Chapter 11
Booker carts me through the residential part of the Sunset Hills Retirement Community, which I now know is the official name
of this place.
He’s narrating the points of interest as I sit in stunned silence.
I’m trying to focus on his commentary and not on the fact that I’ve been completely blindsided. It’s my own fault, which is
another awesome realization.
In the middle of my stupor, I also linger on how casually he mentioned finding a new dream.
This place isn’t my new dream.
Plus, it’s not that easy. Not for me. I’ve wanted to be an actor since I was twelve. I’ve dedicated my whole life to this.
To give up before I achieve what I set out to do is failing. Period. Full stop.
I glance over, in awe of his quiet nonchalance. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as settled or content as he looks right now.
Did he just give up trying for his dream? That’s hard to understand.
He tells me that these medium-sized cottages are homes for the residents who live on their own. “It’s the best of both worlds,”
he says. “They don’t have to worry about yard care or snow removal, but they still have their own space. Once they’re a member
of Sunset, they have programming and meals and shared spaces and physical therapy—it’s a community, and it’s been really good
for a lot of them.”
“Including your grandma?”
He nods. “She’s in one of the apartments on the other side of the clubhouse. She’s been on her own for a while now, but the
house got to be too much for her to handle.”
“She didn’t want to move in with your parents?” I ask.
“They’re not really in the picture,” he says simply. “Haven’t been for a long time.”
My expression changes, and he must see it because he shakes his head.
“It’s not a tragic story. I had a great life with people who loved me,” he says. “Doesn’t really matter that those people
weren’t my parents.”
I study him for a few long seconds, more interested in what he’s not saying than in what he is. “That’s really how you feel?”
“It really is.” He shrugs. “Not everyone is cut out to raise a kid.”
I eye him for a few long seconds, then remember I don’t know this man at all. “Sorry. I’m being so nosy.”
“It’s okay.” He smiles. “And I don’t mean to be cagey about it, it’s just... apparently, I’m ‘hard to know.’”
“I feel like there’s a story there,” I say, hopefully lightly, fighting off the desire to prod him with questions so I can
learn everything there is to know about him. I put my feet up on the dash of the cart.
He watches the path in front of us. “Ah. Yes. But you’ll never know it because—” He lifts his hands as if I’m supposed to
finish the sentence.
“Because you’re hard to know.”
He gives me a pointed nod, as if to say, “Bingo!”
If only that didn’t make me want to know him more. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll be forced to fill in the blanks, and I have
a very active imagination.”
His amused expression shifts.
“So you use humor to cover up your real feelings,” I say, sizing him up. “Interesting.”
A quick glance at me. “I’m a guy. It’s what we do.”
I chuckle.
He turns onto a wide sidewalk. “I didn’t realize you’re a therapist too.”
“Theatre is basically psychology,” I tell him, watching the houses go by as we drive. “It’s studying people. What they do
and why they do it. You have to get inside a character’s head in order to, you know, figure her out. What makes her tick?
Why does she do the things she does? I could probably be a therapist with no additional training.”
“Might be a bit more schooling to go through, but...”
I shrug playfully. “To-may-toe, to-mah-toe.”
There’s a brief moment of silence, and then he asks, “Do you ever try and psychoanalyze yourself?”
“Ha! No way,” I answer. “I’m way too complicated to start asking myself questions. I’m like a balled-up wad of Christmas lights.”
He half laughs. “Where to begin... maybe with why the panic applying for jobs? Why take one in Wisconsin without even checking
it out first?” He glances at me.
I narrow my eyes comically. “I am also hard to know.”
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll be forced to fill in the blanks,” he jokes.
I feel something inside me settle.
There’s a lull, and then I say, “I wouldn’t have thought you were hard to know. You seem... friendly.”
He waves to someone in the distance, as if to prove my point. “Being friendly isn’t the same as letting people know you.”
Don’t I know it.
