Page 16 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

Maya’s clichéd“you’re not getting any younger”speech comes rushing back to my mind as I start off in his direction. I tell my mind to can it—I’m not looking for love in Wisconsin.

He shifts, angling toward me a bit, and I think... but then again...

He’s like a cross between Scott Eastwood and Glen Powell. But with darker hair. I involuntarily cast him in a movie in my brain, playing opposite me, of course—him, a loner with a past, me a bright spark of a girl, home for the holidays but not interested in romance. Our paths cross at the local bus station and...

I click off my mental TV and start in his direction. I’m about to reach him when it occurs to me that he might not actually be my ride. He caught my attention so quickly, I didn’t bother to look around.

This guy could be waiting here for anyone.

My eyes dart to the right, where a smallish muffin of a man with a mustache is standing next to a beat-up sedan. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a pair of long khaki shorts, and tall socks with sandals.

Oh yeah.He’smy ride. No doubt.

I toss Scott/Glen a slight smile and keep walking, as if I’d always meant to walk in a straight line toward him only to make an abrupt turn at the last minute.

I smile at my ride, and he smiles back, wide and excited.

“You need a ride?” he asks, his accent thick.

“Are you...”—I open my phone and glance down at the email Connie sent me with the name of the man who is picking me up—“Booker?”

Without breaking the smile, the guy shakes his head and points behind me. I don’t have to turn to know where he’s pointing.

I smile, but I’m guessing it looks more like a wince. “Awesome. Thanks.”

I do my best to act unbothered as I spin on my heel to find the guy, still in the same spot he was before, only now, he’s looking at me sideways instead of straight on.

It’s no less unnerving.

I take a few steps toward him. “Are you... Booker?”

“In the flesh.”

I try not to think about his flesh. Or my flesh, which is currently overheating. I squeeze the handle of my suitcase, aware that my palm, like my knee pits, is sweating. “I’m Rosie.”

“I figured.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Because you asked Roberto if his name was Booker.”

“Ah. Ha. Yes,” I say. “I did do that. You were there.” I try to save the moment. “You still are. Here.”

He doesn’t respond.

His silence is unnerving, and I wonder if there’s a rock big enough for me to crawl under. Or maybe I could empty the contents of my suitcase and zip myself inside. But then my underwear would be strewn around on the sidewalk, and considering the fact that they are allgranny panties, I tuck that idea right back in my brain.

I draw in a breath, quietly righting myself. I’m being ridiculous.

He’s just a guy.

I’ll think of him like I would a new scene partner. Easy.

He raises an eyebrow and nods down to my side. “That your bag?”

“Uh, sorry, yes.” I drag the suitcase closer.

He reaches for the suitcase, and as he grabs it, our hands touch,and for some reason, my heart knocks around in my rib cage like a pair of wet tennis shoes in a dryer. The metaphorical shoes launch from the imaginary dryer and hit me in the mouth, which starts saying things again.

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