Page 43 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

He’s quick. My smile widens.

He smiles back.

And I think, for the first time ever, that I might believe in love at first sight. Or at least friendship at first sight. Because there’s something about Booker that makes me want to drop the act. To stop pretending.

More and more it’s feeling like that is what this summer might be about.

I’m about to exit the cart when Booker says, “So you basically pretend for a living.”

I laugh. “I mean... I guess that’s one way to put it. If you do it right, it’s not exactlypretending, but close enough.” It’s not lost on me that this exact thing might be my whole issue when it comes to my career.

You have to be willing to be completely raw, Rosie. You aren’t. And it’s blocking you.

“So is it hard not to pretend in your real life?” he asks.

Peter always accused me of playing a role. Isn’t that what I did at the baby shower?

“I’m not sure I—” My muscles tense, and I feel defensive, but I’m not sure why.

“Oh, I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says. “It’s just—you seem like you could use a safe person.”

I frown. “And that’s you? A perfect stranger?”

He shrugs.

There seems to be a fundamental difference between Bookerand me. He seems more open than I am. Like the wall around him is shorter or something. My wall was built by failure, and it’s basically a fortress.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “What if we try something different?” He gestures between us on the wordweand my heart flip-flops.

Are we awe?

I toss him a suspicious look. “Different from what?”

His eyes brighten. “Like, what if we answer every question the other one asks. But, you know, honestly.”

I don’t know what I expected him to suggest, but it wasn’t that.

I knee-jerk a “No.”

He makes a face. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“I don’t need to.” Yes, I’m conflicted about this discovery that it’s apparently impossible for me to be honest with the people I love, but opening up tothis manis not the way to change that.

“Like I said, who better to talk to than a perfect stranger?” he says. “It could be therapeutic.”

“Therapeutic?”

“Or practice. You know”—a grin spreads across his face—“For all your possible love matches.”

“That’s... I’m not...” Now I’m flustered. I shake my head and turn away. “I’m going back to New York at the end of this job. I’m not dumb enough to try and make some kind of love match in Wisconsin.”

As if on cue, my phone dings in my pocket.

He opens his eyes and mouth wide, pointing at me as if to say,“Ohhh!”

I grit my teeth, pull out the phone, and click the sound off.

“Come on, you have to admit that was perfect timing,” he jokes.

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