Chapter 44
Seven weeks later
Opening night jitters are totally normal.
But these jitters are different.
This time, the play is in my hands. Mine and the hands of this wonderful new cast.
It’s not a large group, but they are talented and generous and kind, and because of them, I’ve settled into Chicago like I’ve
lived here all my life. I have a small apartment without a roommate, which is slightly unheard of, but the older woman playing
the nanny in the show offered it to me at a steal. Turns out it was her mother’s and she doesn’t have time to deal with putting
it on the market.
That, or she really is a kind soul.
That kindness allowed me to save the money I made this summer, and I was able to send my old roommate Ellen most of what I
owed her in unpaid rent, with a promise to pay the rest as soon as possible.
I finally feel like I’m starting to grow up.
My entire approach to this role has been different. The desire to make people like me creeps in sometimes, but it’s easy to swat it away. I remember the things I learned from Arthur, the things the cast at Sunset Hills taught me, and I pour myself into playing Nora in a way that makes sense to me.
It’s so freeing. And natural. And honest.
Tonight, I ritualistically take the reins of this show from our director, imagining it being evenly distributed among my castmates
and myself, and I know we are ready.
When the curtain goes up and the play begins, I’m lost in the world we’ve created on the stage. I am Nora. I’m on a journey of self-discovery, the same as her, and from the second the first line is spoken until the curtain
falls at the end, I don’t let my mind wander once. I am fully in the moment, something I learned all those years ago in school
and only now understand applies to my real life too.
There is no feeling like it.
It’s utterly incredible. Like a game of tennis between two people who are perfectly, evenly matched. The volley between me
and my scene partners is riveting.
When the show is over and it’s time to take a bow, I close my eyes backstage and think about all the events that have brought
me here.
The good and the bad.
Arthur was right—the hard stuff, the stuff that led me here, has made this payoff so much sweeter. Because this moment, this
role, this cast... this dream... wouldn’t matter as much to me if I hadn’t almost given up.
I’m the last to bow, and when I walk out, there’s a loud, raucous cheer from the third row. I expect to see my mom and John
and my friends, but they’re on the other side of the space. This crowd is a noisy, rowdy group of old people.
My cast.
They’re all cheering and clapping, three rows of them, and I instantly start to cry.
They cheer for so long they get everyone else on their feet, and our cast has to do a second bow—something you don’t see often with plays these days.
And it doesn’t escape me that in the sea of faces I’ve memorized and grown to love, one very important one is missing.
Cold turkey means cold turkey.
There have been a few scattered texts over the last seven weeks, along the lines of, “Hope things are good,” or “Good luck
with the show,” but I haven’t responded.
It’s too hard.
I know I shouldn’t expect Booker to be here, even if Bertie and Arthur are, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a bit
disappointed.
Daisy has sent the occasional update, sometimes including his latest news—mostly, “Booker still isn’t dating anyone,” or “He won’t even go out with us. All he does is work.” But I’ve tried not to let myself dwell there because the hardest part
about leaving was letting him go.
I miss him. More than anything. And it’s true what they say—absence does make the heart grow fonder. Because seven weeks away
has only made me think maybe I do believe in soulmates.
And maybe mine is living in Wisconsin.
Finally, I take a step back, and the curtain falls. I attempt to dry my cheeks, but my mascara has gone rogue.
The cast mills about, all of us hugging and congratulating each other, and I don’t want to rush through this moment, but all
I can think of is getting out to see my people.
My people.
A picture of a sage-green cottage with an adorable mailbox flashes through my mind.
I rush down to my dressing room to change, and when I walk in, I gasp.
Booker is sitting at the vanity, back to the mirror, facing the door. He’s wearing black dress pants and a black button-down,
and at the sight of him, everything inside me melts.
My hand covers my mouth, and I close my eyes, opening them again to find him standing. “Are you real?”
A smile peels across his mouth slowly. “I think so.”
“Did you see—?” My voice catches, and I point up toward the stage, hoping he understands the question.
He nods. “You were brilliant.”
We stare at each other for a few more seconds, a cord of electricity pinning us in place. Finally, I rush toward him, throw
my arms around him in a tight hug, the kind of hug I’ve been missing and dreaming of for weeks. “What are you doing here?”
He pulls back and looks at me, and I can see in his face that he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him.
