Chapter 20
Later that day, after recovering from the Invasion of the Chipmunk, grabbing a shower, and discovering that I do, in fact,
have a gash on my shin in the distinct shape of an end-table leg, I find myself itching to get into the theatre.
There’s something about just being there. By myself. Getting used to the space.
It’s more so I can prepare and not mentally break down.
Instead of off-roading in my cart, I decide to walk. It’s early afternoon, and it’s so green here. This place exists on the
opposite end of the spectrum in so many ways from New York, including the color wheel.
Not long after I start out, I see Booker standing by his cart up ahead, and I take note of the way my mood changes at the
sight of him. He’s talking to a few old guys, pointing and laughing. It looks genuine, and I wonder how I can become as well
adjusted as he seems to be.
It makes me wonder if we’re the same in a way, not exactly being ourselves and holding people at arm’s length.
Is he safe? Probably.
Will I be gone at the end of the summer? Yes.
Is there a good chance that if I start discussing thoughts and feelings that I’ll start to fall for him?
I don’t answer that.
He sees me from a ways off and gives a single overhead wave. I wave back and watch as he pats one of the guys on the back, hops in his cart, and starts to drive over to me.
I slow my pace as heat rushes to my cheeks. Be cool, Rosie , I tell myself.
As he pulls up, I joke, “Wow, twice in one day. I bet the old women are jealous.”
He pushes the brake and it clicks. Wait, do all the golf carts...?
Parking brake .
I’m trying to pay better attention to things that will come in handy later.
“They’ll get over it.” He smiles. “Where are you headed?”
I shrug my shoulders and breathe in a content breath. “To the theatre. I just want to be there and hang out, to, you know,
get used to the place. Before tomorrow.”
“Ah. Preparing for the first rehearsal?”
“Yep. That’s when the madness really begins.”
He chuckles. “Need a ride? I’m headed that way. I don’t mind.”
“Are we friends now? Do we hang out together?”
He plays it cool. “Or not, you weirdo. You can walk.”
I scrunch up my nose and pretend to think about it.
He releases the parking brake and presses the accelerator, slowly inching the cart away from me—making a face at me the whole
time.
I pretend to capitulate. “Oh, okay. Fine, if you’re going that way, I suppose...” I hop into the passenger side and put
my phone on my lap.
As he hits the accelerator, a thought hits me. “Oh! Sorry—I didn’t even thank you. For saving me from the demon chipmunk.”
“Hey.” He leans toward me, his shoulder brushing mine. “I’m here for ya.”
As he grips the steering wheel, I notice how his polo pulls tighter, showing all the parts of his chest and biceps that he seems to pay attention to at the gym. There are always people who will be attracted to that, and I’ve never been one of them.
But it certainly doesn’t hurt.
“I told you to call when you need anything.” He smirks. “Though I thought maybe you’d use a phone and not, you know, scream.”
“It worked, so I regret nothing.”
He doesn’t drive as fast as Daisy, who drives as though at ten thirty the pizza is free and it’s ten twenty-nine.
I try to relax in the soft hum of the cart—to just take in the beautiful day and the beautiful driver next to me, but my brain
keeps defaulting to the impulse to share with him.
I want to know him, but that means him getting to know me.
Ugh. What is happening to me?
I shut my eyes tight for a moment, then decide just to go for it.
“So... questions.”
He glances my way. “Uh, what?”
I realize that I started talking in the middle of the conversation I’ve already been having in my head.
“I think I want to try the practicing thing. You know, questions, being honest... That. Whole. Thing,” I admit without
looking at him.
“The practicing thing,” he repeats.
“The sharing,” I say.
“The... what?” He shakes his head like he has no idea what I’m talking about, but when he glances toward me, he smirks.
“You’re teasing me,” I say dryly. “I’m baring my soul, and you’re teasing.”
“If you think this is baring your soul, we’re in trouble.” He laughs to himself.
I go still, except for the gentle bouncing of the cart.
I’m glad when he chooses to keep things light. Keeping things light is my forte. “Is this because it’s the only way for you to uncover all my dark secrets?” And I hear flirtation in the question, though maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
I laugh. “No, it seems the people around here are more than willing to talk about you.”
“Oh, I bet they are,” he says, chagrined. “Hopefully you’re smart enough not to believe everything you hear.”
“I am,” I say. “Though separating Booker Hayes fact from fiction is a little tricky without direct access to the source.”
“Maybe that’s better anyway. I’m not sure anyone really knows what they’re talking about,” he says lightly.
