Chapter 22
There is no escaping this plan.
and I wait in her Honda Accord.
It occurs to me that this is the strangest double date I’ve ever been on, first and foremost because this isn’t a date.
It’s more like an abduction.
Nothing to see here—just a motley crew of multigenerational, very unlikely friends.
From a retirement community.
Going line dancing.
You know, the usual.
“I’m glad you didn’t wear a cowboy hat and boots,” I say.
“Why? You have a thing for cowboys?” He gazes at the door of the theatre, nonchalant as ever.
“Cowboys are hard to resist,” I say, trying desperately to banish the mental picture of him striding out of a saloon saying, “I’m your huckleberry . ”
I see the corners of his eyes crinkle in a slight smile. “Duly noted.”
While we wait, he asks about the first rehearsal. I give him a brief overview—we did introductions of the team and the cast,
then read through the script.
Twice, our Prince Charming fell asleep at the table, which doesn’t bode well, but it did give me the idea to have as many daytime rehearsals as possible. Apparently, starting at 2:00 p.m. was a cardinal sin.
“Overall, it was good,” I tell him. “Maybe even fun.” I look away, smiling. Because it was fun. And because I’m already looking
forward to the next one.
Bertie busts through the front door of the theatre, followed by a very grumpy-looking Arthur. She rushes over to the car and
motions for Booker to roll down the window.
“I’m going to ride with Arthur,” she says. “He said he’ll only come along if he can drive himself. He also said he’s not dancing.”
She leans in and whispers, “But we’ll just see about that.”
I have to laugh because as intimidating as Arthur is, Bertie doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she notices but doesn’t care,
which sort of makes her my hero.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Booker asks. “Some people really do like to be left alone.”
She waves him off. “It’s not good for anybody to be alone, Book, you know that.” She winks at me. “That’s for you too.”
“I’m not alone,” I quip. “I’m here with you jokers.”
She turns to Booker. “Oh, I like her. I like her a lot.” She hitches her bag up on her shoulder and looks at me. “He likes
you too, in case he doesn’t say so.”
“Bertie.” Booker’s tone is like a warning.
It’s clear by her mischievous grin that Bertie isn’t intimidated by him either. “See you there!”
Booker rolls up the window and looks at me. “She’s been on this kick about me settling down.”
“Would you like me to set you up with a dating profile?” I tease.
He shoots me a look and shakes his head, and only then do I realize that our oddball double date just became a single date, and even though that’s not actually what this is, it’s definitely what it feels like. I fold my hands in my lap. “I’m in love with your grandma.”
“She’s the best.” He starts the car and backs out of the space. We drive past Arthur and Bertie, him with his arms folded
and her pointing at the passenger-side door. We’re soon down the curvy road and off the Sunset Hills property.
The sun has begun its grand descent, and with the open fields, the sky looks massive. And beautiful.
“Wow,” I say, taking it in. “You don’t see sunsets like this in New York.”
“It’s pretty spectacular, isn’t it?” Booker slows the car, stopping at an intersection. He glances at me. “And the way the
light comes in...” A pause. “You look really pretty right now.”
A heat sizzles in my belly from that compliment. I was unprepared to fake a response, and I feel my face flush. “Um, thanks,”
I sputter. And then add, goofily, “You do like me.” I waggle my eyebrows, joking, but Booker doesn’t deny it. Instead, he smiles and goes back to looking at the road.
I’m not used to this—being open or having the attention of a man I find so attractive.
My ex-boyfriend, Peter, was good-looking, sure, but part of the reason I was with him was because he was really the only option.
More of a relationship of proximity. Plus, he didn’t make demands on me. He didn’t lead conversations, and he most certainly
didn’t ask a bunch of personal questions.
He also didn’t make me feel all loopy inside.
“Sorry, I made it weird,” I say.
“Well, you’re a weirdo,” he teases.
I smirk over at him. “I don’t know how to accept compliments.”
“Then I take it back. You’re hideous.”
I spin around. “It’s out there now. You can’t.”
“No, forget it, I’m totally taking it back. Words can’t describe how pretty you are, but numbers can. Two out of ten.”
I laugh and smack him on the arm. “You think I’m pretty. Ha.” Maybe I could learn to accept compliments.
I settle in my seat, smiling throughout my whole body. It’s fun. Nice. Easy. Safe. And it’s totally not a date.
The endorphins racing through my body get the best of me, and I hear myself say, “Do you remember asking me before what makes
me happiest?” I don’t look at him—I don’t want to lose my nerve. It’s not Friday, after all. And if I answer the question,
it’s a freebie, and not part of our deal.
“Hmm. Vaguely.” He’s still in teasing mode.
“The truth is, when you asked me that, it kind of caught me off guard,” I say.Finally, I dare a peek at his profile. He’s
casually holding on to the steering wheel, looking like he’s ready for his close-up, and I feel like more of a mess than ever.
“Bertie talks about adventure and fun and life and all of this stuff like it’s just out there—all over—waiting for us to take
it, but...” I trail off. Because how do I make this make sense?
“But?”
“I thought I knew how to find those things. I followed my passion. I’m doing what I love. Something I think I’m pretty good
at.” I go still. “I hear adventure and I think of jumping out of a plane or snorkeling the coral reef or even just going on an unplanned road trip. Do you think
that’s what she meant?”
“If that’s the kind of adventure your life needs, I guess.”
“It’s not. None of those things sound fun to me.”
Which begs the question—what does? “I don’t think I’ve been happy in a really long time,” I say quietly.