“It’s obvious someone has said this to you before.” I study his profile. “Ex-girlfriend? The reason you don’t date?”
He pulls the cart to a stop, hops out, and with a flourish, says, “Aaand... welcome back to your summer home!”
I eye him as I get up and cross around to the front of the golf car. “You deflected.”
“I know, right? Dodged it like a champ.”
“Well played.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Thank you.”
There’s a beat. A moment of silence. And then I offer, “I don’t like to talk about myself either.”
“Perfect,” he says. “Then the two of us will become great friends who know nothing about each other.”
He’s quick. My smile widens.
He smiles back.
And I think, for the first time ever, that I might believe in love at first sight. Or at least friendship at first sight.
Because there’s something about Booker that makes me want to drop the act. To stop pretending.
More and more it’s feeling like that is what this summer might be about.
I’m about to exit the cart when Booker says, “So you basically pretend for a living.”
I laugh. “I mean... I guess that’s one way to put it. If you do it right, it’s not exactly pretending , but close enough.” It’s not lost on me that this exact thing might be my whole issue when it comes to my career.
You have to be willing to be completely raw, Rosie. You aren’t. And it’s blocking you.
“So is it hard not to pretend in your real life?” he asks.
Peter always accused me of playing a role. Isn’t that what I did at the baby shower?
“I’m not sure I—” My muscles tense, and I feel defensive, but I’m not sure why.
“Oh, I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says. “It’s just—you seem like you could use a safe person.”
I frown. “And that’s you? A perfect stranger?”
He shrugs.
There seems to be a fundamental difference between Booker and me. He seems more open than I am. Like the wall around him is shorter or something. My wall was built by failure, and it’s basically a fortress.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “What if we try something different?” He gestures between us on the word we and my heart flip-flops.
Are we a we ?
I toss him a suspicious look. “Different from what?”
His eyes brighten. “Like, what if we answer every question the other one asks. But, you know, honestly.”
I don’t know what I expected him to suggest, but it wasn’t that.
I knee-jerk a “No.”
He makes a face. “You didn’t even think about it.”
“I don’t need to.” Yes, I’m conflicted about this discovery that it’s apparently impossible for me to be honest with the people
I love, but opening up to this man is not the way to change that.
“Like I said, who better to talk to than a perfect stranger?” he says. “It could be therapeutic.”
“Therapeutic?”
“Or practice. You know”—a grin spreads across his face—“For all your possible love matches.”
“That’s... I’m not...” Now I’m flustered. I shake my head and turn away. “I’m going back to New York at the end of this
job. I’m not dumb enough to try and make some kind of love match in Wisconsin.”
As if on cue, my phone dings in my pocket.
He opens his eyes and mouth wide, pointing at me as if to say, “Ohhh!”
I grit my teeth, pull out the phone, and click the sound off.
“Come on, you have to admit that was perfect timing,” he jokes.
I shove my traitorous phone back in my pocket. “I admit nothing.”
He holds up his hands. “No stakes, no ties, no baggage. And I promise I’m not trying anything here. Just thought this might be a good detour. Change of scenery.” He pauses. “Since no one knows you, you could be yourself here.”
Hadn’t I thought the exact same thing only yesterday?
He leans back against the seat of the golf cart. “When this job ends, you’ll go back to your life, and you’ll never have to
see me again.”
That comment doesn’t hit the way it should.
“Just think about it,” he says. “And let me know if you want to practice.”
“Answering questions,” I say.
“Being honest.”
I make a display of cringing. “Sounds awful.”
He smirks. “Might be good to have a friend here?”
“You think I need a friend?”
“I think everyone needs friends,” he says. “And I am one of the few people here who was probably born the same decade as you.”
I muse.
He cocks his head slightly. “Could be fun, Rosie.”
I definitely like the way he says my name.
With that, he drives off, leaving me standing there, certain that I don’t need to think any more about his offer because his
offer is about honest sharing.
And the feelings I’m having right now are not ones I would ever volunteer to share.