Chapter 5
I’m not usually a conversation killer. But I’m doing a bang-up job here.
Finally, when I can’t take another second of silence, I say, “You really think that?”
He leans his head slightly but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Think what?”
I look down. “That it’s, you know, cool? That I do theatre?”
He gives me a quick side-eye. “I really do.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “That’s...” I pause. “People don’t usually think so.” I try to laugh off the pathetic honesty
of what I just said.
I think of my friends. Now they’re cool. It’s a wonder they let me in their group at all.
I pull my phone out and text our group chat to let them know I arrived safe and sound. I do not, however, tell them I’m currently
riding in a truck with the most beautiful human I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I immediately receive three text replies, and I tuck my phone away, still thinking about my friends. Not even one week at
home, and it was like no time had ever passed at all. Maybe that’s how it is with people you grew up with.
People who helped you become who you were going to be.
In high school, Maya made my slightly outdated fashion preferences cool with three simple words: “Audrey Freaking Hepburn . ” We were freshmen, and she came over to my house, pulled me into my bedroom and said, “You’ve got this great artistic vibe going on, but”—she waved a hand in my general direction and scrunched up her nose—“It needs to be edited.”
“Edited?” I’d been confused. I wasn’t trying to have a vibe. I was just wearing what was on the top of the pile.
That’s when Maya pulled out a bunch of photos and taped them to my mirror. They were all of Audrey. “From now on, you channel
her .”
I stood and walked over to the mirror. “I don’t think I can pull this off.”
Maya took me by the arms and looked me straight in the eye. “From now on, you aren’t just a mousy girl who likes to pretend
to be other people for fun. You’re Rosie Freaking Waterman. Serious Actress. And you’ve got style.”
“I really don’t.”
“You’re right.” She squinted. “But you will.”
Maya took me shopping, invited Marnie and Taylor over for makeovers, and by the second week of ninth grade, I had an identity
that actually suited me. Pixie pants and belted dresses and headbands and ballet flats. She took the fact that I never really
fit in and made it my trademark. It didn’t make me cool, exactly, especially not to people like Ireland Abbot, but it helped
shape my identity.
After spending some time in that memory, another thought hits me.
I really should thank her for that.
My eyes scan the dashboard, eventually making their way to Booker. “So... what do you do?”
“Physical therapist,” he says.
“Really?” I’m hoping my reaction doesn’t read as big as I think it does. I look at his work boots. “You don’t look like a
physical therapist.”
He chuckles and the corner of his mouth lifts. “And what does a physical therapist look like?”
I frown, holding up my hands and moving them in front of me as if I’m picturing the architecture of a building that’s not
there. After a moment, I slump them to my lap. “I don’t know actually.”
Then, after a pause, I ask, “Don’t you have, like, way too much of an education to pick people up from the bus station?”
“I do whatever’s needed,” he says. “Rehab an injury, help out around the cottages, or”—he tilts his head at me—“Run a taxi
service.”
“Impressive.” A physical therapist who volunteers for a theatre community? Not typical.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
I smile. “Normally I just say Chicago because it’s easier for people to find on a map than the small town no one’s ever heard
of. It’s about an hour outside of Chicago,” I say. “Like a suburb of a suburb.”
“And that’s where you do theatre?”
Do theatre. Cute.
“Oh no, I moved to New York after college.” It always sounds cooler than it is.
“New York? Whoa. You’re, like, legit.”
I suck in air through my teeth and shake my head, “Ohh, I wouldn’t go that far.” If only he knew how many nonworking actors
there are in New York. Living there isn’t the impressive part.
I keep my insight to myself. “I’m guessing this job will be a little different than other ones I’ve had, though.”
He chuckles like he knows something I don’t. “Uh, yeah . Safe to say it’ll be a bit different.”
His reaction strikes me as a bit odd, but I just chalk it up to him probably thinking I’m a long way from New York. “I just
mean because I’m on the creative team.” I look at him. “Not on the stage.”
He pulls off the highway and turns onto a more rural road. “Normally you’re on the stage?” he asks.
“Normally, yes,” I say, “or on the screen.”
“Like movies?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to start this off with a bunch of half-truths—but something within me only wants to bring home the
A papers and leave the D’s and F’s in the desk drawer.
“More TV than movies, but yeah, I’ve done a few.” Not in a while but not a lie.
“Have you been in anything I would’ve seen?” he asks.
