Page 100 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

Friday, he shows up at our cottage with Louie and a pizza, and I think the extra couple will get me out of Friday questions. But at the end of the night, I walk him outside, and he asks me, “Do you want to have kids?”

It’s dark, and he can’t see my wide eyes. “Wow, you’re playing hardball.” And then, lightly, I add, “I guess these are the things you think about when you get to be, you know, your age.”

I can feel him smiling, and I decide that if I could be the cause of that smile every day, I’d be okay never making anyone else laugh again.

“But yeah,” I say. “I do want kids.”

He nods, and we both lean against the porch railing. “What happened to your parents?”

He stiffens beside me.

“Too personal?”

He draws in a breath. “No, it’s fine. My dad was never in the picture, and my mom gave me up when I was almost two. She was young, and she couldn’t handle it. My grandma—my dad’s mom—she was the one who took me in. And Bertie helped. When Grandma died a few years later, Bertie didn’t hesitate for a second.” He shrugs. “Just adopted me like that was the only thing to do.”

I go still.

He bumps my shoulder with his own. “I don’t see that as a sad story, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

I glance over at him. “You don’t?”

He shakes his head. “I see that as a gift. Yeah, my parents didn’t want a kid, and I guess I could dwell on that. But I guess I’d rather be thankful that my grandma and Bertie loved me.”

I reach over and take his hand, marveling at this attitude because, really, it’s pretty incredible.

“And they’re the ones who taught me that a lot of life is about how you see it.”

It’s just life, Rosie.

The words burrow down deep inside me and start to take root, and I hope I remember to water them because I really want to see what they grow.

Chapter 26

Sunday afternoon, after a full week of rehearsals and meetings and show-related work, I need a distraction, so I hop in my cart and drive over to the theatre.

When I arrive, I see Arthur and Bertie sitting on a bench under a big oak tree. There’s a picnic basket on the bench between them, and as I park and get out of the golf cart, realization settles. They’re on adate.

I quietly let myself into the theatre so I don’t disturb them. The space is empty on Sundays, and I stop in the lobby for a moment, just to inhale it all. To remind myself that I’m here, getting paid to work in the theatre.

Booker was right—directing is alotmore responsibility than being an actor. The show is mine, and I want to do right by it. It won’t lead to more jobs or notoriety or my name in lights, but I’ve always been a person who takes pride in my work.

No matter where that work is located.

I pull open the door of the auditorium and step inside, instantly struck by the scene in front of me. While I’d helped Booker in the scene shop, nothing we were building took any shape—until now. In the center of the stage is a large curved staircase, with a platform that stretches the width of the stage on either side. It has ornate pillars, entrances and exits underneath, simply perfect for a palace—and as I look at it, I can see the way it will come to life.

I stare and beam and appreciate.

I can’t believe those seemingly unrelated pieces came together to create this.

I pull my script out of my bag and immediately start envisioning the staging for multiple scenes. Slowly, I make my way up the stairs and start walking through it, speaking lines and writing down the movements that feel natural to me. We have another blocking rehearsal tomorrow, and this is so inspiring.

I walk through two more scenes this way, eventually growing more and more comfortable being up here. And while the desire and love for performing hasn’t disappeared, I do note how good it feels to be the one to decide where and when the actors will move and stand. I make notes about inflection and motivation, all things we’ll discuss as we run through the scene.

And when I’m finished, there’s that light feeling again.

Happiness.

Huh.

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