Page 33 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I take it. “Thanks.” I pour cream and sugar into the cup, and when I turn back around, Booker is standing there and Daisy is... gone.

“Sorry I just showed up,” he says. “I realized we didn’t set a time, and I don’t have your number.”

“Is that your way of asking for it?” I tease, hoping a playful approach will quell the nerves I feel around him.

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth inching up. “Might be good to have it. That way if I get an emergency request for tampons, I’ll know who it’s from.”

I motion for him to hand over his phone. I take it, put my number into his contacts, and then send myself a text from his phone. I glance up and hand it back. “There. Now we’re phone friends.”

His eyes narrow. “Great.”

“Great.”

“Good.”

I smile. “Do you want to go?”

“Yep.” He walks toward the door, and I follow, grabbing my bag from the hook by the door.

“Bye, Daisy,” I holler down the hall.

“Have fun!” she singsongs back.

Seconds later, I’m back in the golf cart, bouncing along, resisting the urge to snap a photo of Booker to send to my friends.

“Did you get your pickleball injury all taken care of?”

He taps his thumb on the steering wheel and waves to another cart as we pass by. “Yep. Got there just in time. Probably saved a life.”

“Ah, pickleball. The deadliest of all the sports.” I smirk over at him, but he doesn’t glance my way.

I smile to myself as he picks up his tour narration where he left off yesterday. And while very little looks familiar, I do recognize the theatre the second it comes into view.

“Can we go in?” I ask, wanting to get a look at the space.

He checks his watch. “Absolutely. Most of the residents are probably still at breakfast, but we might run into a few of them.”

Residents, I think.Not justpeople.

“Everyone eats at the same time?” I ask, trying to understand, because I feel like I’m missing something. Like I’ve just stepped into a twilight zone or joined a commune or something. By all accounts, Booker seems normal, but I bet those cult leaders seemed normal too. That’s how they brainwash their members. By being handsome and charming.

And Booker is definitely both of those things.

“No, not necessarily.” He steps out of the golf cart. “I mean, most of the residents do. Some people cook their own meals in their cottages, but most choose the clubhouse or the dining hall for their meals. It’s one of the benefits of living here.”

I hop out and follow Booker up to the entrance. I can’t wait to see what it looks like on the inside. I can’t remember the last time I was this excited about theatre.

He opens the door, and I walk through, past the box office and into the lobby, stopping in front of two big doors that I assume lead into the auditorium and to the stage.

I look at Booker and motion to the doors. “Can I...?”

“Sure, yeah,” he says. “This is your domain now.”

I smile at that. I’ve never had a domain. Especially not a theatrical one. I pull the door open and step inside the space. It’s all dark except for what seem to be work lights on over the stage. They cast enough of a glow for me to see that this isn’t some tiny, black box theatre. It’s a good size—probably seats about four hundred or so.

“How often do they do shows?” I ask.

Booker shrugs. “I’m actually not sure. At least a few times a year. I help out when they need things, but mostly I’m on the other side of the campus.”

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