“I couldn’t miss this, Rosie,” he says. “It was too important.”
“But we’re not supposed to— Oh, who cares?” I go up on my tiptoes and kiss him. I can’t help it. Within seconds, we’re right
back where we were on my last night in Door County. Lost in each other, like we’re the only two people in the world.
I pull away, breathless, our foreheads pressed together. “I’ve missed you.”
He kisses my forehead, holding me close. “Yeah. I’ve missed you too.”
I reach up and touch his face, relishing the way his skin feels under my fingers. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
He turns and kisses the palm of my hand.
“It’s going to be so, so hard to say goodbye again.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” He takes a step back, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his wallet. He opens it and
produces a small white card. “It took some time, and a few conversations with Bertie, but”—he hands me the card—“You’re looking
at the new physical therapist for the Chicago Comets.”
“Wait. What?” I take the card and stare at it. “For the Chicago...”
“Yep.”
“Does that mean you’re moving... ?”
“Yep.”
There, in bold black letters, is Booker’s name next to the logo for Chicago’s professional hockey team. Underneath it, the
words Physical Therapist .
He shrugs. “You inspired me.”
“I did?” I ask. “To go after your big dream?”
“Yeah, but also... to get a new dream.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“It’s you, Rosie,” he says. “You’re the new dream.”
And there’s that swoop in my stomach again.
I grin. “I’ve never been anyone’s dream before.”
“You’re about to get weird, aren’t you?” He grins back.
“Probably.” I stare at him for a few long seconds, still trying to process the fact that this isn’t the end. “Why didn’t you
tell me you were thinking about this?”
“In case it didn’t work out,” he says. “I started looking a couple weeks before you left, but I didn’t want to make any promises.”
“Before I left?” I ask.
“After I recorded your audition,” he says. “I knew you’d get the part.” Then, after a beat, he adds, “It’s okay, right?”
“Are you kidding?” I laugh. “It’s so much more than okay.”
His smile almost looks relieved, and I have to wonder if he is unclear how deep my feelings for him really are. If so, I need
to change that.
Because I have big feelings for Booker Hayes.
“What about Bertie?” I ask. “Won’t she miss you?”
“She practically forced me to leave.” He laughs. “Told me if she’s the only reason I’m at Sunset Hills, then I’m an idiot,
especially when it’s keeping me from the woman I love.”
My eyes go wide. “The woman you love...?”
“The woman I love,” he repeats, as if to assure me he did not misspeak. He leans in and kisses me, and I mark the moment in
my mind.
This is the good , good stuff, and I want to hold on to it.
“You love me,” I say, pulling back. My eyes jump to his, and he smiles. There’s a lump at the back of my throat, but I still
manage to whisper, “I love you too.”
Our kiss is interrupted by a forceful rap on the door. I pull away just as Belinda pushes through, followed by Sadie, Evelyn,
Grace, Ginny, and several others.
“Enough hanky-panky,” Ginny hollers as everyone rushes into the small dressing room, including my mom and John; Marnie; Maya;
and Taylor, who is wearing her new baby, Aaron Jr., across her body via a cloth-bag-like contraption.
All that fighting over girls’ names and, surprise! The doctors were wrong. Taylor had a boy, and he is perfect.
I glance past everyone and see Arthur standing in the hallway.
I make my way through the crowd and meet him outside my dressing room. “You don’t want to come in?”
“It’s a little crowded.”
I toss a quick peek over my shoulder. “It’s a lot crowded.”
“Probably a fire hazard.”
I smile.
“You did good, kiddo,” he says.
My face flushes, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Yeah?”
He nods. “Really good.”
I smile. It doesn’t matter one bit what any critic says about this show. To me, this man’s opinion is the only one that matters.
“I’m going to hug you, Arthur.”
“Please don’t.”
“Doing it.” I move toward him, and he grimaces, but it all feels like an act. Because he hugs me back instantly, and I hear
him whisper, “I’m proud of you.”
I pull back and smile.
Arthur winks at me.
The noise in the dressing room kicks up a notch, and the room is like a visual representation of the way my heart feels in this moment.
Loud and noisy and filled to overflowing with people I adore.
People, it turns out, really are life’s greatest adventure.
That, and a production of Cinderella at a retirement community.
Who would’ve ever guessed?
THE END