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Growing up with a father obsessed with sports, books, psychopaths - Rosie was used to the intense hyperfixations of men. Still, she sat on the bleachers, watching her shirtless boyfriend tackling his friends in a slightly homoerotic way, her brain slowly but surely dying with boredom.
She pulled her hat down over eyes and adjusted her sunglasses, so no-one clocked she was even there at the park. "Watch out for the paparazzi," her mother had warned, and Rosie kind of wished she'd passed as Henry bounced the ball on the ground in an extremely primal and aggressive way.
Men, she sighed.
—
It was evident he'd grown up around women, from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes. He opened doors for her, even though she vaguely hated it; he did the dishes and was now putting together a chair in the middle of her new lounge room.
Granted, they hadn't labeled this as anything but This, capital T - but she put her chin on her hands and had to cross her legs watching Henry work his way around clapboard and an Allen Key.
Girl you're hard up, and she leaned forward.
—
Once upon a time, he couldn't get fucking enough of her. Touching her legs, fiddling with her hems; okay, sure, she'd played harder to get than Stonehenge, but there was a history between them, so she couldn't exactly just let him in the front door like it was no big deal.
Now? He was watching the game, a beer in hand after a day catching the bad guys, she was in bed shorts so short they could basically be underwear - him?
"Hmmm?"
"Nothing," and Rosie leaned back against the couch, wondering when the hell she missed the clinginess.
—
All blonde, blue eyed, a tiny powerhouse; Henry found out how much of a marvel she was after years of finding her annoying as all get out as they were kids.
He felt her holding back, more often than not. It was a big change, their dynamic - he knew that and he respected it as he noticed her adjusting, growing within. His Aunt Emily had told him to just give her time, that she was stubborn, but he pulled out his phone and wrote a text he hoped conveyed exactly his thoughts.
"Yours or mine?" The response, and he smiled.
—
Sex wasn't the issue, no, no. A cop and a pop star, that was probably what it was - her star sign at odds with his, changing from somewhat friends to fuck buddies to something else, and Rosie finds herself yelling at him for no reason other than to crack through his placid facade.
They'd slept together, after, then she'd walked out without a word; two hours later she doubled-back without even putting her key in the door and wondered if her mother would be disappointed in her.
Henry just opened the door, letting her through without a word.
—
Henry watched her on stage, enraptured. He was used to being the Third Wheel with his friends, but here he was on the edge of something new with fucking Rosie Prentiss-Rossi, so he pulled his phone out and texted her a smiley emoji because - well, he wasn't exactly known for his verbose nature.
The concert ended after three girls tried to give him their number, he just waved them off as he swung on his VIP badge and headed backstage. No Wingmaning here, he was all alone - so he swallowed hard and just went the fuck for it.
—
Her past boyfriends had been nothing but a mess.
"Boyfriends", she should put the inverted commas there, and her mother and the rest of The Dalloways had always been there through her confusion at how exactly men worked.
How the fuck they worked, she still didn't know - but she had inherited a spiteful streak from her mother that ran to thoughts towards these so-called exes that she probably should invest in a diary to channel.
Success was the best revenge; she stood on the stage and sung about them instead. God Bless them, may their Miller Lites always be warm.
—
It had been literally months - "that's Henry LaMontagne?" and Rosie choked on her champagne as the crowd almost parted in reverence as he strutted through with his crew.
"Aren't you friends?" Her friends sounded like they were a hundred miles away as he made eye contact with her and smirked. Asshole, she crossed her arms as he came towards her, honey hair and tanned skin. She swallowed hard.
"He was such an ugly kid," she muttered; he was suddenly in front of her.
"Rosie Prentiss-Rossi," he said, airily, and Rosie thought -
Fuck.
—
Rosie flashed across his screen, his ringtone bleating aimlessly, and Henry's brow furrowed. This can't be good, because he'd been in this position before, and he wonders if he has it in him to answer.
Of course he did, because it was Rosie, and he answered with a brusque "hello?" that hoped conveyed the fact it was two fucking am and he had work in the morning.
"Henry! You answered!"
"And you've been dumped again?"
A giggle, an audible gulp of whatever the hell she was drinking - but Henry listened anyway, and couldn't help but smile.
—
It's not that she was reckless. It's not that she courted trouble, held her hand out for the Devil to take it - but she was her Mother's Daughter, and he was his Father's Son.
They were as different as they were completely compatible, and that scared her more than any horror movie could. She was a scaredy cat, and he just made things worse by being there, caring and hovering and "you made me worry" after a bunch of pictures of her tripping out of a limo appeared online.
"I'm sorry," she finds herself saying, but it's okay.
—
Financial responsibility.
She can hear her father's voice, and she lets Henry through the front door after demanding he took his grotty policeman shoes off.
Rosie tells herself it's just a house tour - her financial responsibility on show, her Daddy proud, although he'd probably be polishing his gun at the very thought of her even opening the door to a man, even if it was one he'd known since he was a kid.
Henry whistles, looking around the barely decorated space. "Nice," and yeah, she was going to get him into her new bed that night, for sure.
—
Nope. She won't cry over some guy she used to play Hide and Seek with.
She won't cry over Henry LaMontagne, even if he went down like a champ and looked like he was carved from bronzed granite.
She won't cry over him cradling her while watching 'You've Got Mail'. She won't cry over him sending her roses after every show on her last tour, over him running interference with her father when he'd almost exploded when they admitted they were seeing each other.
No, she wouldn't cry - instead, she reached for her phone and dialed his number.
—
They dance around it. They play pretend, meeting at weekend family gatherings, The Dalloways watching them with knowing smiles.
Inevitability is a bitch, and Rosie hates that she wants to call him after every single small event in her bigger than life existence.
He shuts it down, more than once, because he had a funny way of showing whatever It was. Maybe she was wrong about how he felt, but she doesn't leave a message when his phone goes to voicemail.
They dance around it, until they fall together and their differences click like a Zippo lighter spark.
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