Page 93 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I smack him across his arm, aware that this has become my go-to when I don’t have a good comeback.

“We’ll go in, share some wings, and then go home,” he says.

“Uh, you skipped right over the line dancing,” I say, eyeing him.

“Yeah, I’m not dancing.”

“That is not the deal.” I turn in my seat. “If I have to be out of the house, then you have to make it worth my while.”

“Okay.” His eyes lock onto mine. “What did you have in mind?”

There’s something slightly suggestive in his tone, and I freeze because the question makes me think about things that I shouldn’t be thinking—not if Booker is really just a friend. And for a flicker of a moment, I wonder what it might be like to let myself give in to themorethat Booker offers. Exciting attraction that needs to be tamed, instead of careful, measured interactions that offer no surprise.

“Rosie?” Booker is watching me, unaware that I’ve taken his perfectly benign question and turned it into something else entirely.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was... I just kind of, you know, zoned out for a second.”

He smirks. “You do that a lot.” He gets out, walks around to my side of the car, and pulls the door open, holding his hand out to me. I take it, and when I get out, he doesn’t let go right away.

Instead, he lifts my hand up, and I follow his lead and automatically spin underneath.

“Okay, maybe one dance,” he says. “But it’s gotta be the right song.”

“Ah, so Taylor Swift, right?” I tease because I have to make light of everything or I’m going to linger on what it would be like to have his arms wrapped around me on the dance floor.

When we reach the bar, Booker pulls the door open, and we’re met by a loud wave of music and voices. The overhead lights are dim but reveal a big open dance floor full of people, and tables all around the perimeter of the bar.

It’s got an interesting mix of smells—grilled food, alcohol, leather, and hardwood.

We shift inside, and I take it all in. It’s like a scene straight out ofFootloose, with lines of people all moving together, stomping their boots on the wood-planked floor, turning in unison, the occasional cheer ringing out over the din.

“Do you want something to drink?” Booker asks, his mouth soclose to my ear I can feel his lips on it. It sends a shiver down my spine.

I turn toward him, and our faces are so close, it would take the slightest shift for our lips to meet. “Just lemonade?”

He gives a thumbs-up and reaches for my hand. When I glance down, he smirks. “So we don’t get separated.” He gives me a little tug, and I follow him through the crowded space and over to the bar.

As he orders our drinks, I turn and look around, and that’s when I see Daisy, right in the heart of the rows of dancers, looking like she was the one who choreographed this dance. I watch her for a moment, in awe of how free she is. Her smile is infectious, her personality seemingly transmittable.

It’s been a long,longtime since I’ve let loose and danced.

I’m not sure when things changed—whenIchanged. I’m guessing it was a gradual thing, like the frog in the pot of boiling water.

These days, something always holds me back. That fear of being judged, maybe? Which is stupid because the career I’ve picked is literally based on being judged.

Booker hands me a tall glass of lemonade with ice, and I remember that here, in this bar, at Sunset Hills, in Wisconsin, it really doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about me. After all, once the summer ends, I’ll never see these people again.

So I can be the girl who drove her golf cart into the mud. Or the girl who jumped on top of her counter because a chipmunk got into her house. Or... the girl who let herself stop thinking and has fun just for one night.

Nobody will even remember come fall.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

I sip my drink and look at him. “What?”

“Thinking.” His eyes are so sparkly. A girl could get lost in them.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m not usually like this.” I’m really not. I’m the one whodoesn’tdwell on feelings. But the state of my life has me all out of sorts.

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