Page 81 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“I think maybe I’m having a quarter-life crisis.”

He’s quiet. And it’s the perfect response in this moment.

“I sort of... have to rethink everything.” I rub my hands on my thighs. “And that apparently includes thinking alotabout why I do the things I do.”

“You did say that theatre is like psychology,” he says.

I nod. “Right. And the last few months have made me even more self-aware than usual, and I don’t like it. I’d much rather...” I trail off.

“Pretend.” He finishes my thought.

I draw in a breath and blow out on a sigh. “Yeah. It’s easier. I mean, it sucks because I hate myself for not being honest—but showing those parts are the hardest for me. It’s sort of like, if I pretend well enough, even I will start to believe the story I’m telling. And I guess I’ve always been more comfortable with fiction than with reality.”

When he doesn’t respond, I dare a quick glance and, yep, he’s watching me, like he’s trying to hear what I’m not saying. “Why?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, trying not to think about the probing questions my professor asked, and the way those questions put me on display, unraveling me in front of the entire class.

She’d asked the same thing.“Why? Defend your position! What aren’t you facing? What aren’t you willing to relive? Why are you so afraid of your feelings?”

And immediately, just like on that master-class stage, the image of my dad walking out the door assaults my memory.

It’s followed by a series of other images—my mom, unable to get out of bed. Packing up our house and moving to a small one-bedroom apartment. Eating peanut butter and jelly every night for dinner because it was all I knew how to make, and she was behind the closed door of her bedroom.

It all worked out—my mom met John, who never had kids of his own and who loved me like I was his. I call him Dad because that’s what he was—and is—to me. But the in-between time (after my biological dad left and before Mom met John) is like a blur. And somehow also the most vivid few years of my childhood.

A time in history I’d like to erase.

Even if the time between is when I learned to keep my feelings to myself. To tamp them down because Mom couldn’t handle any more sadness. That’s when I learned that entertainment could be therapeutic. That I didn’t need to seek joy; I couldbejoy.

That became my purpose. My identity.

I’m not the sad girl whose dad left when she was six. That story is as old as fathers. And I don’t want that to define me.

Never mind that now, thinking through all of it, I’m struck with the fear that in purposelynotletting it define me, that’s exactly what it’s done.

Worse, I think about the way Mom let it slip that she’d given my father everything—her very best years. That I wasn’t part of the plan. I can still see her tearstained face, streaked with oldmascara and sorrow, as she took my hands and said,“Rosie, promise me you won’t let anyonesteal your dreams. Promise me you’ll dream big enough for the both of us and you won’t quit until you make those dreams come true.”

When I didn’t respond, she squeezed me tighter.“Promise me, Rosie. That’s what I want for you. That will make everything worth it.”

The memory settles on my shoulders. It’s been there, like an unclosed tab in the browser of my brain, all this time. Influencing every single decision I’ve made.

These are absolutely not the kinds of feelings I want to discuss with Booker or anyone else. These are the things that would make me a total downer—the things nobody needs to know.

“I’m guessing there’s a lot to unpack there,” Booker says, considering me. “Maybe next Friday?”

“Yeah, or the fifth, or never.” I let out a long sigh, anxious to think about anything else.

I glance past Booker at a row of trees behind the theatre building, but I can feel him looking at me. “I feel like you just had a whole conversation with yourself and didn’t say a single word out loud,” he says.

“I spend a lot of time in my own head.” I point at myself. “But honestly, you’re right. I need to start approaching things differently. I think this will make me a better actor.”

“So this is an acting exercise for you,” he says, and it sounds so... awful.

“That’s not what I meant.” I look away. “It came out wrong.”

“I’m not offended, Rosie.” And when he says my name, he draws my attention back to his eyes, which are earnest and kind. “But I think ahumanexercise would make you a better actor too.”

I frown. “A human exercise?”

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