Chapter 21
Saturday morning, before our first rehearsal gets underway in a few hours, I hop in my golf cart and drive toward the dining
hall. The staff Commons is only open in the evenings for family dinner, something I can see becoming a fun tradition, even
for me.
The few times I’ve gone, I’ve already loved the upbeat atmosphere. It’s one of my favorite sounds—the murmur of a crowd, sprinkled
with intermittent rises and falls, snippets of conversations and stories, bursts of reactions and laughter.
Everyone on staff seems to be here because they love it. And because it’s a great place to work. I mean, the perks are next
level. For the first time since I graduated college, I’ve started to wonder if there’s more to this life than what I originally
thought or planned.
Could I be happy doing anything other than what I’ve been doing?
Two weeks ago, it was a hard no.
Today, though?
When I was in school, I read an interview with a popular television actor who’d started a theatre company in a small town
on the West Coast. I remember the interviewer asked if he had any advice for aspiring actors, and his reply surprised me.
He said, in a nutshell, “If you can be happy doing anything else, do it. This life is hard.”
I remember thinking, Well, life is hard for everyone. But being here now, I think I get what he was trying to say.
I’m so deep in thought as I stand in the buffet line that I don’t notice Booker is standing next to me until he bumps my shoulder
with his.
I startle, then look up, and at the sight of him, everything inside me settles.
He’s like a walking reminder that I don’t need to have everything figured out in this moment. I can just be here, waiting
for eggs, next to a guy who now knows I’m a failure—but doesn’t know why—and still seems to want to be my friend.
“Oh, hey, I almost forgot.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a penny, holding it out to me. “Here. For your thoughts.”
“That’s the line you’re leading with?”
He winces. “It went better in my head.”
“You brought a prop and everything,” I tease.
“I’m trying to learn from the master .” He lays it on mock thick.
“There are a few things I could teach you,” I say, giving it right back.
He turns to me full-on. “Oh, I’ll bet there are.” He steps forward, leaving me speechless for what seems like the eighteenth
time in the last few days.
I gather myself and hold out my hand. “Fine. Give it.”
He presses the penny into my palm. “As an actor, you probably need it, huh?”
I tuck the penny into my pocket and sock him on the arm. “I’ll remind you that I’m gainfully employed.”
We step forward as the line moves.
“I never understood that phrase,” he says. “Gainfully? What does that even mean?”
“Seriously?” I glance over at him as three women bustle by, eyeing him shamelessly, and then, as if they’d planned it, they
each give me a dirty look.
Booker notices and laughs.
“This is your fault,” I say, stifling my own giggle. “They’re all going to hate me if I keep spending time with you.”
He seems unfazed as he grabs a tray and two plates from the stack.
I nod down at them. “Something I should know? Are you eating for two?”
He grins. “I always get Bertie’s breakfast. She saves our table.”
My eyes scan over to the seating area, searching for a woman sitting alone. I’ve been so curious about her. She must be really
special if Booker moved here to be close to her.
“She’s the one in the”—he nods toward the tables—“Purple jacket.” He motions toward a woman sitting at a table near the window,
staring outside. “She likes to sit by the window, away from people. That way they won’t hear her when she talks about them.”
He chuckles.
I instantly love her, and I can hardly even see her from here.
There’s a lull as we step forward again, and then I say, “It’s nice you moved here to be close to her.”
He shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, it was a big reason, but also this really is a great place to work.”
“But are you happy? I mean, do you ever think about doing... more?”
He raises his eyebrows, and I hear the question he’s not asking.
“I don’t mean to put down what you’re doing. It’s just that this is a long way from, say, a professional sports team.”
“You think I’ve settled,” he says.
I shake my head, even though I’m not sure what I think. “No, I just—” Am I in danger of being a jerk again? I decide that
no, I’m not judging, I’m genuinely curious. As if Booker has the secret answer to a question I didn’t even know I should be
asking.
When I go silent, his eyebrows pop up, encouraging me to go on.
“I never thought I could be happy doing anything other than, you know, what I was doing. Or trying to do.” I take another step forward. “But I’m not even sure that’s made me very happy.”
“So,” he says, “when are you the happiest?”
I narrow my gaze. “Oh no. Sorry, chief. That feels like a Friday question.”
“Did you just call me chief?” The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s our turn to go through the buffet, so his focus shifts
onto the food. We pile our plates high with pancakes, bacon, and eggs, then move over to the short line where we swipe our
cards.
