She stood faster than I could react. Her face, the way she cried, looked just like her. My Charlotte. But how? Why?

Before I could stop her, she grabbed her bag and magazine and darted out the door. I stared, perplexed, at the empty spot she once stood.

How quickly did the chance to find Charlotte leave me, all because of a stubborn teenager who refused to tell me everything? What good was it reading a journal when she was the answer to every page in it?

Gripping my hair in my hands, I growled in frustration, "Merde."

Shit.

The door chimed, and I turned expecting to see her come back—but it wasn't her. It was Ron—Star's partner in crime. He pulled off his jacket as he looked over at me and waved. I wanted to wave but instead turned back towards my whiskey glass. I needed it refilled now more than ever.

"'Sup, man," Ron said as he approached my booth. Star was close behind him—her eyes were filled with worry and concern.

"Hey." I swirled the ice in my glass in a slow circle. It'd started to melt, and when the water mixed with the drops of leftover whiskey, I drank it. Not the best, nor would it do.

"You look a little off." Ron looked back at Star, who shook her head and scratched his head. "Everything all right?"

No.

"How much do I owe you?" I averted the question, looking past Ron and into Star's wide eyes. She stammered for a bit as she pushed her blonde hair behind her ears.

I reached into my back pocket for my wallet, but as soon as I did, Star shook her head and pushed past Ron to touch my hand. "On the house," she said.

"Come on, love." I tried to smile, but judging by the look on her face, my signature smirk fell flat, covered by my emotions.

"Don't worry about it. Just go do what you have to do."

I blinked. I partially knew what she meant, but I wondered, how did she know? Was the small conversation between the girl and me so obvious?

I licked my lip and chuckled before I touched her hand in return. "I'll tip you hefty, then," I said as I pulled out two fifties—I couldn't just tip Star and not Ron. What kind of friend would I be?

"No, you don't—" Star started to say, but Ron swiftly reached for his bill with a grin on his face. Without argument, he pushed the money in his pocket and took three steps back. Star stared at him as though he committed a crime, but I saw nothing wrong with it. It was his, after all.

"I can't believe you," Star muttered as she stood straight. "Like, really?"

"Hey," Ron pulled the fifty out from his pocket and showed it to me, "is it alright if I have this?"

I smirked. "I believe so."

"There you have it." Ron shoved the bill back into his pocket and lifted his chin as he turned towards the register. Star remained, baffled by Ron's behavior. After a second or so, she chased after him, pulling at the sleeve of his jacket.

I heard her say, "How could you? Can't you see he's upset?"

To which I believe Ron replied, "Eh, Man, yo boy's got bills."

At that point, I stopped listening to them. I reached for the ripped magazine piece the girl had left behind—I'd almost forgotten she wrote something for me. Pulling it into my fingers, I read the pink, glittering letters written over some poor model's leg:

Call me when you're ready—Rosie.

I froze. "Rosie," I whispered as I read her phone number.

Rosie. Her name was Rosie.

Without saying goodbye to the arguing duo, I walked out the door and slipped my cell phone out of my pocket. I dialed Nathan; it didn't even ring—that's how fast he answered.

He didn't say anything, and neither did I. I was down the street before I heard him grumble my name in frustration, and I looked up at the darkened sky. Observing the moon, I looked at the stars around it—there weren't many, but enough to make me think. Think and remember:

'Mama would tell me whenever I felt lost, to look up at the sky.' Charlotte used to sit outside on our toughest nights. 'She said, look at the stars, and let them guide you. They'll never leave you, hm?'

The stars. The bits of life that would never leave. As she never left me. And I—I sucked in a deep breath as I closed my eyes. "Rosie," I said.

"Who's Rosie?" Nathan replied.

"The girl. Her name is Rosie."

**

By the time I got home, Nathan was back in front of his computer, searching for girls named Rosie. He guessed countless last names. Judging by her red hair, he assumed Scottish or Irish, or some sort of European. He came across girls that resembled her, but not her. Yet, he wouldn't give up.

Neither would I.

By Midnight, I made myself comfortable on the couch with Luther beside me. On my lap was my journal; my finger held the last page I read. I hadn't opened it when I first got home. I was angry, flustered, confused. Rather than do what Rosie suggested, I downed the remainder of my rum, and half a bottle of whiskey. To balance out the intoxication, Nathan ordered a pizza—much to my detest—but after a slice and a bottle of water, I was ready.

My heart flipped as I opened the page.

My eyes met her words in the dim light of the living room. Aside from the computer, I had our TV on in front of me. It was all I needed as I read her next words:

January 26, 2002:

I visited the doctor again today. My third checkup. So far, he hasn't discovered anything strange about me—thankfully. She's growing well and healthy, and I can't wait to meet her.

I wonder if she'll have my eyes, or yours. Will she have your smile? God no, I hope not. Not to say you weren't beautiful, Lamont, but I think your mouth is better suited for a man. No matter how polite you were, you were really 'filthy.'

I'm due in March.

I want you to meet her.

I sat up fast. So fast, Luther hissed and jumped off my legs, his back arched and tail twisted. I reread those words, "I'm due in March."

My fingers twitched as I turned back a page and another. There was no mention of a pregnancy, not one. She wished to tell me something, yes, but that could have been anything. With my finger bookmarking the entry, I flipped back to the first page of 2002. My fingers traced the tear in between that entry and December's—a page was missing.

"I have a child," I said as I looked at Nathan; his eyes met mine before I could blink.

"You what?" He spun in his chair, rolled it over to where I sat, and looked down at the journal. "Shit. How?"

"You're asking me?" I could barely hear my words over the sound of my raging heart.

