Chapter 7
We continue along the path, and at this point I’ve completely lost all sense of direction. I’m not sure I could even find
my way back to the clubhouse.
“This place is huge,” I say, mostly to myself.
“You’ll learn your way around.” He veers off to the left. “These are the staff cottages.” And then he brings the cart to a
stop. “This is it. Your cottage for the summer.”
I glance up at the most adorable sage-green cottage with an oversized porch, wide pillars, and white trim. “Really?”
“Yep,” he says.
My cottage. I look at the mailbox—it looks handcrafted of wood painted white—and I think, that’s my mailbox. “I’ve never had my own mailbox,” I say on a sigh.
Those are my shutters. That’s my hanging plant. My porch swing.
And though I know I don’t actually own this place, I get to live here. For a whole summer.
Still hasn’t sunk in yet.
Booker hands me a key and gestures toward the handle, indicating I should get out of the golf cart and go check out my cottage.
I take the key and hold it, feeling a little like an impostor.
Maybe I can get through this like any other role. But then it hits me—I get through other roles by pretending.
“All yours, Rosie.”
Well, crud. I like how he says my name too.
But it really does make me want to drop the act. All of it. Is he right? Is it safe to be myself here? To admit all the things I never say out loud?
The truth is, I like Booker. Right off the bat.
I want to know him. His story. Part of that is probably the actor in me, but seriously—why is he still single? What does he
want out of life? Is this his big dream? Doing physical therapy at... whatever this place is?
I want to know the answers to all of these questions.
I want to know Booker Hayes.
But do I want him to know me? That’s the kicker.
I pause. Maybe I do want someone to see all of it. All of me.
My hand is trembling as I slide the key in the handle and turn it.
And maybe I want it to be a guy I just met today.
I stop short because I vaguely remember Connie telling me I have a housemate.
“Wait. Doesn’t someone live here? I mean, don’t I have a...?”
“Daisy? Oh yes, she’s your housemate, but she’s still at work. We’re good to go in and take a look around.”
I open the door, step inside, and am immediately met with a clean, fresh, floral, open, inviting atmosphere. It’s like if
cozy had a smell.
Anyone who’s ever been to New York knows none of those adjectives are ever in the same sentence as “New York.”
Sentences about New York usually contain words like crowded and expensive . And sometimes, urine .
Booker steps in after me, and I walk into what looks like an entryway, opening up into a living room, dining room, and kitchen,
all open with no walls.
Compared to Ellen’s apartment, this place is cavernous.
“Have you ever heard of a pocket neighborhood?” he asks.
I shake my head. As if I could form words right now. I can’t believe I get to live here.
“It’s like a small community of, in this case, cottages, all sharing common space. They’re all front-facing, and the sidewalk goes around in an oval with the yard at the center. Take a look out the front window. The independent living cottages are arranged the same way.”
I look out the large bay windows to see what Booker just described. Each cottage has its own very small yard with flowers
and plants and a few small shrubs, and on the opposite side of the sidewalk is a big oval-shaped grassy area, which, I assume,
is the common space he mentioned.
“Geez, the porches are huge.”
“That was intentional,” Booker says. “The idea was to think of each porch as an extra outdoor living space. It contributes
to the sense of community.”
“Yeah, this is nothing like New York,” I tell him. “Well, Brooklyn, I lived in Brooklyn.”
“Lived? Like, past tense?”
Shoot. I can’t afford to slip up if I want to keep myself to myself. And I do. I totally do.
Right?
A Mark Twain quote pops in my head: “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything.”
Shut up, Mark.
“Live,” I say quickly and then add, “sorry. I’m not there a ton because, you know, travel and so on.”
“Ah.” He seems to buy it. “Movies.”
“And things.” I nod, hoping my horrible poker face doesn’t give away that I’m only holding a two and a seven, offsuit.
“You have neighbors, though, right?” He’s watching me again. But it’s more than watching. It’s like he’s trying to actually
know me. And I’m not used to that. The only people who actually know me are my friends from home. And that’s only by default because
they were there as I was becoming who I am.
In some ways, I’ve gotten so far away from that girl...
“Oh yeah,” I say. “I just don’t know them very well.”
Actually, that’s not entirely true. I’ve used the people in my building for inspiration for characters lots of times.
“I mean, there’s Archie, a self-proclaimed ‘monster demon,’ who everyone avoids at all costs. He’s got quite a few... er...
piercings and wide, wild eyes.” I picture the floor of our building. “And Mrs. Righetti, whose idea of ‘taking out the trash’
is setting all of her garbage bags in the hallway. Oh! And there’s a guy named Danny who wears a robe. And only a robe. Definitely
been arrested for public indecency more than once.”
