Page 157 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

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. IamNora. 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 goodandthe 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, andour 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.”

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