Page 48 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

It’s the reason I didn’t quit back then, it’s a big part of why I can’t admit failure to my friends, and it’s why I can’t quit my dream now—because I would love to prove that woman wrong.

This feels a lot like that.

No. This feelsexactlylike that. And I don’t even know who this woman is.

I press my lips together, stiffen my shoulders, and make a decision. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll do it.”

Maybe I decide this for the girl in that casting room who couldn’t find her voice at the time. Or the girl I’m trying to let myself be. I don’t know, but in this moment, I know this is what I need to do.

I can practically feel theharrumphbubblinginside Belinda.

Connie’s eyes light up. “You’ll do it?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I gave you the opposite impression.” I turn to face Belinda. “I’ll do it.”

She scoffs and preens as she walks out of Connie’s office.

“Bless your heart, Rosie Waterman,” she says. “Let’s put on a show!”

And this is when it hits me—as things often do when my pride makes decisions on my behalf—that there’s no turning back now.

Chapter 13

As I leave Connie’s office, I walk past Belinda.

She’s huddled up with a few of the other residents, a pre-snap huddle of pompous gossip. When they notice me, they stop talking and watch, like I’m Ted Lasso and I just got hired to coach soccer.

Correction. Football.

I tell myself not to let any of this get in my head.

Let’s see if I listen to me.

I can do this.

I head outside to the row of numbered golf carts, locate the one with the number that corresponds with the number on my key—118—and sit down behind the steering wheel.

I stare at the panel—is it called a dashboard in a golf cart?—and stick the key in the ignition. It’s clearly marked Off, so I turn it to On. Turning the key doesn’t make a sound. Are they electric? I turn the key off, then turn the key to On again. Nothing. Weird. I jam my foot on the accelerator to see if anything happens, which sends the cart forward way faster than I expected, throwing me back against the seat in a lurch.

I slam my foot on the brake, dipping the front end of the cart and jolting me forward.

A duo of golfers walking on a nearby path glances my way. “You okay over there?”

I wave. “All good!”

I draw in a deep breath. Electric. Got it. I take my foot off the brake, but for some reason the pedal stays all the way down.

I remind myself that I’m not an idiot. I can figure this out.

After checking that the key is still turned to On, I slowly press down on the accelerator, but I don’t move. I just hear athunk, as if I broke something. I look down to see that the brake pedal is now back where it started.

Weird.

I slowly push the accelerator again, and this time the cart obeys, moving out of the space at a pace that won’t maim me.

Once I’m on the path, I realize I should’ve paid more attention when Booker showed me around, or maybe picked up a map from the clubhouse, because I have no idea which way to go. The campus at Sunset Hills is huge and wide and open, with serpentine sidewalks zigzagging over the grounds. Some are for walking, some for biking, and some appear wider—the specific path for golf carts.

Unlike the other times I’ve been out and about, this time there are no people anywhere. I half expect to see Will Smith with a German shepherd.

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