Page 35 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

He smirks. “I make a point to never put myself on display.”

I smirk back. “That’s a shame.”

He holds my gaze for a few seconds, and when he looks away, I note the disappointment that floods my chest.

I might not like to be the center of attention, but I wouldn’t mind being the center of his.

That’s not something I’ve felt in a very long time. Or ever. My relationship with Peter made sense, but it wasn’t built on emotion. I liked that it wasn’t. I didn’t want anything to derail me from my goals. We got along well, so we made sense.

Until we didn’t.

“Feel free to look around back here if you want to.” He walks over to the stage-right wing. “I think there’s a whole crew that handles the sets, and lots of volunteers who come in and paint. They team up with the art students to, you know, make it all look pretty.” He motions to a door. “Scene shop back there, just behind the stage, and dressing rooms downstairs.”

“It’s an amazing space,” I say.

“It was a dream of one of the residents,” he says. “When she died, she left a huge endowment specifically for the construction and operation of a theatre. Probably why they were able to bring you in and pay your salary.”

There’s that word again. “One of the residents?” I ask. “Like resident actors?”

“What are you doing in here?” A gruff, gravelly voice calls down from somewhere overhead.

I look up, searching for signs of life, but all I see is blackness.

“Arthur?” Booker calls out, shielding his eyes as he struggles to locate a person in the catwalks above us. “What are you doing in the cats?”

“I asked you first!”

Booker looks at me. “That’s Arthur. He knows this place inside and out, but he’s a pistol.”

“Sound carries on the stage, Book,” he says. “Who’s your girlfriend?”

“Not his girlfriend.” I turn toward the voice and wave. “I’m Rosie Waterman.”

“Who?”

“Arthur, will you just come down here?” Booker asks, though it sounds more like a command than a question. “Let me make a proper introduction.” Then to me, he adds, “He really shouldn’t be up there. He has balance issues.”

“Lobby!” Arthur’s bark is followed by the slam of a door.

We start down off the stage and make our way to the lobby, my mind buzzing with questions I’m not sure how to ask.

“Whatever he dishes out,” Booker says as we come through the dark theatre, “dish it right back.”

My eyes need a second to adjust to the bright light of the lobby, and my head needs a year to adjust to this new life in Door County.

A few moments later, a nondescript door opens and a thin, nearly bald man walks out. He’s wearing what looks like a work uniform—gray pants and a matching gray button-down—and a pronounced scowl.

He gives me a once-over. “You’re a child.”

I give him a once-over. “You’re an old man.”

He squints at me, expression holding steady. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-nine.”

He scoffs and glares at Booker. “Practically a toddler.”

I narrow my eyes. “This from the guy who probably owes Jesus a quarter.”

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