Her body shifts, her torso turning towards me fully while she nods.
“I’m ready to tell you now.”
She tilts her head and asks, “Tell me what?”
The barely-there spark of courage dies instantly. Why did I word that so bluntly? How am I this embarrassing?
“Uh.” Another dance sequence is starting on the screen, and for the first time in my life I wish I was a part of it. Anywhere buthere, embarrassing myself in front of Rosie, right after I decided this would be the best, and maybe only, time I would gather enough courage to tell her-
“Oh, about your dad?” The tornado of thoughts seizes. Her legs tuck under her and into a pretzel, turning her entire body to me before giggling. I can feel the wrinkles of confusion on my forehead getting deeper, and Rosalie points. “You’re nervous.”
I’m messing with my glasses. Again.
I snap my hand back to my side before shutting my eyes, groaning.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Her hand bumps into my shoulder. I can only grunt in response. “If you’re ready, if you’re not—either way, it’s okay. As long as you feel comfortable enough to say something if you want.” There’s a silence that becomes thick between those words and her next. “You do feel comfortable, right?”
When I look at her, Rosie’s hands are laced in her lap, shoulders slumping. “Yes, Rosalie, of course I’m comfortable. Here and around you.”
She releases a breath. “Oh, okay. Thank god. I got scared for a second.”
A tight knot I’ve never felt before wrings itself in my stomach.
It’s different than nerves or embarrassment. The longer I consider Rosie cares about creating a comfortable space for me, the tighter it gets. Closing in on my lungs and making it harder to breathe.
No one has ever cared about my comfort before, I don’t think. Not to the extent of asking about it and worrying over the answer.
I’m still nervous. Still creeping into the unknown of telling someone new what my father is like, why my actions are socially out-of-place sometimes, and why Saturdays are unbearable before six pm.
Despite it all, I’m determined to press on. If there’s anyone I want to share this with, it’s Rosie, with her movie of choice playing in the background.
“Two weeks ago, when I came home…” I bite the inside skin of my lip and try my hardest to word this correctly. “I wasn’t in a great mood. It was because of my dad.”
Rosalie turns the sound down a few notches and leans back into the couch. “Okay. I’m listening.”
She’s listening, so I tell her.
I tell her briefly about my father’s status. For once, it’s just context. Just background on why he would view living in a dorm as a punishment, and why he has the authority to spread rumors about his son when he thinks I misbehave.
Grant might have been right when he said I like to gossip. I guess I do, with how easy it is to spill the things my father has put me through. I consider, though, it’s less about gossiping and more about relief.
How relieving it is to tell someone what kind of person Dad is and not nervously wonder if they’ll sell the story to a tabloid.
Rosalie listens intently while I go over every detail, including the ones of my day at the office when he threatened to cut me off, and the Saturday two weeks ago. Somewhere in the middle of it, Ghost finds his way onto my lap. Like always, he can tell when I need a boost of support or comfort.
My roommate doesn’t react with animated facial expressions or pry for more information mid-story. She just listens, and through chopped sentences and awkward pauses, I keep talking. Blame it on the living situation or the nerdy hobbies we’ve shared, but there’s a bond with Rosie I don’t see being tainted by this story or the next.
The final credits ofFootloosehave already played across the screen when I wrap up my monologue.
“Wow,” she says with a large breath. “That’s… more than I thought it was.”
“Yeah. It’s hard to summarize my life. But that’s the gist of it.”
“Rich father who…” Her voice trails off, unsteady and unconfident.
“Doesn’t care about his kids. Not even half as much as he does the company. Treats us like we’re pawns and nothing else.” I finish for her, and the brown of her eyes turn a misty shade. “It’s okay. You can say it.”
There’s a long pause before she whispers, “What about your mom?”
