Page 85 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I’m shocked she knows my name. “Yes! How’d you know that?” My gaze flicks to Booker, who doesn’t meet my eyes.

She moves the tray closer to her and motions for me to sit. “Booker tells me everything.”

He slips into the seat next to her and says, “I told her there was a new theatre director—that’s all,” downplaying whatever he’s mentioned about me.

I sit down across from Bertie.

“Oh, stop it; that’s not all.” She gives me a pointed look. “But I’m not one to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, so—” She makes a motion like she’s zipping her mouth, then takes her plate off the tray. “You cheated me on the pancakes.”

I giggle while unfolding the napkin and spreading it across my lap.

“I was in here the day you sang that parade song, missy.” Bertie picks up a piece of bacon. “I’m sorry Booker missed it. You are something.”

“Something good or...?”

She leans forward. “Something amazing. Quite impressive.”

I feel my confidence swell at the compliment, but it’s instantly crushed when Arthur walks into the dining hall. I have no idea why, but it’s like his eyes are drawn straight to me, and the second we make eye contact, he grimaces and looks away.

“What’s that about?” Bertie asks.

“He manages the theatre,” I say.

“Yes, Arthur Silverman.” She gives him another quick glance.

I frown. “You know him?” This reminds me that I never did finish my internet search on Arthur, and I really need to. Something tells me there are secrets to uncover.

“I knowofhim. It’s not a very big place. But I don’t think he socializes much.” She waves her hand, as if she’s brushing that topic aside. “But let’s talk about you. Booker says you’re from New York?”

We chat for a few minutes, and I tell Bertie a little about myself—only facts, which, I notice, she already seems to know.Booker’s been unusually quiet, and when I pause, he pushes his chair back, picks up his empty cup, and stands. “I’m going to get a refill. Anyone want one?”

“I’m good, thanks,” I say as Bertie shakes her head. He pauses, like he’s rethinking leaving the two of us alone, but finally walks off.

There’s a brief lull, and then Bertie draws in a breath. “It’s all so fascinating, isn’t it?”

I lean back in my chair. “What is?”

“Life.” She waves a hand as if to encompass everything around us. She stops, looks at me, and smiles as she says, “I’m sorry, it’s what old people think about.”

I laugh, thinking maybe it does make sense that Booker took a job just to be close to her.

“Fascinatingmight not be the word I’d choose to describe life.” I take a sip of my orange juice. “Maybeconfusingormessy.”

“Oh yes. It’s both of those things. Is it that way for you now?”

And when I find her studying me with that same quiet intensity I sometimes see in Booker’s eyes, I have to remind myself they’re not actually related at all.

My gaze falls to my half-eaten food, and I find myself mentally leaning toward hyperbole, flirting with embellishing the facts, and then realizing I don’t want to add anything to the truth.

“I mean... yeah, it is, kind of. I’m okay. I’m not in crisis mode or anything. Just have a ton on my mind. First rehearsal, directing a show, working in a new place... It’s a lot.” And for some reason, I add, “And I guess some days I wonder what in the world I’m doing. You know... with my life.”

She laughs. “Oh, is that all?”

I smile, but I fear it comes out more like a wince.

She reaches over and covers my hand with her own. “Oh, my dear Rosie, you have to lighten up a little.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s just life.”

Justlife?

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