Page 150 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Acting jobs,” he says.

“And other jobs,” I say. “Acting adjacent. I think working in the theatre would be good for me even if I’m not the one on the stage.” I toss a quick glance back toward the theatre. “Who knows what a job will lead to? Who I’ll meet... what I’ll learn...”

A rush of memories whirls through my mind, like a montage in a movie.

Booker. Arthur. Dylan. The flood. The community. My friends. Bertie. The sound of the crowd. Performing. Connecting. Being alive.

I never would’ve expected any of that to happen here, but it did, proving that there’s life worth living out there if you’re willing to let go of what you think it’s supposed to look like.

“Well, look at you, growing up.”

“I’m a late bloomer.”

His smile is bright as he leans in to kiss me.

I memorize that too.

Chapter 42

It’s the day of the last show.

Tomorrow, my contract is up.

Tomorrow, I’ll be leaving. And I’m full of emotions.

The temptation to shove them all away, to force myself not to feel any of it, is notable, but I resist. And when I arrive at the theatre, I take it all in. Every ounce of the experience that I can safely say has changed me.

I’m not the same person I was when I arrived.

I wonder if every performer feels the same about an empty stage, an empty theatre. Like it’s an invitation to sing without judgment or worry.

And so I sing.

It’s like I can’t help myself, and the words to “For Good” from the musicalWickedflow out of me, perfectly fitting for the way I feel about this whole experience and these people.

When I reach the end of the first chorus, I’m surprised by a second voice, coming from the wings, and when I turn, I see Dylan walking toward me.

Shut up.

Dylan can sing?

My eyes go wide, and I blink back tears as she sings the entire second verse, and then I join her on the chorus. We end in a flourish, possibly in a different key than we started in, and I have to wipe my cheeks dry when she is the one who reaches out for a hug.

“This feeling-all-the-feelings thing kind of sucks,” I say into her shoulder.

She laughs and draws back. “You know, you leaving here is actually good for me.”

“Oh?”

“Because I’m going back to my mom’s, and even though she’s talking about doing all kinds of mother-daughter crap—thank you for that, by the way—I’ll actually still be able to see you. If you end up in Chicago, I mean.”

Dylan knows about the audition, but she doesn’t know my plan is to live and work in Chicago, regardless of what Britta’s email says.

The email that’s still sitting there unread. Yes, it’s been nearly impossible not to open it. Yes, it’s been tormenting me. But I made a promise to myself to stay in the moment here. Never mind that I’ve done plenty of research about Britta Shockley, about this production, the director, The Majestic. It’s been very... enlightening.

I smile at Dylan. “I’m glad for that too. Not the ‘still seeing you’ part, but for sure the lame mother-daughter crap.”

She laughs, and it’s so genuine that tears prick the corners of my eyes.

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