Chapter 5 #2
choice. Those are all out back.” He walks over to the opposite side of this lobby/atrium area we’re in, then points out the
giant floor-to-ceiling windows. Sure enough, I can see everything he said I would and more. Pools. Hot tubs. A large wraparound
patio on the opposite side of this clubhouse that’s lined with exercise machines, and I really start to wonder what I’ve signed
up for.
Is this theatre at a country club? For rich lonely women and their tennis pros?
“There’s also a restaurant, a pavilion for weddings and parties, a full gym on the lower level with yoga, Zumba, step aerobics,
the works. It’s really important for the members to keep moving. That’s sort of my domain down there. I’m the resident physical
therapist, but I’m also the head of health and wellness. The facilities are all open to staff too, so you’re more than welcome
to work out if you want.”
I glance over at him. Important for the members to keep moving? Health and wellness? “I’m so confused—where is the theatre?”
“Booker! You’re back!” A woman’s voice, complete with a pronounced Southern lilt, turns us both around.
Rushing toward us is a short older woman with dyed blond hair and a full face of makeup. Rushing is a bit of a stretch. She’s definitely in the third act of her life.
When she meets my eyes, she smiles. “You must be Rosie!” She pulls me into a tight hug and claps her hand on my back. “I’m
Connie! We exchanged emails! Oh my word! You are just the cutest thing.” She stands back and looks me over. “The cutest.” Then, to Booker. “Isn’t she the cutest?”
He appears to think for a second, then says, “I mean, for a theatre person, she’s not bad.” Totally deadpan, perfect delivery.
I’m simultaneously insulted and impressed.
Wait. Is he flirting? Should I flirt back?
I raise my eyebrows. “Not bad?”
He crosses his arms over his chest, and I swear I see the hint of a smile behind his eyes. “You know. For a theatre person.”
“So a compliment then?” I ask lightly.
“If that’s how you want to take it,” he says.
“Is that how you meant it?” I ask. “Because I wouldn’t want to assume you’re being kind when you’re really insulting me.”
I quirk a brow.
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth pulling up slightly.
“Uh...” It’s Connie, and she sounds confused. “Do you two know each other already?”
“Oh yeah, Rosie and I go way back,” Booker says, smirking.
“About sixty-ish minutes,” I add. “And yet, I don’t even know his last name.”
“Hayes.”
Booker Hayes.
His eyes latch on to mine like Velcro, as if he’s daring me to look away. But I refuse to lose this impromptu staring contest.
“Oookay,” the woman says. “Should I wait, or...?”
My cheeks flush with a rush of heat.
Finally, I look away, hoping this unexpected exchange doesn’t result in me spontaneously combusting. I’m certain it’s a million
degrees in this air-conditioned clubhouse.
Booker is still watching me. Still smirking, like this is all amusing to him, like maybe my oddness actually makes me more
interesting.
It’s wishful thinking, and I know it. Not that I’m wishing for anything with someone who lives in Wisconsin. I meant what I said to Maya. I’m not into casual flings. Even if Booker does melt me from the inside out.
“You okay, honey?”
Am I sweating?
Booker just nods in Connie’s direction, indicating I should probably answer her.
“I’m great,” I say, turning away from him.
“Booker has this effect on all of us, dear,” Connie says—and not quietly. “I would say you’ll get used to it, but I’d be lying.”
She giggles, like none of this is mortifying.
Booker chuckles to himself smugly, and I straighten. “Nope. No effects. I’m just...” Hot. Bothered. “Can I get a bottle
of water?”
She giggles again, as if I’m just being silly, when really I feel like I’ve been chewing on cotton balls and could really
use a drink.
“Well, I doubt you’re the only one immune to his charms.” Connie winks at me, and then her face turns pouty. “But of course
he’s not interested in dating anyone around here.”
He smirks. “Well, you’re already taken, Connie.”
She lets out something that might be described as a titter and squeezes his bicep. “Oh, you. Such a tease.” Then to me: “Can’t
blame you for getting all gooey around him.”
“I’m not gooey,” I say.
“Oh, sure you are,” Connie says. “And just you watch out for this one. He doesn’t like to mix business with pleasure. In case
you’re single and looking.” She pauses, then adds, “Are you single? Are you looking?”
Booker’s face is unflinching, like he’s used to this, but I’m so surprised by the blunt question, sandwiched between humiliating
commentary disguised as sweetness, that I can’t respond.
She picks up my left hand. “Huh. Not married.” She turns it toward Booker.
“You two would be adorable together, what with your”—she waves a hand from his neck to his hips and back again—“All of this.” She turns to me.
“And you, with this quirky, adorable thing you’ve got going on.
Your eyes are just the brightest blue! Big too.
And those lashes.” She tuts as she shakes her head.
“My eyelashes are blond, so without my face on, I look like something from Night of the Living Dead .” A pause.
