Chapter 25
“Did you kiss him?”
I’m staring out the front window, lost in the memory of last night, eating a bowl of cereal in my pajamas when Daisy’s voice
behind me startles me back to reality. Unfortunately, it startles me so much my spoon goes flying, landing on the hardwood
floor yards away from me with a clang.
I spin around and see Daisy standing there, also in her pajamas, the remnants of yesterday’s makeup still streaked on her
face.
She quirks a brow. “You’re jumpy.”
“You should wash the makeup off your face at night,” I tell her. “You’re going to clog your pores.”
“Thank you, Mom,” she says.
I walk over to my spoon and pick it up, ignoring her question as I walk into the kitchen and get a clean one. “You’re up early.”
“So are you.” She pulls a bagel out of the cupboard, splits it, and sticks it in the toaster. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
I scoop a bit of Frosted Flakes into my mouth and chew, trying to come up with a way to end this conversation. Because I already
know what Daisy will say when I tell her that no, I didn’t kiss Booker.
I really wanted to. I think he wanted to kiss me too.
But we didn’t.
While it might be fun initially—sharing truths and getting to know each other better—I’m proud of myself for remaining cautious.
Because now, in the light of day, without the influence of line dancing and lemonade, all I can do is fast-forward a few months to see how not fun it would be to be head over heels and have to say goodbye.
Daisy pulls her bagel from the toaster and slathers it with cream cheese, then takes a bite like she hasn’t eaten in days,
letting out a slightly inappropriate-sounding moan. “Oh my gosh, this is so good.” She’s wearing plaid boxers and an oversized
sweatshirt that hangs off her shoulder. Her hair is piled in a bun on top of her head, and for some reason I can’t figure
out, she looks gorgeous.
And then it hits me—she’s happy. Genuinely happy.
I study her for a few seconds, the way I often study people, thinking to myself, So this is what happiness looks like . No concern for what’s up ahead, just a willingness to let go and go along for the ride. I dipped my toe in those waters
last night, but today? I’m firmly back on solid ground.
“You good?” Daisy says, her mouth full of bagel.
I eat the last bite of my cereal and rinse out my bowl. “Yeah. I’m good. I need to get to the theatre.”
“I want details,” she pouts, like a toddler whose parent won’t let them have ice cream for dinner.
“There are no details,” I say, sticking the bowl and both spoons in the dishwasher. “Booker and I are just friends.”
She laughs. “Friends? Girl. Friends do not look at each other the way you two look at each other. Or dance the way you two were dancing.” She wags her eyebrows. “Did
you also carry a watermelon?”
I ignore the Dirty Dancing reference and a vivid, pleasant memory assaults my senses—me, standing on the dance floor, Booker’s arms around my waist,
my hands clasped behind his neck, my head on his chest. I drew in a deep breath, memorizing his scent, every nerve in my body
waking up from a long hibernation.
I want to give in to it, this new, strange, delicious desire, but I can’t.
I can’t .
Fun is great every once in a while, but I live in the real world. And here, in the real world, there are jobs to be done and
decisions to be made.
Big decisions—like, what am I going to do with the rest of my life?
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I tell Daisy as I leave the room. “But we really are just friends.”
“Don’t you want to know if I kissed Louie?” She follows me.
“No,” I say. “I walked in on you guys kissing, don’t you remember?”
“Oh, right.” She giggles. “Sorry about that.”
“It was like two seals fighting over a grape,” I joke.
She laughs. “Yeah. It got pretty intense there. He’s a really good kisser. You wouldn’t think it, but he does this thing where—”
I hold up a too-much-information hand in the air as I walk into my bedroom and start pulling clothes from my dresser.
“We made out like we were teenagers!” Daisy calls from the other room. “I love kissing.”
“That’s gross and I don’t want to hear any more!” I call back, half teasing, half serious.
I want to ask her why she’s not more concerned about all the things that could go wrong dating a coworker, but I don’t.
I can’t be the one to rain on her parade.
I walk into the bathroom and get dressed, aware that the melancholy is back in the hollow part inside me. Am I... jealous?
Of course I want Daisy to be happy, the same way I want my friends back home to be happy. But why does their happiness leave
me feeling like the last kid picked for the badminton team in gym class?
I’m weighing what I have against what other people have and coming up short. Why do I always come up short? And why does this
matter so much?
It’s not a competition, Rosie.
Besides, I don’t have time to sit with any of this right now. These feelings are not why I’m here. I’m here to direct a show.
I grab my things, pack up a bag, and head out to the theatre.
***
I spend the next several days diligently working on the show.
I meet with Ginny and talk through the costumes, explaining what I want for each character. She barks back at me when she
doesn’t agree, but ultimately we come up with a plan. It’s obvious that making the costumes gives her a sense of accomplishment,
and I feel good about leaving them in her hands.
Veronica and I talk through the musical numbers, and while she tries to insert tap numbers all over the show, I’m able to
successfully steer her in a more traditional direction.
And then there are rehearsals.
Our schedule is fairly intense, given how soon the show is coming up, which means that every afternoon we are blocking scenes
(a fancy name for telling people when and where to move), learning songs, or teaching choreography. The cast starts doing
that thing casts do—falling into a rhythm, becoming friends.
And I pay attention. Because this is another thing I love about theatre. By the end, if I do my job right, these people will
feel like family.
Dylan starts to put together a list of backstage volunteers, and every night after rehearsal, Booker shows up to work on the
set, basing it off the many photos I emailed him.
I took shop class in college—you had to in order to graduate—but I require a refresher before I’m any help to him at all.
We haven’t talked any more about the non-date at Buster’s, and that’s just fine with me. I can’t come up with words for any
of the things I’m feeling at the moment.
I just know that the summer will be short, and I don’t want to waste time not being around him, no matter what logic and reason say.
Friday, he shows up at our cottage with Louie and a pizza, and I think the extra couple will get me out of Friday questions.
But at the end of the night, I walk him outside, and he asks me, “Do you want to have kids?”
It’s dark, and he can’t see my wide eyes. “Wow, you’re playing hardball.” And then, lightly, I add, “I guess these are the
things you think about when you get to be, you know, your age.”
I can feel him smiling, and I decide that if I could be the cause of that smile every day, I’d be okay never making anyone
else laugh again.
“But yeah,” I say. “I do want kids.”
He nods, and we both lean against the porch railing. “What happened to your parents?”
He stiffens beside me.
“Too personal?”
He draws in a breath. “No, it’s fine. My dad was never in the picture, and my mom gave me up when I was almost two. She was
young, and she couldn’t handle it. My grandma—my dad’s mom—she was the one who took me in. And Bertie helped. When Grandma
died a few years later, Bertie didn’t hesitate for a second.” He shrugs. “Just adopted me like that was the only thing to
do.”
I go still.
He bumps my shoulder with his own. “I don’t see that as a sad story, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I glance over at him. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head. “I see that as a gift. Yeah, my parents didn’t want a kid, and I guess I could dwell on that. But I guess
I’d rather be thankful that my grandma and Bertie loved me.”
I reach over and take his hand, marveling at this attitude because, really, it’s pretty incredible.
“And they’re the ones who taught me that a lot of life is about how you see it.”
It’s just life, Rosie.
The words burrow down deep inside me and start to take root, and I hope I remember to water them because I really want to
see what they grow.