Chapter 4
After hours on the road, the bus finally pulls into a station in town.
Sturgeon Bay. Huh. Sounds fishy.
I chuckle at my dad joke as I scroll to Connie’s reply to my email. She said there would be someone here to meet me and drive
me to my cottage.
When I first read that, all I could think was, I have a whole cottage?
I haven’t even had my own bedroom since I left my parents’ house.
Rent is ridiculously expensive in New York. Obscenely so. A six-hundred-square-foot apartment needs at least three roommates.
And a loan.
A cottage? Are you kidding? Heck, even a small one—even a room in a small one—will feel like a palatial estate.
I get off the bus and wait for the driver to pull my suitcase from the compartment underneath, and once he does, I take it,
avoiding eye contact because I’m cashless and not sure of the tip situation. I could tell him to keep company with great people,
invest early in life, or get seven to eight hours of sleep at night, but I don’t think those are the kind of tips he’s looking
for.
I wheel the suitcase away from the bus and see a tall man, probably a couple of years older than me, leaning against a dark blue pickup truck. He’s wearing a ball cap, a red vintage-wash T-shirt, work boots, and a pair of well-worn jeans. Handsome, but not like he’s trying to be.
He’s watching me, and because I know what I look like, I know he’s not checking me out—he’s probably my ride.
Maya’s clichéd “you’re not getting any younger” speech comes rushing back to my mind as I start off in his direction. I tell my mind to can it—I’m not looking for love in
Wisconsin.
He shifts, angling toward me a bit, and I think... but then again...
He’s like a cross between Scott Eastwood and Glen Powell. But with darker hair. I involuntarily cast him in a movie in my
brain, playing opposite me, of course—him, a loner with a past, me a bright spark of a girl, home for the holidays but not
interested in romance. Our paths cross at the local bus station and...
I click off my mental TV and start in his direction. I’m about to reach him when it occurs to me that he might not actually
be my ride. He caught my attention so quickly, I didn’t bother to look around.
This guy could be waiting here for anyone.
My eyes dart to the right, where a smallish muffin of a man with a mustache is standing next to a beat-up sedan. He’s wearing
a Hawaiian shirt, a pair of long khaki shorts, and tall socks with sandals.
Oh yeah. He’s my ride. No doubt.
I toss Scott/Glen a slight smile and keep walking, as if I’d always meant to walk in a straight line toward him only to make
an abrupt turn at the last minute.
I smile at my ride, and he smiles back, wide and excited.
“You need a ride?” he asks, his accent thick.
“Are you...”—I open my phone and glance down at the email Connie sent me with the name of the man who is picking me up—“Booker?”
Without breaking the smile, the guy shakes his head and points behind me. I don’t have to turn to know where he’s pointing.
I smile, but I’m guessing it looks more like a wince. “Awesome. Thanks.”
I do my best to act unbothered as I spin on my heel to find the guy, still in the same spot he was before, only now, he’s
looking at me sideways instead of straight on.
It’s no less unnerving.
I take a few steps toward him. “Are you... Booker?”
“In the flesh.”
I try not to think about his flesh. Or my flesh, which is currently overheating. I squeeze the handle of my suitcase, aware
that my palm, like my knee pits, is sweating. “I’m Rosie.”
“I figured.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because you asked Roberto if his name was Booker.”
“Ah. Ha. Yes,” I say. “I did do that. You were there.” I try to save the moment. “You still are. Here.”
He doesn’t respond.
His silence is unnerving, and I wonder if there’s a rock big enough for me to crawl under. Or maybe I could empty the contents
of my suitcase and zip myself inside. But then my underwear would be strewn around on the sidewalk, and considering the fact
that they are all granny panties, I tuck that idea right back in my brain.
I draw in a breath, quietly righting myself. I’m being ridiculous.
He’s just a guy.
I’ll think of him like I would a new scene partner. Easy.
He raises an eyebrow and nods down to my side. “That your bag?”
“Uh, sorry, yes.” I drag the suitcase closer.
He reaches for the suitcase, and as he grabs it, our hands touch, and for some reason, my heart knocks around in my rib cage like a pair of wet tennis shoes in a dryer. The metaphorical shoes launch from the imaginary dryer and hit me in the mouth, which starts saying things again.
“Oh, look, our hands,” I say, and then, to make absolutely sure he (and Roberto, for good measure) knows what a complete weirdo
I am, I start singing, “Oh yes, oh yes, we both reached for the case, the case, oh yes, the case,” to the tune of “We Both
Reached for the Gun” from the musical Chicago while shimmying my hips and shoulders in an embarrassing little dance.
In my defense, I completely sell out to the bit.
After I finish, I look up at Booker, stick one foot behind the other, and dip into a slight bow.
He only stares.
