Page 88 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

Booker starts shaking his head, as if he’s seen this before.

“We need a night on the town.”

I frown. “Wait. Can you leave?” I turn to Booker. “Can she leave?”

He makes a face and says, “She’s not a prisoner. Everyone can come and go, depending on their circumstances.”

“That’s right, Booker,” she says. “I need to get out of this place and eat real food, like chicken fingers and french fries, and be around young people. I can still party.” She shakes her shoulders as she says this, and I can’t help but laugh.

Booker smirks, almost like he’s set this woman loose and makes no apologies.

“Tonight,” she says, like she’s unfolding the plans to a heist, “we’re going to Buster’s.”

“Buster’s,” I repeat—both a statement and a question.

“It’s a bar. One town over,” Booker says. “Daisy’s a regular.”

“I don’t go out after dark,” Arthur says, placing a napkin on the table.

“Well, that’s ridiculous.” Bertie scoffs, matching his delivery almost perfectly. “All the best things that have ever happened to me happened after dark.”

“I’m going to need to hear all those stories,” I say, my eyes wide.

“Oh, I’ve got ’em,” she says, pushing her chair away from the table. “Let’s meet in front of the clubhouse, and Booker will drive us there.” She looks at Booker. “We’ll take my car.”

We all stare.

She looks at us one at a time. “Good? Good? Good? Great. See you all at eight!”

And with that, she’s gone.

I slow turn to Booker. “What the heck was that?”

His amused expression holds. “There’s no sense arguing with her. When she decides to do something, she just goes right ahead and does it.” Then, to Arthur, he says, “And I hate to break it to you, but if you think you can just not show up, rest assured that she will steal the keys, take her car, find you, and put you in the car herself.”

“This is your fault,” Arthur says. “If you had just left me at my table in peace.”

Booker stands. “Come on, you two, it’ll be good for us to get out. See the world.”

“We’re not seeing the world—it’s Wisconsin.” Arthur glares at Booker.

“And I hope you’ve got your cowboy boots, because tonight...” Booker pauses, as if for dramatic effect. “Is line dancing night.”

He flashes that gorgeous smile, picks up the dirty dishes, and strolls off, leaving me and a miserable Arthur sitting awkwardly at the same side of the table.

We share a glance, and for a brief moment, we connect, both hoodwinked and desperate for a way to escape this plan.

Chapter 22

There is no escaping this plan.

Arthur learns this the hard way at 8:07 p.m. when, just as Booker predicted, Bertie tracks him down at the theatre while Booker and I wait in her Honda Accord.

It occurs to me that this is the strangest double date I’ve ever been on, first and foremost because this isn’t a date.

It’s more like an abduction.

Nothing to see here—just a motley crew of multigenerational, very unlikely friends.

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