Chapter 3

By the time she left the hospital, the sky outside had gone dark.

Rosalie didn't hail a cab. She walked alone, slowly, along the edge of the road.

The streetlights stretched her shadow out long, and it made her look lonelier than ever.

Passing a convenience store, she stopped.

There was a poster in the window, a young couple on a bicycle, the girl on the back seat laughing bright and wide.

Rosalie stood there, lost in it, and the memories came rushing in like a tide.

It was the summer of junior year, the cicadas shrilling until they frayed your nerves.

That day after school, Rosalie's bike had broken down, the chain slipped and dropped all over the ground.

She was crouched there smearing grease off it when a black mountain bike braked to a stop right in front of her, throwing up a gust of wind.

Drew Gilbert had one foot down on the pavement, the collar of his uniform open just enough to show the clean line of his collarbone, impatience all over his face.

"Rosalie, are you done or not? Half an hour to fix one bike. Were you planning to spend the night at school?"

Rosalie's mouth twisted, wounded. "The chain's jammed. I can't move it."

Drew clicked his tongue, tossed his bag at her, crouched down, and had the chain back on in a few quick movements.

But he didn't let her ride her own bike. He patted the seat behind him instead.

"Get on."

"Huh? The dean of students will catch us."

"If he catches us, it's on me. Come on, I'm starving."

That evening Drew rode fast, the wind puffing out his uniform shirt, carrying the good clean smell of soap.

Rosalie held carefully to the hem of his shirt, her heart going faster than the wheels.

It was the first time she'd thought that Drew's back was that broad, that safe to lean on.

By college, they'd tested into the same city.

Around then something had gone wrong at Drew's home, and money was tight, but he never once let Rosalie go without.

Rosalie had her eye on a lipstick, a big brand, over three hundred dollars, a fortune to students back then.

She'd only looked at it a couple of seconds longer, then pulled Drew away.

And the next day, that lipstick was sitting by her pillow.

Only later did she learn that for that one lipstick, Drew had written code for someone on the side for a whole week, staying up until his eyes were laced with red.

That night, under the streetlight at the foot of the dorm, Drew held her gently, his voice a little rough.

"Rosalie, you don't have to save money for me anymore. I'm poor now, but I won't be poor forever. Whatever others have, you'll have too. And whatever others don't have, I'll give you that too."

Those vows had been so real then, so warm.

Who could have guessed that a vow was a thing with an expiration date.

When that spirited boy became CEO Gilbert in his tailored suits, when that little girl who only knew how to blush became Mrs. Henson.

How had all those flutters and all that sweetness been ground down by bills and daily grind and endless cold wars until not a speck of it was left?

Rosalie touched her still-flat stomach, tears dropping in fat beads onto the back of her hand.

"Babies, I'm sorry. It isn't that Mommy doesn't love you."

"It's that Daddy and Mommy have already lost the love."