Page 109 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I think about the Friday questions and how difficult it’s been to share with Booker. I want him to know me, but for some reason I resist.

The third Friday, he went easy on me and asked about my family. I gave him the quick rundown, telling him about my mom and John—my stepdad who adopted me and gave me his name and loved me like his own, blah, blah, blah.

But the next week, he asked about my real dad, and that was a much more difficult discussion. In the end, I stuck to the facts, answering the questions as if the answers didn’t make me feel anything at all. When really, they made me feel everything.

Last Friday, Booker changed direction completely. His question was,“What’s your favorite way to be kissed?”which required me to show him my answer, multiple times, for lengths between thirty seconds and eighteen minutes.

Simply telling him wasn’t effective.

For his part, Booker had shared so openly I almost wondered if he’d ever had a hard time sharing feelings at all. I now know that he once spray-painted the equipment shed at his high school’s baseball field because he was mad at the coach (and got away with it). I also know his last serious relationship ended amicably when he and his ex-girlfriend, a professional marathon runner who was every bit as intimidating as that makes her sound, realized they were better off as friends.

“She’s married now,”he’d told me, as if that could steal away my insecurity.

But this thought that I keep to myself because Ifeeltoo deeply? I don’t know... I glance at Arthur. “You think I’m a deep feeler?”

“Just putting it out there,” he says. “Maybe you avoid emotions because you feel them all a little more deeply than other people. And that’s overwhelming.” He shifts in his seat.

I sit with it, like it’s a cat that’s curled up on my lap. Something about the words resonate.

“Professors always want you to relive the bad things,” I say.

“And you don’t want to do that,” he says—a statement, not a question.

I shake my head.

“Then you can’t use it.”

I look away, trying not to let the words penetrate the wall I’ve built around myself. Because some part of me—a part I buried way, way deep down—already knows this. “It’s my life, Arthur. Not fodder for a future character.”

He stills. “That’s your job, Rosie. If you ever hope to make anyone feel anything, you have to let yourself feel it first.”

An unexpected knot forms at the back of my throat, and I will myself not to cry. “I can’t. It hurts too much.”

There’s a beat, and I work to keep my emotions in check.

But then Arthur says, “It’s supposed to hurt. It’s life.”

“Well, then,” I say, half laughing, “life sucks.”

“And that means you’re alive.” Arthur leans in, and I see a glimmer of something new in his eye. “That’s part of the adventure. If everything was good all the time, you wouldn’t appreciate any of it. It’s the hard stuff that makes the good stuff so much sweeter.”

I pause for a long moment, then decide it’s okay to confide in him. After all, hundreds of other students have probably poured their hearts out to this man. “I don’t like reliving it.”

“I understand, Rosie.” He scoots back in the chair, still studying me. “Butthisis what’s holding you back.”

Chapter 29

My conversation with Arthur has me contemplating things I don’t normally think about—things I don’tletmyself think about. The truth is, I had a relatively normal childhood. My dad left, and it nearly destroyed my mom. Big deal.

Feelings shouldn’t be this hard for someone who wants to act. I should be able to call them up whenever I need them, then put them away when I don’t.

Why doesn’t it work that way?

“You know, you’re good at this teaching stuff.” I shift back into the chair even farther, like I’m settling in for a long chat, even though I’m certain he’s about finished. “You should do it more often.”

He waves me off. “I’m old, Rosie.”

“You’re old,” I say. “But you’re not dead.”

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