Chapter 20 #2
while hiding the rotten part. The truth is, I’m usually afraid to look right into a person’s eyes, in case they can see right
through me. It leaves me totally vulnerable, and I’m afraid I won’t know how to manufacture the right reaction in time, and
an honest one will slip out.
“I think maybe I...” Am I really going to admit this? I fiddle with my hands and avoid his gaze.
If I look at him, I’ll lose my nerve.
“I think maybe I’m having a quarter-life crisis.”
He’s quiet. And it’s the perfect response in this moment.
“I sort of... have to rethink everything.” I rub my hands on my thighs. “And that apparently includes thinking a lot about why I do the things I do.”
“You did say that theatre is like psychology,” he says.
I nod. “Right. And the last few months have made me even more self-aware than usual, and I don’t like it. I’d much rather...”
I trail off.
“Pretend.” He finishes my thought.
I draw in a breath and blow out on a sigh. “Yeah. It’s easier. I mean, it sucks because I hate myself for not being honest—but
showing those parts are the hardest for me. It’s sort of like, if I pretend well enough, even I will start to believe the
story I’m telling. And I guess I’ve always been more comfortable with fiction than with reality.”
When he doesn’t respond, I dare a quick glance and, yep, he’s watching me, like he’s trying to hear what I’m not saying. “Why?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, trying not to think about the probing questions my professor asked, and the way those questions put
me on display, unraveling me in front of the entire class.
She’d asked the same thing. “Why? Defend your position! What aren’t you facing? What aren’t you willing to relive? Why are you so afraid of your feelings?”
And immediately, just like on that master-class stage, the image of my dad walking out the door assaults my memory.
It’s followed by a series of other images—my mom, unable to get out of bed. Packing up our house and moving to a small one-bedroom
apartment. Eating peanut butter and jelly every night for dinner because it was all I knew how to make, and she was behind
the closed door of her bedroom.
It all worked out—my mom met John, who never had kids of his own and who loved me like I was his. I call him Dad because that’s
what he was—and is—to me. But the in-between time (after my biological dad left and before Mom met John) is like a blur. And
somehow also the most vivid few years of my childhood.
A time in history I’d like to erase.
Even if the time between is when I learned to keep my feelings to myself. To tamp them down because Mom couldn’t handle any
more sadness. That’s when I learned that entertainment could be therapeutic. That I didn’t need to seek joy; I could be joy.
That became my purpose. My identity.
I’m not the sad girl whose dad left when she was six. That story is as old as fathers. And I don’t want that to define me.
Never mind that now, thinking through all of it, I’m struck with the fear that in purposely not letting it define me, that’s exactly what it’s done.
Worse, I think about the way Mom let it slip that she’d given my father everything—her very best years.
That I wasn’t part of the plan. I can still see her tearstained face, streaked with old mascara and sorrow, as she took my hands and said, “Rosie, promise me you won’t let anyone steal your dreams. Promise me you’ll dream big enough for the both of us and you won’t quit until you make those dreams come
true.”
When I didn’t respond, she squeezed me tighter. “Promise me, Rosie. That’s what I want for you. That will make everything worth it.”
The memory settles on my shoulders. It’s been there, like an unclosed tab in the browser of my brain, all this time. Influencing
every single decision I’ve made.
These are absolutely not the kinds of feelings I want to discuss with Booker or anyone else. These are the things that would
make me a total downer—the things nobody needs to know.
“I’m guessing there’s a lot to unpack there,” Booker says, considering me. “Maybe next Friday?”
“Yeah, or the fifth, or never.” I let out a long sigh, anxious to think about anything else.
I glance past Booker at a row of trees behind the theatre building, but I can feel him looking at me. “I feel like you just
had a whole conversation with yourself and didn’t say a single word out loud,” he says.
“I spend a lot of time in my own head.” I point at myself. “But honestly, you’re right. I need to start approaching things
differently. I think this will make me a better actor.”
“So this is an acting exercise for you,” he says, and it sounds so... awful.
“That’s not what I meant.” I look away. “It came out wrong.”
“I’m not offended, Rosie.” And when he says my name, he draws my attention back to his eyes, which are earnest and kind. “But
I think a human exercise would make you a better actor too.”
I frown. “A human exercise?”
“You know, like, connecting with humans?”
I don’t move.
“So if it’s a little bit of both, then great.” He shifts. “This is a safe space.”
“I know.”
He quirks a brow. “Do you?”
I nod again, unable to verbalize it because, yes, I do know. I can tell that he is a safe space. And that’s what’s so terrifying.
Don’t let anyone steal your dreams .
“So we make a deal,” he says. “Nonfiction Fridays.” He sticks a hand out in my direction.
My eyes drop to his outstretched hand, and a peace washes over me. It’s premature, of course; I only met him a week ago, but
it’s like he sees me so clearly already.
I slip my hand in his and stiffen slightly as he gently squeezes. “Nonfiction Fridays it is.”
“You look like you want to throw up.”
“I do a little.” I scrunch my nose. “It’s your face. It’s horrible to look at.”
“Come on,” he says, playing along, “I took a shower this week and everything.”
Easy. Fun. Pleasant.
“And it’s only one question per Friday?” he asks.
I shrug like, “Sorry, pal, seat’s taken, no soup for you, better luck next time.”
“Dang it. I’ve got one more, and it’s a good one.”
I think on it. “Fine. One more, but I reserve the right to refuse to answer.”
“Deal.”
“And I get to ask you as many.”
“Totally fair.”
I take a breath.
Maybe this will make me feel less alone. After all, I haven’t really let anyone know me since I left home. I was so determined
to make it, I didn’t want anyone to think I hadn’t.
Especially, I realize now, my mother. I need to keep my promise to her.
He nods. “Okay, so today we told each other what we’re afraid of.”
I protest. “Whatever. I didn’t tell you anything. You just found out.”
“The screaming and hanging off the counter were a dead giveaway.” A teasing grin plays at the corners of his mouth.
I stare back, incredulous. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
“Oh, heck no. Between that and the mud bath, I’m racking up all kinds of dirt on you.” He shoots me a look. “No pun intended.”
“Good one, Dad.” My tone is dry, but I have to look away so he doesn’t see my smile.
I glance back as he drains his water bottle and puts it back in the cup holder. Then, seemingly with all the time in the world,
he kicks his feet up on the dash of the cart, puts his hands behind his head, and says, “So, Rosie Waterman, tell me something
no one knows about you.”
I press my lips together and pull in as much oxygen as I can in a single breath. This is it. If we’re doing this, now is the
time.
Nonfiction Friday.
“Okay... something no one knows...” There are so many things that no one knows about me, but I start with the simplest.
I look up, straight into his eyes, and I say, “The truth is that I am a failure.”
And without explanation, context, or another word, I grab my things and head into the theatre, not believing I just said that.