Page 84 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Seriously?” I glance over at him as three women bustle by, eyeing him shamelessly, and then, as if they’d planned it, they each give me a dirty look.

Booker notices and laughs.

“This is your fault,” I say, stifling my own giggle. “They’re all going to hate me if I keep spending time with you.”

He seems unfazed as he grabs a tray and two plates from the stack.

I nod down at them. “Something I should know? Are you eating for two?”

He grins. “I always get Bertie’s breakfast. She saves our table.”

My eyes scan over to the seating area, searching for a woman sitting alone. I’ve been so curious about her. She must be really special if Booker moved here to be close to her.

“She’s the one in the”—he nods toward the tables—“Purple jacket.” He motions toward a woman sitting at a table near the window, staring outside. “She likes to sit by the window, away from people. That way they won’t hear her when she talks about them.” He chuckles.

I instantly love her, and I can hardly even see her from here.

There’s a lull as we step forward again, and then I say, “It’s nice you moved here to be close to her.”

He shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, it was a big reason, but also this really is a great place to work.”

“But are you happy? I mean, do you ever think about doing... more?”

He raises his eyebrows, and I hear the question he’s not asking.

“I don’t mean to put down what you’re doing. It’s just that this is a long way from, say, a professional sports team.”

“You think I’ve settled,” he says.

I shake my head, even though I’m not sure what I think. “No, I just—” Am I in danger of being a jerk again? I decide that no, I’m not judging, I’m genuinely curious. As if Booker has the secret answer to a question I didn’t even know I should be asking.

When I go silent, his eyebrows pop up, encouraging me to go on.

“I never thought I could be happy doing anything other than, you know, what I was doing. Or trying to do.” I take another step forward. “But I’m not even sure that’s made me very happy.”

“So,” he says, “when are you the happiest?”

I narrow my gaze. “Oh no. Sorry, chief. That feels like a Friday question.”

“Did you just call me chief?” The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s our turn to go through the buffet, so his focus shifts onto the food. We pile our plates high with pancakes, bacon, and eggs, then move over to the short line where we swipe our cards.

I can’t square the idea that letting go of a big dream could actually make me happier.

“Do you want to come sit with us?” His question silences the noisy voice in my head.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose...”

He hands his card to the woman behind the register. “Totally fine. It’ll keep Bertie from hounding me about things I don’t want to talk about.”

“Oooh... what kind of things?”

He takes his card back and picks up his tray. “Sorry, chief. That’s a Friday question.”

I smirk as I hand my card to the cashier. Once she swipes it and hands it back, I thank her, pick up my tray, and follow Booker to the table where Bertie is sitting, still staring out the window.

Booker sets down the tray, and Bertie looks up. The purple jacket she’s wearing, I now see, is crushed velvet over a lime-colored shirt, and she completes the outfit with wild patterned pants. Her white hair is cut into a stylish, short cut, and she’s wearing black-rimmed glasses that instantly give her character. At the sight of me, her face brightens.

“Rosie!”

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