“But acting makes you happy, right?”
I think for a second. “Yes. It absolutely does. The work does. Figuring out characters. The craft of it.” I shrug. “It just...
it just got so hard . It became about what everyone else thought I should do, or who everyone else expected me to be. My job is contingent on
being liked.”
“Ooh. Yeah, that would suck,” he says. “Some of my patients hate me, but I don’t care as long as they do their exercises.”
I want to laugh, but I’m stuck in this loop, in the middle of admitting something out loud that’s surprising even to me. Because
what am I saying? I’m not going to quit acting—I love it too much.
“Auditioning is an endless cycle of judgment, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m cut out for it.”
He goes still, the only sound the tires on the seams of the highway.
“It’s okay to change direction, you know.”
“Bertie said kind of the same thing,” I say. “Find a new way to look at the old dream.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”
“But that feels like quitting.”
“Quitting something that isn’t working for you isn’t a bad thing.”
I sit with that.
Is that where I’m at? This isn’t working for me anymore and I need to change course? Start over and hope it’s as exciting
as Bertie seems to think it could be?
I don’t even know.
I’ve always approached acting in such a serious way, I wonder if it’s possible to find the fun in it again—if I ever found
it fun at all.
After my mother made me promise to fight for nothing less than a big dream, I became solely focused on it. This dream of being
an actor has been my identity for as long as I can remember; I’m not sure I know what my life looks like without it.
“This is why you feel like a failure,” he says. “Not because you are one, but because the thing you’ve dedicated your life
to isn’t working out the way you pictured it.”
When he says this out loud, it makes so much sense. I stare hard out the window, my vision clouding over with fresh tears.
“What are you afraid of?” he asks. “I mean, besides chipmunks.”
“Everything.” My slight laugh eases the knot in my throat. “I have three best friends back home. Maya, Marnie, and Taylor.
They’re all thriving . All three of them. Getting married, having babies, getting promoted at work. They have careers and families and—”
“Rosie, you know it’s not a competition,” he says gently.
“I know.” I groan, unable to fully agree. “I know it’s not. And I want them to do amazing things and be so happy.”
“And I’m sure that’s what they want for you too.”
I nod. “They do. They’re such good friends. They’ll be thrilled to hear I’m spending time with someone so attract—” The words
are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He pounces, overly dramatic. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, this relationship is going way too fast here, geez.” He grins over at me.
I smile back in spite of my flushed cheeks. “That just sort of slipped out.”
“Uh-huh. I see your marriage-trap plan from a mile away.” His tone is flirtatious as he turns his attention back to the road.
All of a sudden I’m keenly aware of exactly how far my body is from his. There’s a weird pull to figure out a subtle way to
shrink the space between us.
“But your friends know things have been hard, right?” he asks.
I wince, and for a moment I wish I hadn’t said anything about feeling like a failure.
“Oh,” he says. “They don’t?”
“Nobody knows,” I say.
“Except me,” he says.
I nod. “Except you.”
And my short-lived regret in sharing that dissipates. I find I don’t mind him knowing.
“Why didn’t you tell them?” he asks. “Would they judge you?”
“They’ve never once made me feel anything other than brilliant and loved.” I stare out the window, not sure why this is all hitting me. “And in typical Rosie fashion, I made my life sound like a shiny penny.”
“Do you know why?”
Why? There’s that question again.
“I mean,” he continues, “I usually do things because I’m bored, hungry, or tired. But I’m a simple guy.”
“Emphasis on simple ,” I jab.
“Funny.” He eyes a sign on the side of the road and slows down to turn as he says, “I don’t think anyone actually knows what
they’re doing. We’re all in various stages of making it up as we go.”
I know I am. But is he right? Is everyone, to some degree, pretending?
“You know, my friends really thought I would make it,” I say. “I thought I would too.” My laugh lacks all amusement. “How’s
that for deluded?”
“A case could be made that you are ‘making it,’” he says. “I mean, you’re working in the theatre. You’re being paid to do what you set out to do.”
He doesn’t understand. “I’m not performing.”
“No, you’re doing something way harder.” He laughs. “You’re running everything.”
“Not everyone can just get a new dream, Booker,” I say, a little more clipped than I mean to. “I’ve wanted to do one thing
my entire life. I can’t just swap it out for something else.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says.
I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry. I think I’m just sensitive.”
“Too much sharing?” he quips.
“Way too much,” I say.
Booker slows down and turns into the parking lot of what looks like an old roadhouse-type bar with a nearly full gravel parking
lot.
“Okay, then let’s save all of that for Friday.”
I suddenly feel like I’m wearing wool in July, so I change the subject. “Ooh, it looks like they got both kinds of music here.
Country and western,” I muse, desperate to lighten the mood.
He laughs to himself as he drives around for a few seconds, eventually finding a parking place. Once we’re stopped, he turns
off the engine.
“What if, just for tonight, you stop trying to figure out life and the meaning of everything and commit to one thing only—having
fun?”
I cover my face with my hands. “I’m not even sure I know how to do that anymore . ”
“I’ll help,” he says. “You can figure out all this life stuff tomorrow.”
Lighten up, Rosie. It’s just life.
His phone buzzes in one of the drink holders. He picks it up and reads the new text, shaking his head.
“What’s wrong?”
“Bertie and Arthur aren’t coming.” He tosses me a suspicious look. “She said they went for ice cream instead.”
“Do you think—?”
“She planned this?” He laughs. “Without a doubt.”