
We all laugh, but I’m not finding the situation particularly funny. I suspect Rosie isn’t either.
She changes the subject. “Are you still working at the nursery?”
“Yeah, the crazy time is done for now. Next big rush will be Christmas trees and holly wreaths.”
Oh. Nursery as in place where people buy plants, not a place for looking after babies. Makes sense. Ossie may not be a big guy, but he’s tanned and fit. The Celtic tattoo that wraps around his bicep is smooth and firm. Is it weird that I want to reach over and touch it? I smooth my skirt across my lap.
Ossie chats about organic vegetables. Bamboo. It’s strange to listen to him talk about stuff that has nothing to do with poetry, nothing to do with Hannah.