Page 86 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

That flies directly in the face of the words I usually live by: “You only get one shot at this life thing, so don’t screw it up.” Or my mother’s directive never to give up until I achieve my goals.

Bertie pats my hand, smiling. It seems that the older people get, the simpler things become. All of the worry and stress andthingsthat seem so demanding are filtered out, leaving behind only the most important parts.

“Did Booker tell you we’re not really related?” She pulls her hands back and picks up her fork.

I’m still hung up on her casual wisdom drop, but I manage to say, “Uh, no, Connie did.”

“Ha. Connie never met butter she didn’t like to spread.”

I laugh as she glances across the dining hall to where Booker is holding his refilled drink, chatting with one of the residents. “He sometimes says that I saved him, but the truth is, it’s the other way around.”

I sit up a little in my chair, curious about Booker, of course, but also curious for more of Bertie’s story.

She talks like we’re casual friends. “I couldn’t have kids of my own, and when my best friend’s grandson needed somewhere to live, it felt like the miracle we’d been praying for.” She watches Booker from across the room, and a wistfulness comes over her. “It’s funny how things always seem to work out, isn’t it?” Then to me, she says, “It always works out in the end.”

Does it?

I push aside all the real questions I want to ask. About Booker’s parents. About his grandmother. About his heart.

Those are Friday questions. Ones that he should answer.

“I know he moved here because he’s protective of me. Or maybe because he feels like he owes me or some other nonsense.” She scoops a bite of egg onto her fork, then adds wryly, “But I’ve told him a million times he should go live his life.” She holds thebite up but pauses before eating it. “This is no place for a young man in his prime.”

“You don’t think he’s happy?”

“Oh, I’m sure he could be happy anywhere—that’s just how he is.” She picks up her water and takes a drink. “But there’s a big wide world out there. Doesn’t make sense to waste it playing everything safe, does it?” Her eyes widen. “Take you, for example—”

“Oh, Bertie, I’m not a good visual aid.” My mind snagged on the wordsplaying everything safe, and I desperately want to steer this conversation back to Booker.

“You are!” She sets her cup down and studies me. “You have a dream, and you’re out there working at it. Chipping away to make it happen.”

I glance over at Booker, wondering if she’s drawing a comparison or simply making conversation.

“But I’m not exactly succeeding,” I admit.

She waves me off. “That isnotwhat matters.”

“It kind of does,” I tell her. “I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels. At some point, they’ll probably spin right off the car. I probably need to find something more, I don’t know, stable.”

“Youcouldpivot,” she says, her tone sounding like that’s a perfectly acceptable choice, “if that’s what suits you. There’s something awfully exciting about a fresh start. Or you could adjust and try a new approach to the old dream. Every life experience teaches us something.” She studies me. “Maybe you just need a little shift.”

A little shift. Feels like it would be seismic.

“Does it make you happy?”

“What, the acting?”

She nods.

“I mean, it’s work,” I say. “Most people don’t have the luxury of having a fun job.”

She shakes her head and waves at me. “I totally disagree.”

I stop moving and look at her, remembering Booker’s question on the first day I met him:“Can’t your career be fun?”I guess I know where he got that idea.

“You can find fun anywhere,” Bertie says. “It’s when you stop looking for it that it disappears.”

A regular fortune cookie, this one.

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