Page 27 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

Still hasn’t sunk in yet.

Booker hands me a key and gestures toward the handle, indicating I should get out of the golf cart and go check out my cottage.

I take the key and hold it, feeling a little like an impostor.

Maybe I can get through this like any other role. But then it hits me—I get through other roles by pretending.

“All yours, Rosie.”

Well, crud. I like how he says my name too.

But it really does make me want to drop the act. All of it. Is he right? Is it safe to be myself here? To admit all the things I never say out loud?

The truth is, I like Booker. Right off the bat.

I want to know him. His story. Part of that is probably the actor in me, but seriously—why is he still single? What does he want out of life? Is this his big dream? Doing physical therapy at... whatever this place is?

I want to know the answers to all of these questions.

I want to know Booker Hayes.

But do I want him to know me? That’s the kicker.

I pause. Maybe Idowant someone to see all of it. All of me.

My hand is trembling as I slide the key in the handle and turn it.

And maybe I want it to be a guy I just met today.

I stop short because I vaguely remember Connie telling me I have a housemate.

“Wait. Doesn’t someone live here? I mean, don’t I have a...?”

“Daisy? Oh yes, she’s your housemate, but she’s still at work. We’re good to go in and take a look around.”

I open the door, step inside, and am immediately met with a clean, fresh, floral, open, inviting atmosphere. It’s like ifcozyhad a smell.

Anyone who’s ever been to New York knows none of those adjectives are ever in the same sentence as “New York.”

Sentences about New York usually contain words likecrowdedandexpensive. And sometimes,urine.

Booker steps in after me, and I walk into what looks like an entryway, opening up into a living room, dining room, and kitchen, all open with no walls.

Compared to Ellen’s apartment, this place is cavernous.

“Have you ever heard of a pocket neighborhood?” he asks.

I shake my head. As if I could form words right now. I can’t believe I get tolivehere.

“It’s like a small community of, in this case, cottages, all sharing common space. They’re all front-facing, and the sidewalk goes around in an oval with the yard at the center. Take a look out the front window. The independent living cottages are arranged the same way.”

I look out the large bay windows to see what Booker just described. Each cottage has its own very small yard with flowers and plants and a few small shrubs, and on the opposite side of the sidewalk is a big oval-shaped grassy area, which, I assume, is the common space he mentioned.

“Geez, the porches are huge.”

“That was intentional,” Booker says. “The idea was to think of each porch as an extra outdoor living space. It contributes to the sense of community.”

“Yeah, this is nothing like New York,” I tell him. “Well, Brooklyn, I lived in Brooklyn.”

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