Page 17 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Oh, look, our hands,” I say, and then, to make absolutely sure he (and Roberto, for good measure) knows what a complete weirdo I am, I start singing, “Oh yes, oh yes, we both reached for the case, the case, oh yes, the case,” to the tune of “We Both Reached for the Gun” from the musicalChicagowhile shimmying my hips and shoulders in an embarrassing little dance.

In my defense, I completely sell out to the bit.

After I finish, I look up at Booker, stick one foot behind the other, and dip into a slight bow.

He only stares.

I put my hands on my hips. “Oh come on, nothing? No smile?” It’s like trying to banter with a TSA agent who has six more hours on their shift.

His smile is, at best, half-hearted.

“Yeesh,” I say. “Tough crowd.” I wipe my hands down my pants, as if smoothing my outfit will tamp down my musical lunacy.

His smile changes to polite, and he reaches again but stops short.

“I’m going in now,” he says like a hostage negotiator instructed to keep everyone calm. “Can I get this for you, or...?”

I release my death grip on the suitcase. “No encore. I promise. I would love you—I would loveforyou to—it would be good. Great.” I snap my jaw shut and draw in a quick breath, letting go of the suitcase. “Here.”

What is wrong with me? I can perform in front of hundreds of people—why has this audience of one turned me into a gibbering weirdo?

The corner of his mouth lifts, and I try not to notice how bright his eyes are.

I take a step back as he wheels the suitcase over to the bed of his truck, then tosses it inside.

He then opens the passenger side door of the truck and looks at me. “You coming?”

“Right!” I point at him. “Yes.” I move past him, and as I do, I take a chance and start to hum a little tune as if I’m going to sing again.

He chuckles, shakes his head, and motions for me to hop in.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” I smirk, and I’m ecstatic when I see him try—fail—to hide a smile.

Making people laugh is one of my favorite things.

I step up quickly, grab the oh-crap handle inside the truck, and hoist myself up. Once I’m in, he takes the door, and after making sure I’m inside, closes it for me, then makes his way around to the driver’s side.

This is not the kind of guy I’m used to being around. I have a lot of friends, but they’re all actors. While it may seem like all actors look like they should be movie stars, that’s not actually true.

Most of my friends are, like me, ordinary people. Many of them have an insane amount of talent. But there hasn’t been a single one who’s turned my head since I moved to New York.

Partly because I was still dating Peter for the first two years I lived there, but mostly because I’m a very determined person. And my goals have always been about my work.

Which is pathetically ironic, considering that even with 100 percent of my focus, I’m still a solid professional failure.

Booker is now talking to Roberto, in Spanish, no less, which gives me a second to glance around his truck. You can learn a lot about a person based on their living spaces.

For example, me. I don’t currently have a living space.

The inside is clean—something I didn’t expect. I don’t know what I was expecting since I don’t have a lot of experience being in guys’ trucks, thank goodness, but I just thought it’d be messier.It’s vacuumed, wiped down, and smells masculine. Like he drove it through a forest with the windows down.

He opens the driver’s side door and effortlessly hops in. I offer a smile, then turn to stare out the window. Once he’s buckled in, he starts the engine and I feel him glance my way.

Not so much with my peripheral vision, but some other sense is picking up that he’s looking at me.

“You good?” he asks.

“Sogood.” Still not looking at him.

---