I put my hands on my hips. “Oh come on, nothing? No smile?” It’s like trying to banter with a TSA agent who has six more hours
on their shift.
His smile is, at best, half-hearted.
“Yeesh,” I say. “Tough crowd.” I wipe my hands down my pants, as if smoothing my outfit will tamp down my musical lunacy.
His smile changes to polite, and he reaches again but stops short.
“I’m going in now,” he says like a hostage negotiator instructed to keep everyone calm. “Can I get this for you, or...?”
I release my death grip on the suitcase. “No encore. I promise. I would love you—I would love for you to—it would be good. Great.” I snap my jaw shut and draw in a quick breath, letting go of the suitcase. “Here.”
What is wrong with me? I can perform in front of hundreds of people—why has this audience of one turned me into a gibbering
weirdo?
The corner of his mouth lifts, and I try not to notice how bright his eyes are.
I take a step back as he wheels the suitcase over to the bed of his truck, then tosses it inside.
He then opens the passenger side door of the truck and looks at me. “You coming?”
“Right!” I point at him. “Yes.” I move past him, and as I do, I take a chance and start to hum a little tune as if I’m going
to sing again.
He chuckles, shakes his head, and motions for me to hop in.
“Okay, okay, I’m going.” I smirk, and I’m ecstatic when I see him try—fail—to hide a smile.
Making people laugh is one of my favorite things.
I step up quickly, grab the oh-crap handle inside the truck, and hoist myself up. Once I’m in, he takes the door, and after
making sure I’m inside, closes it for me, then makes his way around to the driver’s side.
This is not the kind of guy I’m used to being around. I have a lot of friends, but they’re all actors. While it may seem like
all actors look like they should be movie stars, that’s not actually true.
Most of my friends are, like me, ordinary people. Many of them have an insane amount of talent. But there hasn’t been a single
one who’s turned my head since I moved to New York.
Partly because I was still dating Peter for the first two years I lived there, but mostly because I’m a very determined person.
And my goals have always been about my work.
Which is pathetically ironic, considering that even with 100 percent of my focus, I’m still a solid professional failure.
Booker is now talking to Roberto, in Spanish, no less, which gives me a second to glance around his truck. You can learn a
lot about a person based on their living spaces.
For example, me. I don’t currently have a living space.
The inside is clean—something I didn’t expect.
I don’t know what I was expecting since I don’t have a lot of experience being in guys’ trucks, thank goodness, but I just thought it’d be messier.
It’s vacuumed, wiped down, and smells masculine.
Like he drove it through a forest with the windows down.
He opens the driver’s side door and effortlessly hops in. I offer a smile, then turn to stare out the window. Once he’s buckled
in, he starts the engine and I feel him glance my way.
Not so much with my peripheral vision, but some other sense is picking up that he’s looking at me.
“You good?” he asks.
“ So good.” Still not looking at him.
“You’re the theatre person, right?”
“Aw, what gave it away?” I glance over and smile.
I see a twinge of amusement on his face. It’s as if me being a theatre person tells him all he needs to know about me.
“I am,” I say. “Hopefully you don’t have anything against”—I speak as if my words have air quotes— “‘theatre people.’”
He shifts the truck into Reverse and pulls away from the curb. “Not at all. I haven’t really known many.” He pauses, then
adds, “Do you all spontaneously burst into song?”
I frown and give a semiserious, “Maybe . ”
He banters right back. “So I should expect more of that?”
“If you’re lucky.”
He chuckles. “Might be entertaining. We’ll see.”
We drive in silence for several minutes, and Booker doesn’t seem to mind. I am not that calm. I’m a space filler, but for
the life of me, I can’t think of anything to say.
I look out the window as the trees pass by, marveling at the shades of green. “I’m sure it seems sort of ridiculous,” I say.
“Does it?” he asks, as if it’s perfectly normal for me to pick up our conversation from ten minutes ago. “I think it’s cool
that you do it, you know, for fun.”
I look at him. “Well, it’s my career, so it’s not exactly ‘for fun.’” I try to keep my tone light, but I’m afraid it’s still
coming across snarky.
I glance at him as he tosses me a quick look.
I feel myself deflate a bit as I look away.
I’ve always been overly sensitive about my chosen career path.
It’s such a long shot for anyone to actually make it as an actor, and pursuing it, especially as a woman pushing thirty, sometimes feels frivolous and misguided.
Thirty for a female actress may as well be fifty-eight.
He looks confused. “Can’t your career be fun?” He slows down for an upcoming stop sign, signaling to turn onto a frontage
road.
Fun. Psh. Clearly he doesn’t have a clue about what a soul-sucking career acting is.
“Well, yeah. It can be. I mean... it is , at times, fun, but...” I trail off.
“But?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
And we’re back to silence. Except for a very loud and demanding question racing through my mind: When was the last time I had fun?