Page 80 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Right,” I say, “because we’re notdating.”

“Right. Just sharing our innermost thoughts.” He takes another drink, then caps the bottle, watching the road as he does. “And definitelynotfalling in love.”

I shift in my seat as heat rushes to my cheeks. I take a breath and blow it out. “This was a bad idea.”

I swear he’s enjoying watching me squirm. “Was it?”

My phone, a savior, buzzes in my lap. It’s the group chat with my friends back home. I can practically hear Maya’s voice in the back of my head saying,“Girl, go for it, or something is seriously wrong with you.”

Only, her text won’t say anything about Booker because I haven’t told them about him yet.

I open my phone and see it’s just a check-in text from Taylor, along with a photo of her ample—and very round—baby bump.

I smile down at it.

“Another possible love match?” Booker asks lightly, the hint of a smile in his voice.

“It’s my friends back home.” I click my phone off, and the screen goes dark. “My friend Taylor is going to have a baby.”

“Nice! How far along?” He makes the slight turn onto a different road.

“Oh, about this far.” I hold out my hands two feet in front of my stomach. “I’m excited for her. All of my friends are sort of crushing it really.” I turn and wish I could meet his eyes. I noticed before that they’re the most interesting shade of green, so bright they practically gleam.

I clear my throat. “So if you’re still up for it, I was thinking that every Friday I’ll share one honest thing about myself, and you’ll do the same.”

“Why Friday?”

“Because today is Friday,” I quip, and then after a slight pause, I add, “and I have something I need to say out loud.”

“Ah,” he says. “And we have to limit it to one day a week?”

“To start,” I say. “I’m not well versed in the fine art of sharing feelings.”

He smiles. “You’re kind of weird, you know that?”

“I do,” I say. “That was literally my nickname in high school. Rosie the Weirdo Waterman.”

“Was it?” His eyebrows pull downward.

“No,” I deadpan.

He laughs, and I love the sound of it.

“I mean, it might as well have been. I didn’t fit in with theathletes or brains or any other stereotypical high school kids. Marched to my own drum and all that.”

“That’s because you keep the sheet music to yourself,” he says, and I smile.

It’s a simple, casual observation, but it revs my heartbeat.

He slows down as we reach the theatre building, then turns onto the widened sidewalk and clicks the brake.

He turns to face me. “One question—why now?”

I look right into his eyes, and it’s a bit unnerving. I’m a master at pretending, at showing only the shiny side of the apple while hiding the rotten part. The truth is, I’m usually afraid to look right into a person’s eyes, in case they can see right through me. It leaves me totally vulnerable, and I’m afraid I won’t know how to manufacture the right reaction in time, and an honest one will slip out.

“I think maybe I...” Am I really going to admit this? I fiddle with my hands and avoid his gaze.

If I look at him, I’ll lose my nerve.

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