Rosie Wilson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
forthsofar) wrote2019-07-19 09:41 pm
forthsofar) wrote2019-07-19 09:41 pm
Entry tags:
it was just an impulse that had to be obeyed
They’d had the first few weeks of their summer vacation stolen by the weather, each of them trapped at their respective homes--or elsewhere. It makes the rest of the summer ahead feel a little more immediate, a little more like they need to spend as much time together as possible before September and the start of school and all their other obligations. Which they have, and it’s been wonderful; a little heady, even a little scandalous with the way they almost always seem to end up entwined in the back of his car or on the couch in the living room, Rosie kissed breathless and David’s hand sliding its way beneath her blouse or skirt in a way she’s ashamed to allow--but never quite wants to stop.
If there’s another reason behind the immediacy, behind the trips to the movies and the long vacant afternoons, a reason that might look a little too much like guilt if examined too closely, she doesn’t think about it. It’s better, maybe, that he still thinks those cold weeks in June were eaten up by freak snowstorms and Rosie falling ill with laryngitis, unable to call or text or come to see him. Better than the truth, one of cages and fear and fighting for her life; something she still isn’t able to understand herself, let alone explain to someone who hadn’t been there for any of it.
If she finds the words to explain it, she will. Of course she will. She just hasn’t yet.
David texts her late in the afternoon, and she opens the message happily: moms on nite shift today, wanna come for pizza and a movie? 8:30? And no, maybe it isn’t quite the sort of fervent love note she’d daydreamed about--more brusque and efficient than full of the kind of romantic guff she both rolled her eyes at and desperately hoped to have directed her way someday--but she texts back an immediate Yes and heads to his house at the appointed time.
They do, in fact, watch the movie. Or the first half of it, at least, sitting with their pizza and sodas in David’s living room. The second half is a little hazier, more time spent paying attention to one another than anything happening on the screen, but she can hardly find fault in any of it. The credits roll--something that, admittedly, they only happen to realize halfway through--and Rosie untangles herself from David on the couch just as the house phone rings.
“Shit, I should...Mom always does that when she’s on nights. Checking in like I’m five or something, it’s so stupid.” He casts a look down the hallway, seeming to hesitate.
“Go,” Rosie says, doing up her blouse again and blushing faintly. She knew so little about Dr. Finley, had yet to meet her, but there was something a little scandalous--silly, really, to think that way--about the thought of her calling to speak to David while Rosie was here in the house. “I’ll take the dishes into the kitchen, it’s fine.”
He kisses her again, scoops up the phone just before it clicks over to the answering machine, and Rosie smiles as she carries their plates and glasses into the kitchen. She can hear snatches of David’s side of the conversation--Yeah and Pizza and No, just watching a movie, it wasn’t very good--as she starts to run the water in the sink, washing the dishes they’d used. It’s something to do while she waits; something helpful before she says her goodbyes for the evening.
She’s rinsing off the last glass when he comes into the kitchen. “Okay, now Mom knows I’m not dead or anything.” He steps close, kissing her again, a little slower and more lingering. “You know,” he says, looking down at her with something near-unreadable in his expression, “since you moved out of that place with the weird curfew, you could just...I don’t know, stay?”
Rosie’s very glad she’d already put down the glass in her hand, or else she might have dropped it. “I…” she says, and he laughs and Rosie’s distantly aware that she ought to be offended, she hates being laughed at, but there’s so much else in her head all at once that there isn’t any space to be. “I’m almost done with the dishes,” she finishes, which is a ridiculous thing to say--she always says such ridiculous things--but now it’s said and there’s no taking it back now. “Go...go back to the living room? I won’t be a minute.”
David looks confused at that, or maybe irritated, maybe she’s said the wrong thing again and spoilt everything again, but he huffs a sigh and goes, leaving Rosie alone in the kitchen with the dishes and her frantic thoughts. She tries to put both in some kind of order; drying off each plate and glass and putting them back in the cupboard, picking through the tangle of the decision she needs to make.
It isn’t as though they haven’t done anything, goodness knows. They just haven’t done this. But everything they have done, all the furtive afternoons and half-watched movies and the now-familiar sensation of him kissing his way down her neck or his hand beneath her shirt, all of it could only have led her here. Where else would it? Her heart, she realized, was pounding; her head spinning with a need that was all at once clear and shameful, vague and understandable.
She can’t believe what she’s thinking, but she doesn’t ever consider changing her mind.
“Please,” she says, so quietly it’s not words so much as breath in the shape of them. “Please let this be the right choice.” She doesn’t even know who she’s addressing; maybe just the reflection of herself, pale and ghostlike, in the window over the kitchen sink. She takes another moment, another breath, then goes back to the living room.
“I need you to promise something,” she says before David can even open his mouth, before he can ask her anything or kiss her or anything at all. “Whatever you might’ve thought about...about what we’ve done already, that’s all I’ve ever done. And if I stay, if we...if I stay, I need to know it’s not going to change what you think of me. And don’t tell me that’s stupid, don’t, or I really will leave. I need you to promise.” She looks at David there on the couch, something sharp and maybe a little fierce in her gaze, and waits for his reply.