“I mean, they told me you’re a very good person, so you might be right.”
He laughs genuinely, then banters back, “No, that part’s true.”
“And apparently you don’t have any interest in dating.” I frown. “Or you haven’t found the right woman. Or, I don’t know,
someone said something, and I tuned them out.” I keep my tone light, teasing.
He starts to respond but goes silent instead.
“Not that that matters, you know, to me,” I say, filling in the space. “Because I’m leaving and you’re here, and not that
you and I are, you know, interested in being more than friends, but we literally can’t because I refuse to do long distance, and—”
“I get it,” he cuts me off. “You can’t fall in love with me.”
“Uh, no,” I say, all mock defiance. “It’s you who can’t fall in love with me .”
He presses his lips together and gives me a once-over so quick I almost miss it. “No promises.”
Now I’m the one who goes silent.
He reaches for a bottle of water that’s in the cup holder and takes a drink. “So have you thought through how this plan is
going to go?” He glances at me. “I mean, I’m sure you’ll have a list of rules, right? Oh, shoot...”
He swerves and narrowly misses a cone that had been set up next to a storm drain, and the turn jolts me toward him. I instinctively grab on to his arm.
It’s the first time I’ve actually put my hands on him, and it’s like my skin is plugged into a light socket.
I immediately scoot away, as if the added space between us will make me feel safer somehow. Seconds later, I realize it doesn’t.
If a simple accidental touch can have that effect on me, I’m doomed.
“Sorry about that,” he says.
I wave him off. “No biggie.” You’ve seen down my shirt already. I might as well spend the rest of this ride on your lap. “And to answer your question about rules... I don’t have any, but I’ll work on it. We are sort of working together, so I want to make sure to keep things professional.”
He shoots me a look while simultaneously slowing the cart. “There’s nothing professional about feelings, Rosie.”
“But we’re working together,” I say. “On the show.”
“I’m volunteering to help with the show,” he corrects.
“Right,” I say, “volunteering.”
“So any, you know, human-resources-type things aren’t an issue,” he deadpans, but with a glint.
“Right,” I say, “because we’re not dating .”
“Right. Just sharing our innermost thoughts.” He takes another drink, then caps the bottle, watching the road as he does.
“And definitely not falling in love.”
I shift in my seat as heat rushes to my cheeks. I take a breath and blow it out. “This was a bad idea.”
I swear he’s enjoying watching me squirm. “Was it?”
My phone, a savior, buzzes in my lap. It’s the group chat with my friends back home. I can practically hear Maya’s voice in
the back of my head saying, “Girl, go for it, or something is seriously wrong with you.”
Only, her text won’t say anything about Booker because I haven’t told them about him yet.
I open my phone and see it’s just a check-in text from Taylor, along with a photo of her ample—and very round—baby bump.
I smile down at it.
“Another possible love match?” Booker asks lightly, the hint of a smile in his voice.
“It’s my friends back home.” I click my phone off, and the screen goes dark. “My friend Taylor is going to have a baby.”
“Nice! How far along?” He makes the slight turn onto a different road.
“Oh, about this far.” I hold out my hands two feet in front of my stomach. “I’m excited for her. All of my friends are sort
of crushing it really.” I turn and wish I could meet his eyes. I noticed before that they’re the most interesting shade of
green, so bright they practically gleam.
I clear my throat. “So if you’re still up for it, I was thinking that every Friday I’ll share one honest thing about myself,
and you’ll do the same.”
“Why Friday?”
“Because today is Friday,” I quip, and then after a slight pause, I add, “and I have something I need to say out loud.”
“Ah,” he says. “And we have to limit it to one day a week?”
“To start,” I say. “I’m not well versed in the fine art of sharing feelings.”
He smiles. “You’re kind of weird, you know that?”
“I do,” I say. “That was literally my nickname in high school. Rosie the Weirdo Waterman.”
“Was it?” His eyebrows pull downward.
“No,” I deadpan.
He laughs, and I love the sound of it.
“I mean, it might as well have been. I didn’t fit in with the athletes or brains or any other stereotypical high school kids. Marched to my own drum and all that.”
“That’s because you keep the sheet music to yourself,” he says, and I smile.
It’s a simple, casual observation, but it revs my heartbeat.
He slows down as we reach the theatre building, then turns onto the widened sidewalk and clicks the brake.
He turns to face me. “One question—why now?”
I look right into his eyes, and it’s a bit unnerving. I’m a master at pretending, at showing only the shiny side of the apple