“Um... I did an episode of Law & Order ,” I say, not admitting that it was six years ago or that I played a dead body on a slab in the morgue. “But mostly I work
in the theatre.”
I think of my jobs as usher and coat check and security, and since those were technically inside a building that was known as a theatre, I decide this isn’t a lie either.
Another lull.
Again, he seems unfazed by the silence, and in that silence I start to feel an unfamiliar feeling—I feel myself relax. We
drive for about half an hour, and I let my stress drift away as I watch the green hills of Wisconsin out the window.
The rhythmic bump of the road under the tires, the warm sun through the window, the smell of his truck, and...
“Rosie?”
My eyes flutter open, and it takes me a few seconds to figure out where I am. Door County. Theatre job.
I glance over. Hot guy.
“You fell asleep.” Booker’s smile is kind.
“Oh geez. Sorry.” I sit up. I immediately raise my hand to my mouth to make sure I didn’t drool.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m a big fan of rest.”
“Hopefully not when you’re driving,” I quip.
He laughs, and I don’t hate it.
I stretch, slightly embarrassed that I fell asleep. I only sleep because my body forces it, but rest isn’t something I seek
out.
I look around and see that we’re parked in front of a very large, very fancy building with a sign out front that says Sunset
Hills Clubhouse .
“This is it,” he says.
We both get out of the truck, and he crosses around to the sidewalk to meet me.
I look around, searching for the theatre building, but I’m not seeing one. Normally you can pick out a theatre from a whole
row of buildings because you can see the fly system sticking up another twenty feet from the roof.
I don’t see anything like that.
Only this huge clubhouse, a few other buildings, and a golf course. In the distance, I see tennis courts and a pool, and farther
away, a lake.
Is it... outdoor theatre? Theatre in the round, maybe? Theatre in a park could be cool, though the website didn’t say anything
about that.
Booker is now standing at the door of the clubhouse, staring at me. He doesn’t say anything, just gestures toward the door,
as if to question whether or not I’m coming with him for the second time in the less than sixty minutes I’ve known him.
To counter, I feign looking around, give a big oversized stretch, and put my hands on my hips, smacking my lips. Then, with
what I hope is great comedic timing, I glance at a nonexistent watch on my wrist, physically react with a “Well, shoot!” and
rush over to his side.
He takes a breath and nods. “Yeah. You’re a theatre person.”
“I’m not apologizing for it,” I banter, mock flexing. “That was comedy gold right there.” It wasn’t, but he doesn’t say so.
When I walk inside the clubhouse, I go silent. It’s massive. And ornate. And not what I was expecting. Finally, after gawking for what feels like three acts, I look at Booker. “What is this place?”
“This is Clubhouse Village,” he says. “It’s sort of the social epicenter of Sunset.”
“The theatre has an epicenter?”
“No, the theatre is just one part of this place.” I can hear his confusion as he frowns. “Didn’t you look it up when you applied
for this job?”
I don’t even remember applying for the job, but in my desperation, I’m sure I didn’t read closely. I’m a skimmer on a good
day, so at best I looked it over like it was the seventeenth page of mortgage paperwork.
“Uh, yeah. Of course. Yes, I... totally did that.” I hitch my bag up on my shoulder and push a hand through my hair, knocking my sunglasses
off the top of my head. They clatter to the ground, and Booker and I both bend over to pick them up at the same time.
On the way down, a vision flashes—we’re two cartoon characters about to bonk heads.
Thankfully, the vision is just my overactive imagination and not a premonition, and we’re both quick enough to react before
we knock into each other.
However, this results in us both stopping short of picking up the glasses but looking up simultaneously, faces—and lips—inches
away.
He doesn’t move, and of course neither do I. Mostly because my heart is caught in my throat. He slowly reaches down and picks
up my sunglasses, handing them to me before I breathlessly stand back up.
In my mind, this all looked like a romantic meet-cute, even though it was neither romantic nor cute.
“Well, that was close,” he says lightly.
Yes. It was. Can we do it one more time from the top, please? I need another take.
“Thanks,” I say, finding my breath and my footing. I gather myself and look around. This epicenter is huge. “This place reminds me of the kind of fancy vacation resort I’ve never been able to afford.”
He smirks. I bet his full smile is nice. I bet it crinkles the skin around his eyes just a tiny bit. I look away before I
say something stupid like, “I can’t wait to see your eye crinkles.”
“Yeah, it’s nice,” Booker says. “There’s a golf course, tennis courts, now pickleball courts—seems like that’s the sport of