“Rosie, I...none of that will change what I think of you,” he says, and if there’s something a little amused in his tone it’s only understandable after her ridiculous little speech. “It couldn’t.”
And no, he doesn’t say I promise, not in so many words, but he takes her hands and that’s just as good, she thinks. “Then...I’ll stay a little longer,” she says, kissing him again, letting him draw her back down onto the couch for a time.
Then, some time later, up the stairs to his room.
If there’s another reason behind the immediacy, behind the trips to the movies and the long vacant afternoons, a reason that might look a little too much like guilt if examined too closely, she doesn’t think about it. It’s better, maybe, that he still thinks those cold weeks in June were eaten up by freak snowstorms and Rosie falling ill with laryngitis, unable to call or text or come to see him. Better than the truth, one of cages and fear and fighting for her life; something she still isn’t able to understand herself, let alone explain to someone who hadn’t been there for any of it.
If she finds the words to explain it, she will. Of course she will. She just hasn’t yet.
David texts her late in the afternoon, and she opens the message happily: moms on nite shift today, wanna come for pizza and a movie? 8:30? And no, maybe it isn’t quite the sort of fervent love note she’d daydreamed about--more brusque and efficient than full of the kind of romantic guff she both rolled her eyes at and desperately hoped to have directed her way someday--but she texts back an immediate Yes and heads to his house at the appointed time.
They do, in fact, watch the movie. Or the first half of it, at least, sitting with their pizza and sodas in David’s living room. The second half is a little hazier, more time spent paying attention to one another than anything happening on the screen, but she can hardly find fault in any of it. The credits roll--something that, admittedly, they only happen to realize halfway through--and Rosie untangles herself from David on the couch just as the house phone rings.
“Shit, I should...Mom always does that when she’s on nights. Checking in like I’m five or something, it’s so stupid.” He casts a look down the hallway, seeming to hesitate.
“Go,” Rosie says, doing up her blouse again and blushing faintly. She knew so little about Dr. Finley, had yet to meet her, but there was something a little scandalous--silly, really, to think that way--about the thought of her calling to speak to David while Rosie was here in the house. “I’ll take the dishes into the kitchen, it’s fine.”
He kisses her again, scoops up the phone just before it clicks over to the answering machine, and Rosie smiles as she carries their plates and glasses into the kitchen. She can hear snatches of David’s side of the conversation--Yeah and Pizza and No, just watching a movie, it wasn’t very good--as she starts to run the water in the sink, washing the dishes they’d used. It’s something to do while she waits; something helpful before she says her goodbyes for the evening.
She’s rinsing off the last glass when he comes into the kitchen. “Okay, now Mom knows I’m not dead or anything.” He steps close, kissing her again, a little slower and more lingering. “You know,” he says, looking down at her with something near-unreadable in his expression, “since you moved out of that place with the weird curfew, you could just...I don’t know, stay?”
Rosie’s very glad she’d already put down the glass in her hand, or else she might have dropped it. “I…” she says, and he laughs and Rosie’s distantly aware that she ought to be offended, she hates being laughed at, but there’s so much else in her head all at once that there isn’t any space to be. “I’m almost done with the dishes,” she finishes, which is a ridiculous thing to say--she always says such ridiculous things--but now it’s said and there’s no taking it back now. “Go...go back to the living room? I won’t be a minute.”
David looks confused at that, or maybe irritated, maybe she’s said the wrong thing again and spoilt everything again, but he huffs a sigh and goes, leaving Rosie alone in the kitchen with the dishes and her frantic thoughts. She tries to put both in some kind of order; drying off each plate and glass and putting them back in the cupboard, picking through the tangle of the decision she needs to make.
It isn’t as though they haven’t done anything, goodness knows. They just haven’t done this. But everything they have done, all the furtive afternoons and half-watched movies and the now-familiar sensation of him kissing his way down her neck or his hand beneath her shirt, all of it could only have led her here. Where else would it? Her heart, she realized, was pounding; her head spinning with a need that was all at once clear and shameful, vague and understandable.
She can’t believe what she’s thinking, but she doesn’t ever consider changing her mind.
“Please,” she says, so quietly it’s not words so much as breath in the shape of them. “Please let this be the right choice.” She doesn’t even know who she’s addressing; maybe just the reflection of herself, pale and ghostlike, in the window over the kitchen sink. She takes another moment, another breath, then goes back to the living room.
“I need you to promise something,” she says before David can even open his mouth, before he can ask her anything or kiss her or anything at all. “Whatever you might’ve thought about...about what we’ve done already, that’s all I’ve ever done. And if I stay, if we...if I stay, I need to know it’s not going to change what you think of me. And don’t tell me that’s stupid, don’t, or I really will leave. I need you to promise.” She looks at David there on the couch, something sharp and maybe a little fierce in her gaze, and waits for his reply.
“Rosie, I...none of that will change what I think of you,” he says, and if there’s something a little amused in his tone it’s only understandable after her ridiculous little speech. “It couldn’t.”
And no, he doesn’t say I promise, not in so many words, but he takes her hands and that’s just as good, she thinks. “Then...I’ll stay a little longer,” she says, kissing him again, letting him draw her back down onto the couch for a time.
Then, some time later, up the stairs to his room.