Page 20 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

He pulls off the highway and turns onto a more rural road. “Normally you’re on the stage?” he asks.

“Normally, yes,” I say, “or on the screen.”

“Like movies?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to start this off with a bunch of half-truths—but something within me only wants to bring home the A papers and leave the D’s and F’s in the desk drawer.

“More TV than movies, but yeah, I’ve done a few.” Not in a while but not a lie.

“Have you been in anything I would’ve seen?” he asks.

“Um... I did an episode ofLaw & Order,” I say, not admitting that it was six years ago or that I played a dead body on a slab in the morgue. “But mostly I work in the theatre.”

I think of my jobs as usher and coat check and security, and since those were technicallyinside a building that was known as a theatre, I decide this isn’t a lie either.

Another lull.

Again, he seems unfazed by the silence, and in that silence I start to feel an unfamiliar feeling—I feel myself relax. We drive for about half an hour, and I let my stress drift away as I watch the green hills of Wisconsin out the window.

The rhythmic bump of the road under the tires, the warm sun through the window, the smell of his truck, and...

“Rosie?”

My eyes flutter open, and it takes me a few seconds to figure out where I am. Door County. Theatre job.

I glance over.Hot guy.

“You fell asleep.” Booker’s smile is kind.

“Oh geez. Sorry.” I sit up. I immediately raise my hand to my mouth to make sure I didn’t drool.

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m a big fan of rest.”

“Hopefully not when you’re driving,” I quip.

He laughs, and I don’t hate it.

I stretch, slightly embarrassed that I fell asleep. I only sleep because my body forces it, but rest isn’t something I seek out.

I look around and see that we’re parked in front of a very large, very fancy building with a sign out front that says Sunset Hills Clubhouse.

“This is it,” he says.

We both get out of the truck, and he crosses around to the sidewalk to meet me.

I look around, searching for the theatre building, but I’m not seeing one. Normally you can pick out a theatre from a whole row of buildings because you can see the fly system sticking up another twenty feet from the roof.

I don’t see anything like that.

Only this huge clubhouse, a few other buildings, and a golf course. In the distance, I see tennis courts and a pool, and farther away, a lake.

Is it... outdoor theatre? Theatre in the round, maybe? Theatre in a park could be cool, though the website didn’t say anything about that.

Booker is now standing at the door of the clubhouse, staring at me. He doesn’t say anything, just gestures toward the door, as if to question whether or not I’m coming with him for the second time in the less than sixty minutes I’ve known him.

To counter, I feign looking around, give a big oversized stretch, and put my hands on my hips, smacking my lips. Then, with what I hope is great comedic timing, I glance at a nonexistent watch on my wrist, physically react with a “Well, shoot!” and rush over to his side.

He takes a breath and nods. “Yeah. You’re a theatre person.”

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