I can’t square the idea that letting go of a big dream could actually make me happier.
“Do you want to come sit with us?” His question silences the noisy voice in my head.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose...”
He hands his card to the woman behind the register. “Totally fine. It’ll keep Bertie from hounding me about things I don’t
want to talk about.”
“Oooh... what kind of things?”
He takes his card back and picks up his tray. “Sorry, chief. That’s a Friday question.”
I smirk as I hand my card to the cashier. Once she swipes it and hands it back, I thank her, pick up my tray, and follow Booker
to the table where Bertie is sitting, still staring out the window.
Booker sets down the tray, and Bertie looks up. The purple jacket she’s wearing, I now see, is crushed velvet over a lime-colored
shirt, and she completes the outfit with wild patterned pants. Her white hair is cut into a stylish, short cut, and she’s
wearing black-rimmed glasses that instantly give her character. At the sight of me, her face brightens.
“Rosie!”
I’m shocked she knows my name. “Yes! How’d you know that?” My gaze flicks to Booker, who doesn’t meet my eyes.
She moves the tray closer to her and motions for me to sit. “Booker tells me everything.”
He slips into the seat next to her and says, “I told her there was a new theatre director—that’s all,” downplaying whatever
he’s mentioned about me.
I sit down across from Bertie.
“Oh, stop it; that’s not all.” She gives me a pointed look. “But I’m not one to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, so—”
She makes a motion like she’s zipping her mouth, then takes her plate off the tray. “You cheated me on the pancakes.”
I giggle while unfolding the napkin and spreading it across my lap.
“I was in here the day you sang that parade song, missy.” Bertie picks up a piece of bacon. “I’m sorry Booker missed it. You
are something.”
“Something good or...?”
She leans forward. “Something amazing. Quite impressive.”
I feel my confidence swell at the compliment, but it’s instantly crushed when Arthur walks into the dining hall. I have no
idea why, but it’s like his eyes are drawn straight to me, and the second we make eye contact, he grimaces and looks away.
“What’s that about?” Bertie asks.
“He manages the theatre,” I say.
“Yes, Arthur Silverman.” She gives him another quick glance.
I frown. “You know him?” This reminds me that I never did finish my internet search on Arthur, and I really need to. Something
tells me there are secrets to uncover.
“I know of him. It’s not a very big place. But I don’t think he socializes much.” She waves her hand, as if she’s brushing that topic
aside. “But let’s talk about you. Booker says you’re from New York?”
We chat for a few minutes, and I tell Bertie a little about myself—only facts, which, I notice, she already seems to know. Booker’s been unusually quiet, and when I pause, he pushes his chair back, picks up his empty cup, and stands. “I’m going to get a refill. Anyone want one?”
“I’m good, thanks,” I say as Bertie shakes her head. He pauses, like he’s rethinking leaving the two of us alone, but finally
walks off.
There’s a brief lull, and then Bertie draws in a breath. “It’s all so fascinating, isn’t it?”
I lean back in my chair. “What is?”
“Life.” She waves a hand as if to encompass everything around us. She stops, looks at me, and smiles as she says, “I’m sorry,
it’s what old people think about.”
I laugh, thinking maybe it does make sense that Booker took a job just to be close to her.
“ Fascinating might not be the word I’d choose to describe life.” I take a sip of my orange juice. “Maybe confusing or messy .”
“Oh yes. It’s both of those things. Is it that way for you now?”
And when I find her studying me with that same quiet intensity I sometimes see in Booker’s eyes, I have to remind myself they’re
not actually related at all.
My gaze falls to my half-eaten food, and I find myself mentally leaning toward hyperbole, flirting with embellishing the facts,
and then realizing I don’t want to add anything to the truth.
“I mean... yeah, it is, kind of. I’m okay. I’m not in crisis mode or anything. Just have a ton on my mind. First rehearsal,
directing a show, working in a new place... It’s a lot.” And for some reason, I add, “And I guess some days I wonder what
in the world I’m doing. You know... with my life.”
She laughs. “Oh, is that all?”
I smile, but I fear it comes out more like a wince.
She reaches over and covers my hand with her own. “Oh, my dear Rosie, you have to lighten up a little.” She squeezes my hand.
“It’s just life.”
Just life?
That flies directly in the face of the words I usually live by: “You only get one shot at this life thing, so don’t screw
it up.” Or my mother’s directive never to give up until I achieve my goals.