“You’re probably too young to know what that is. It’s a zombie movie.”
“Mrs. Spencer,” a young woman wearing a Sunset Hills polo and a pair of khakis calls over from behind a desk. “The computer
just shut down again.”
“Oh, for the love.” Connie shakes her head. “They sure make this place look nice, but they’re so cheap when it comes to the
computers.” She looks at me and breathes a smile. “I want to get you settled, but—” She breaks off and looks at Booker. “Oh!
You don’t have any patients this afternoon, right?”
“No, it’s my day off,” he says, as if reminding her.
“Perfect.” She claps her hands together. “Then you can be on Rosie duty.”
Rosie duty? Is this going to be a permanent assignment or...?
“Take her over to the staff cottages—she’s in Dahlia.” She turns her attention back to me. “The on-site staff live in the
same little pod, two staff members to each cottage. They’re all named after flowers. The cottages, not the staff members.”
She giggles. “You’ll be living with our events coordinator, Daisy.” She scrunches her nose. “Well, shoot. This staff member
is named after a flower.” Then her eyes go wide, as if she’s just realized. “Daisy and Rosie! Two flowers! It’s practically perfect.”
“In every way,” I answer in a British accent, finishing the Mary Poppins lyric that I’m sure no one will catch on to.
Connie giggles again, and I decide she’s a character I’d like to play someday.
“Uh, I’m so sorry. Mrs. Spencer?” the girl calls out again, this time a little more desperately as she’s trying to help an
older man wearing a sun visor and a scowl.
“I have to run, but we’ll have your suitcase delivered to your cottage, and tomorrow we’ll get you squared away, okay?” She starts walking away, then calls back over her shoulder, “Booker, tell her about family dinner!”
I turn back to Booker.
He looks at me.
I wince dramatically. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
“Guess so,” he says. “Should be entertaining.”
“Or annoying,” I say.
He raises a brow.
“Give it a day.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. You’re harmless. Honestly, a breath of fresh air.”
Me? A breath of fresh air?
He starts back in the direction of the door but makes a turn toward the elevator. “We’ll go downstairs first. Are you into
fitness?”
I think about this. He probably likes women who hike trails and play mixed doubles... whatever they are. Which is probably
why I blurt out, “Oh yeah. I’m very into fitness. I’m like... Ms. Peloton.”
The elevator opens, and he steps inside.
The words “That’s a lie” splutter out. I always make things sound better than they are—I know this about myself, and I hate
it—but I’m strangely okay with the truth being enough at this moment. Here, I don’t have to pretend. At the end of the summer,
I’ll never see any of these people again.
A strange feeling overwhelms me at that realization. I’m free here. I can be whoever I want to be. I can workshop a new personality
for myself.
Or what if I was just myself?
I cling to that thought with both hands.
But then a new thought slips in its place—I’m not sure I know who that is anymore.
I meet his eyes. “I’m not into fitness. Or golf. I don’t really understand it. Or pickleball.”
“It’s the fastest growing sport in America,” he offers. “It’s pretty popular and easy to get the hang of. It’s like oversized
Ping-Pong. You might like it.”
“Eh... I don’t think I will.”
“Have you ever played?”
“Not once.”
“Then how do you know you won’t like it?” The elevator doors start to close, and he lifts a hand to stop them. They brake
and reopen. He leans his head out of the elevator because I’m still standing in the hallway, unsure I want to be in such a
small space with him. “Are you going to stand out there, or are we going to tour this place?”
“Yep. I’m... yep.” I step inside, and he hits the button to close the doors, and I do everything I can think of to slow
my breathing.
My phone buzzes. Then buzzes again.
I pull it out and look at the notification lighting my screen: “You have a possible love match” it screams at me in an obnoxious pink font.
The words are unbearably large and sent with confetti, and I glance over to see that Booker has, in fact, seen the notification
over my shoulder. I click the button and toss my phone in the oversized bag.
“You, uh, sure you don’t want to get that?” he asks, a bit of a tease in his voice. “A possible love match sounds important.”
“Do you always read other people’s texts?” I ask.
“Not my fault.” He leans back against the wall of the elevator, hands up in surrender. “That font is huge.” After a pause,
he quips, “Is that so you don’t miss any love matches?”
“It’s not huge,” I say. “And I’m not—it’s nothing. My friend set that up. I don’t even...” I smile in spite of myself.
“Oh, just shut up.”
Thankfully, he laughs. Because my flustered “ shut up ” might’ve come off snotty.
I glance over at him and find him smirking. “What?”
A shrug. “Nothing. I just think you’re going to be fun to have around.”
I catch my breath.
He thinks I’m fun to have around.
The elevator dings, and the doors open. Metaphorically, so does my heart.
He steps out. “You ready for this?”
My brain answers the question the only way it knows how: Nope.