Page 18 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“You’re the theatre person, right?”

“Aw, what gave it away?” I glance over and smile.

I see a twinge of amusement on his face. It’s as if me being a theatre person tells him all he needs to know about me.

“I am,” I say. “Hopefully you don’t have anything against”—I speak as if my words have air quotes— “‘theatre people.’”

He shifts the truck into Reverse and pulls away from the curb. “Not at all. I haven’t really known many.” He pauses, then adds, “Do you all spontaneously burst into song?”

I frown and give a semiserious, “Maybe.”

He banters right back. “So I should expect more of that?”

“If you’re lucky.”

He chuckles. “Might be entertaining. We’ll see.”

We drive in silence for several minutes, and Booker doesn’t seem to mind. I am not that calm. I’m a space filler, but for the life of me, I can’t think of anything to say.

I look out the window as the trees pass by, marveling at the shades of green. “I’m sure it seems sort of ridiculous,” I say.

“Does it?” he asks, as if it’s perfectly normal for me to pick up our conversation from ten minutes ago. “I think it’s cool that you do it, you know, for fun.”

I look at him. “Well, it’s my career, so it’s not exactly ‘for fun.’” I try to keep my tone light, but I’m afraid it’s still coming across snarky.

I glance at him as he tosses me a quick look. I feel myself deflate a bit as I look away. I’ve always been overly sensitive about my chosen career path. It’s such a long shot for anyone to actuallymake itas an actor, and pursuing it, especially as a woman pushing thirty, sometimes feels frivolous and misguided.

Thirty for a female actress may as well be fifty-eight.

He looks confused. “Can’t your career be fun?” He slows down for an upcoming stop sign, signaling to turn onto a frontage road.

Fun. Psh. Clearly he doesn’t have a clue about what a soul-sucking career acting is.

“Well, yeah. It can be. I mean... itis, at times, fun, but...” I trail off.

“But?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

And we’re back to silence. Except for a very loud and demanding question racing through my mind:When was the last time I had fun?

Chapter 5

I’m not usually a conversation killer. But I’m doing a bang-up job here.

Finally, when I can’t take another second of silence, I say, “You really think that?”

He leans his head slightly but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Think what?”

I look down. “That it’s, you know, cool? That I do theatre?”

He gives me a quick side-eye. “I really do.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly. “That’s...” I pause. “People don’t usually think so.” I try to laugh off the pathetic honesty of what I just said.

I think of my friends. Nowthey’recool. It’s a wonder they let me in their group at all.

I pull my phone out and text our group chat to let them know I arrived safe and sound. I do not, however, tell them I’m currently riding in a truck with the most beautiful human I’ve ever laid eyes on.

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