Page 128 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Quite a day,” I repeat.

He opens the box, and we each take a slice of what I am certain will be the best meal I’ve ever had simply based on how hungry I am. “I can’t believe I survived.”

“You did more than survive. You were amazing. I think your cast respects you even more now.”

I shake my head. “They think I’m embarrassed by them.”

“I feel like you proved how important this show is to you.” Hetakes a giant bite of pizza, closes his eyes, and lets out a moan that’s practically rated R.

“Do you want me to give you a minute?” I laugh. “Or a room?”

He half finishes chewing. “I just realized I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

“Me either. I didn’t even have time to feel hungry.”

I look around. Compared to this morning, the stage looks a million times better. I know we still have a lot to do, but it’s progress. And a lot of it happened because of him.

“Thank you for your help.”

“I’m glad I was here,” he says. “You’re good in a crisis.”

“Ha!” I laugh. “I hid my panic well.”

We eat and talk about what else needs to be done. I tell him about Bertie and Arthur, which, it turns out, he already knew about, and it’s... nice. This casual familiarity that’s developed between us issomething I’ve grown to love.

It’s strange—people talk about romance like it’s all flash and sizzle. Heck, musicals are the worst for romance. People fall in love within the span of one act. Unlike Sarah falling for Sky after one trip to Havana, or Maria falling for Tony’s fire escape falsetto, I’m finding the quiet, simple things stick with me longer. I still want to spend a fair amount of time kissing him, but this—the conversation, the getting to know each other—is the good stuff.

This is the stuff I’ll carry with me when I go.

When I go.

The thought attaches itself like a cinder block tied to my ankle.

“You know...” He throws a crust into the box.

“You’re a heathen,” I say, thankful for lighter thoughts. “That’s the best part.” I pick up his crust and eat it.

He smirks at me. “It’s Friday.”

I swallow the bite and shake my head. “I don’t even know what month it is.”

He chuckles. “If you’re not up for it, I get it.”

I shake what’s left of his crust at him. “Bring it on. I’m not scared of you.”

“It’s not exactly a question,” he says. “It’s a request.”

“This is supposed to be about sharingfeelings,” I say.

“Do you really want to dig into your feelings after the day you had?”

“Fair point.” I take a drink. “So, what is therequest?”

He brushes crumbs off his hands, then leans back on his elbows and looks at me. “Would you... sing for me?”

I stop mid-swallow and nearly choke. “What?”

“I didn’t get to see your performance in the dining hall,” he says. “Some of my patients told me about it. I feel like I missed out. And I think I deserve a personal concert.”

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