Booker chuckles, folding his arms and leaning against the back of the couch. “It’s different here. They want you to get to
know people. And everyone’s really friendly. I mean, it’s all part of the mission,” he says. “People living in community.”
“I knew this was a cult,” I mutter.
He laughs. “The staff does family dinner pretty often in the Commons, which is right”—he walks over to the window and points
to the building at the end of the oval—“There.”
He’s really close to me. Onstage this is hardly an issue, but here, in my real life...
I take a step back and try not to let on that I’m a little breathless. “Family dinner? I thought you just ate in the dining
hall with everyone else.”
“I mean, you can,” he says, shrugging. He makes his way back across the room, thank the Lord. “And most of us do, for breakfast
and lunch. But the staff lives in this pocket neighborhood, separate from the residents, so it’s a chance to, you know, get
to know your coworkers away from the job. It’s not mandatory, of course. I mean, you can eat frozen pizza in your bedroom
if you want.” He chuckles at this.
“Frozen pizza?” I scoff. “How do you know I’m not an amazing cook?”
“Are you?”
“No. I’m actually terrible.”
“We have cooking classes too,” he says. “Daisy sets them up, so you can ask her for all the details.”
“That...,” I ponder, “could actually be fun.”
“See? You fit here already.”
I fit here. Huh.
“Do you live in this little... pocket neighborhood?” I ask.
He eyes me for a fleeting moment, then quips, “Are you going to stalk me?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
“As long as I’m prepared.” There’s amusement in his tone. “The blue one across the yard is mine.” He points toward the front
door. “I manage the staff cottages, so one of the perks is I don’t have a housemate. Anything that goes wrong, they call me,
and I’m the guy who’ll fix it.”
“Anything?” I ask.
“Sure,” he says. “I’m pretty handy.”
“So if my sink breaks?”
“That’s me.”
“Or if my toilet leaks?”
“Also me.”
“Cabinet door comes loose?”
“That’s also something a handyman would fix, so...”
“And if I, like, run out of tampons?”
He looks like I caught him off guard, and I think, Point for me!
He winces. “Then you’re on your own.”
I shake my head. “Chicken.”
He feels like a friend I’ve had for years. How did he do that?
“Actually, I could also help with your feminine products, but it would require a trip to the canteen.”
“The canteen?” My eyes go wide. “Is this a summer camp cult?”
“Not a cult.” Then he narrows his gaze. “Did you go to summer camp?”
“Theatre camp,” I tell him.
“Ah, of course.”
I mock stretch, as if prepping for the Olympic hammer throw. “Four years in a row. It was more ‘theatre’ than ‘camp,’ though.”
He laughs, and I like making him laugh.
I notice a bright bag on the kitchen counter. “Does that belong to...?”
He looks over. “Daisy.”
I look at him. “Is she nice?”
“Absolutely. She’s the special events coordinator,” he says. “Super outgoing. She’s younger, and a bit of a whirlwind.”
“How much younger?”
He shrugs. “Probably your age.”
I frown. “How old are you?”
Without a beat, he says, “Thirty-three.”
“Oh wow, yeah, you’ve got one leg in the grave, old man.” I laugh. “You’re only four years older than me.”
“I’m an old soul,” he says, brushing it off. “I’d rather stay home watching reruns of The Office than go out to the bars on the weekends.”
At that, I freeze.
I know that our phones eavesdrop on our conversations because I’ve said things like, “Maybe I should start drinking energy drinks,” in casual conversation only later to be bombarded with ads for Red Bull every time I go on social media.
But there is no way Booker could’ve heard me say this exact thing to my friends before I left for the bus.
“You good?” He gives me a quizzical look.
“Yeah. Yep. All good.” I give him a weak thumbs-up, and then, before I can decide if this is a sign from the universe, I say,
“Pickleball injury.”
He squints, studying me. “Right. I should head out... But I’ll swing by in the morning to finish your tour,” he says. “That’ll give you some time to unpack and everything.”
“Sounds good.” I nod. “Go forth and heal.”
He smirks again, and after only a short time of knowing him, I’ve already decided it’s a trademark I could get used to.
He sticks his hand out toward me. “It was good to meet you, Rosie.”
I stare at it a beat too long, then slowly slip my hand in his. He squeezes it, and all I can think is that Connie was right.
I’m gooey on the inside, and I don’t want to let go. Ever.