Chapter 38
Over the next two weeks, all my spare time is spent on the show. There are so many last-minute odds and ends that suck up
every minute of the day, making it nearly impossible to see Booker as much as I want to.
When he’s not working, he’s at the theatre, helping backstage, bringing me dinner, and reminding me to stay hydrated.
The ticket sales, thanks to a joint effort from the entire cast and the news story, are booming.
Our cast feels more like a little family than ever with so many of us spending every spare second at the theatre, taking care
to get the show ready.
I’m looking over a few of the remade costumes with Ginny when Connie bustles in through the scene shop door. “Rosie!” She
rushes toward me. “Do you have a minute?”
“You are my boss.” I point at her.
She giggles. “That’s true, though I feel like over here you’re my boss.”
I smile. “Also true. Sort of.”
She pulls me away from Ginny, who, I am certain, is eavesdropping as best she can with her bad hearing. “I didn’t want to
say anything before because, well, it wasn’t a for-sure thing, but with ticket sales going gangbusters and the way you handled
this little flood crisis, it was easy to convince the board.”
“Convince them of what?”
“To offer you a full-time job.” She snaps her jaw shut, widens her eyes, and lets out the faintest squeal. “Here. As the director of theatre arts.”
“There’s a full-time position here for the director of theatre arts?” I didn’t even think that was an option.
“There is now,” she says, her accent a little more pronounced than usual. “They realized”—she leans toward me—“Thanks to me,
that a volunteer was never going to be able to make a real difference with this program. Between the ticket sales, the endowment, and new donations
that have come in over the summer, we have enough to hire someone full time.” She squeezes my arm. “You’d also have to work
in the box office and take over the social media marketing, but compared to a flood, that’s all easy peasy, right?”
I give the space a quick cursory glance. This isn’t something I ever dreamed I would do, but I can’t deny that a part of me
is at peace here.
My mailbox is here.
Booker is here.
I’m not too far from my friends back home—is this how my dream is supposed to change?
“Can I think about it?” I ask.
Connie’s smile holds. “Of course you can. We aren’t going to offer it to anyone else until we have your answer. We don’t want
to lose you, Rosie.”
“Okay, wow.” I push a hand through my hair. “That’s... that’s actually really flattering.” If I did stay here, the decision
would be final. I’d have to give up on the big dream because there’s really no way I could be available for auditions from
here. And if this was my job, I wouldn’t be able to take even a short run anywhere else.
“I know it’s a lot to consider,” she says. “You have your life in New York.”
Are we really calling that a life ?
“Let me know what you decide.” Connie pats me on the shoulder and walks away.
When I turn, I find Booker standing in the wings, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
I tilt my head sarcastically. “Uh-huh.”
“Okay, fine, maybe I did,” he confesses.
“How much did you hear?”
He takes a couple of steps toward me. “Enough.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears, certain that if he asked me to stay, I would.
Just like my mother did.
Just like I promised her I wouldn’t.
Somewhere, an apple doesn’t fall far from a tree, hitting the ground with a thud.
Conversely, I think of Arthur.
The conversation with him planted a tiny seed deep down inside me.
Why do I want to act?
The answer was so clear. It still is. It’s the thing that makes me feel alive. The thing I was born to do.
For me.
Not for my mom.
I’d been so certain. Does this change that?
“What are you going to do?” Booker asks.
I chew the inside of my lip, aware that I’m nervous, and also aware that I really do not want to have to say goodbye to this
man.
But that was always the plan, wasn’t it? I knew that going in.
“I don’t know yet,” I say, turning it over in my head. “Steady work would be nice.”
He nods.
“And, you know,” I say comically nonchalantly, “you’re here. I guess that’s a perk.”
I can practically feel myself shouting: “I’ll stay with you forever!”
But then he says, “I don’t think I should factor into this decision.”
I frown.
“Not like that,” he says. “It’s not that I don’t want to be a part of your decision; it’s just that I don’t want to be a part of your decision.”
“Oh, well, yeah, that’s crystal clear.”
He smiles, moving closer to me. “I don’t ever want you to give up on your dreams because of me.”
“I get it,” I say, taking his hand. “You don’t want me to resent you.”
“Exactly.” He gently pulls me toward him. “No matter how much I don’t want you to go.”
When he kisses me, all I can think is that I don’t want to go either. I could stay here, even endure winter in Wisconsin,
if it meant I could be with him.
But if I did that, what happens to that part of my soul that comes alive when I perform? Does it simply disappear?