Page 92 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“You know, my friends really thought I would make it,” I say. “I thought I would too.” My laugh lacks all amusement. “How’s that for deluded?”

“A case could be made that youare‘making it,’” he says. “I mean, you’re working in the theatre. You’re being paid to do what you set out to do.”

He doesn’t understand. “I’m not performing.”

“No, you’re doing something way harder.” He laughs. “You’re running everything.”

“Not everyone can just get a new dream, Booker,” I say, a little more clipped than I mean to. “I’ve wanted to do one thing my entire life. I can’t just swap it out for something else.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry. I think I’m just sensitive.”

“Too much sharing?” he quips.

“Way too much,” I say.

Booker slows down and turns into the parking lot of what looks like an old roadhouse-type bar with a nearly full gravel parking lot.

“Okay, then let’s save all of that for Friday.”

I suddenly feel like I’m wearing wool in July, so I change the subject. “Ooh, it looks like they got both kinds of music here. Countryandwestern,” I muse, desperate to lighten the mood.

He laughs to himself as he drives around for a few seconds, eventually finding a parking place. Once we’re stopped, he turns off the engine.

“What if, just for tonight, you stop trying to figure out life and the meaning of everything and commit to one thing only—having fun?”

I cover my face with my hands. “I’m not even sure I know how to do that anymore.”

“I’ll help,” he says. “You can figure out all this life stuff tomorrow.”

Lighten up, Rosie. It’s just life.

His phone buzzes in one of the drink holders. He picks it up and reads the new text, shaking his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Bertie and Arthur aren’t coming.” He tosses me a suspicious look. “She said they went for ice cream instead.”

“Do you think—?”

“She planned this?” He laughs. “Without a doubt.”

Chapter 23

I’m on a double date that’s no longer a double date that wasn’t a date in the first place.

We’re still sitting in the car, collectively shaking our heads at Bertie’s master plan.

I look at the bar. There’s a lit-up neon Buster’s sign out by the road, and the name is hand-painted on the actual building—and not by an artist.

I smile. “She did seem concerned that you’ll never get out there and live your life.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah. I’ve heard the whole speech. Multiple times.”

“You know what this means?” I pump my eyebrows despite his skeptical look, and then, because I don’t want to feel vulnerable anymore, I sing: “She thinks I’m good for you.”

Without missing a beat, he says, “She’s a terrible judge of character.”

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