"I mean, I assumed you couldn't." He chewed on his bottom lip as he looked at me. He looked at my eyes and the start of their subtle glow; he looked at my shoulders, my hands, and at my feet—studying me like he always did. "When you think about it, it isn't impossible."

I pressed my back against a couch pillow. I imagined Charlotte, petite as she was, cradling her belly with her delicate hands. I could see her in flowing dresses, out on the balcony of the apartment we shared. Tears rimmed my eyes.

"Will she have your smile?"

"Do you know how many women I've slept with?"

"And how many have died?"

I sucked on my teeth. "You're not listening. I never used any sort of," I cleared my throat, "birth control with Charlotte. I mean, at first, I was more afraid that she'd die, forget pregnancy! But all those years..."

"Bodies change, Lamont," he said as he pulled the journal from my lap and reread it himself. "Bodies are always changing."

"I don't change," I said, looking at him. "I've been the same for as long as I can remember."

"And for as long as you could remember, you couldn't remember."

I shook my head and walked into the kitchen. Immediately, I reached for the liquor cabinet, but Nathan's hand caught my arm before I could even open it. I looked into his brown eyes, rimmed by glasses, and felt my emotions boil onto the surface. Tears fell from my eyes; my fingers went numb.

"Lamont, stop," Nathan said as he grabbed my shoulders and forced me to look at him. "Relax."

"How can I relax?" I asked as I slumped back against the refrigerator. Behind him, as though she were real, I saw Charlotte. In her arms, she held a small baby. So small—so delicate. "She had my child."

"We'll find them," Nathan nodded. "Just come on, you got to keep reading, okay? Can you do that?"

I stared at the journal on his chair. Charlotte's ghost walked behind him and over to it, lifting it in her hand as her other hand held the baby safe. She looked down at its pages before looking at me and giving me a beautiful smile. I wanted to reach forward. Touch her. Hold her. Take my baby into my arms.

I tried but my hand hit Nathan's chest. He caught me as my knees gave way from under me. "Hey."

"She's so beautiful, Lamont," Charlotte's voice echoed in my head as she walked towards me. Between the breaths of her echoing words, I heard the quiet coos of a baby.

"I wasn't there for her." My heart exploded in my chest. I gripped the sleeves of his shirt as I pulled myself to a stand.

Outside, the wind howled a sad song. Its melancholy notes seeped in through the crack of the barely open window inside of my room, and bled into the kitchen, like notes that fell from their lines. Each step I took towards the journal was another fallen note and another. As I lifted the journal back in my hands, I turned back to her entry and read the passage after.

March 24th, 2002:

Her hair, red as the morning sun. Her eyes are as blue as the ocean. She was brought to me upon the wave of secrets that created her. I can share her with no one, but myself. She is all I need in this world, and I will be all she needs. I'll christen her Abbey and Oliver, to remember my father, and to remember you. In the lord's eye, I'll protect her from the evils of this world. Forever, and I hope it is truly forever—Rosemary and me.

"Fuck." My knees met the edge of the table as I dropped to the floor. I lost grip of the journal, and it flopped under the couch, disappearing into the shadows and balls of dust. Nathan, having thought I fainted, rushed to my side, but I shook away his hand. I didn't want to be inspected. I wasn't sick. I wasn't losing track of time.

I was dying, losing myself at the thought of the years I lost. The years I could have been there, helping her as she needed me.

Rosemary.

They needed me.

"What the fuck, Lamont?" Nathan grabbed my head in his hands again. And again, I tore my chin away, but this time, my hand gripped his wrist. He hissed and fell back, his face illuminated by the light of my eyes. I saw the waves of emotion take hold of his face as he tried to reason with me without words, but it did him no good.

After a minute, I let go and reached under the couch for the journal. From my pocket, I pulled out the magazine piece and tossed it at him. He stared at it, and with the trembling hand I had injured, he lifted it into his fingers. "What?"

"Look for this number."

"Why didn't you give me this earlier?" Nathan spat as he stood, rubbing the red marks on his wrist. "You know how much time we could have saved?"

"I don't know. I forgot. Just find her."

"You always forget," Nathan muttered as he turned back to his computer.

I wasn't sure what to say. Sitting on the floor, rubbing my knees, I could only look at him—he was right, I did always forget.

"Does she know where your kid is?"

"Yeah," I said as I traced the golden letters of my name on the journal's cover.

His fingers slammed down on his keyboard, punching her number into different websites. After a few minutes, he turned to look at me, frustration on his face. "There's no name linked to it, but it's New York, that's for sure."

"Right." I stood and paced the front of the couch.

"You think maybe your kid is with her? They'd probably be the same age," Nathan said as he turned back towards his computer screen. He tried another website, just for good measure—no luck.

"Yeah." I stopped and looked at him. It took him longer than I thought it would; he looked at me, his eyes wide as the notion finally settled in. He tapped his legs, looked back at his screen, and looked back at me, his eyes never blinking. Not once.

"S-she's your kid?" he stammered as he rubbed his wrist.

"Right," I said as I dropped down onto the couch.

"She's—"

"Rosemary," I said as I opened the journal again. There was no turning back now. I only needed to continue reading. "Rosie is Rosemary."

"Ah." Nathan slid his fingers through his hair. He tapped his chin, smirked to himself, and returned to his computer. He opened a word document, his fingers rapidly typing away at a paragraph or two. As my heart calmed its swift beats, I watched him out the corner of my eye.

"I always seem to learn more things about you," he said as he pushed his glasses further up his nose.

"Agreed," I muttered as I flipped the page. He may have learned something new, but I was prepared to learn more about myself than I ever thought I could.