Page 40 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

He appears to be unfazed. “Dunno. Could be fun.”

I shake my head. “You actually think this could be fun?”

A shrug. “It will be if you want it to be.”

He did pose the question yesterday—“Can’t your career be fun?”—so I shouldn’t be surprised it’s resurfaced, even if it’s exasperating.

I look away. My job is never fun. Not anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but I never admit it. In college, acting without the pressure of getting hired for a job that would help pay my rent was fun. Daring to fail gloriously. Digging into a character. Taking all the time I needed to figure out what she ate for breakfast, where she shopped for clothes, how she walked, how she talked—it was a luxury, it wasgood, and I took it for granted.

George Bernard Shaw was right when he said that youth is wasted on the young.

Making a career out of the thing you love is tricky. When it’s not going your way, joy is hard to hold on to.

I walk over to a little seating area in the lobby and plop downinto the small armchair. “I can’t believe this.” My mind races—I’m more than a bit panicked—like I’m about to go onstage and I forgot to memorize my lines.

My first real job in ages, and it’s not at all what I thought. I’m not even sure I can do this. I’m the whole creative team? That is not how Connie made it sound. I can’t put an entire show on by myself. I might have a degree in theatre, and yeah, I took directing classes, but this? I’m not qualified for this!

I stop and realize I’ve said all of this out loud.

And Booker is now standing beside me, staring.

He must think I’m a lunatic. Who applies for a job without carefully reading the description?

But he surprises me when he sits down across from me, nothing but kindness on his face. “Hey. I get it. It’s a lot, and maybe it’s not what you thought. But these residents? They’re all really invested in this theatre thing,” he says. “And some of them are actually pretty good. I mean, I’m not a theatre guy, but... one lady—Belinda—she was a professional singer. There’s another guy who’s a really great tap dancer. His muscle memory is incredible, and physically, he’s in great shape for his age. Then there’s Sal, who refuses to audition but who always somehow ends up in the shows.” He looks away. “And for some reason he’s always eating onstage.”

I try to look at him, but the sun is shining through the windows behind him, and I can’t really see his face. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go. I don’t know if I can do this.”

He doesn’t move.

Thankfully, he switches to the chair across from me. And though it was appropriate for him to be divinely backlit, this is a much better view. He leans back and props his ankle on his knee. “What’s going on in your brain?”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I just met you yesterday, but even I can see the spiral.” He stares at me, face welcoming. It’s the kind of face that you can’t help but talk to about what you just wrote in your diary.

It’s unnerving to feel safe.

I’m an actor. I can manufacture feelings in an instant, but I’m having trouble faking it right now. Which is... disconcerting.

“No offense, Booker, but I don’t even know you.” I look away.

“Which makes me the best person to talk to.” He holds up his hands. “No judgment.”

If I’m a simmering pot, all kinetic bubbles just waiting for a few degrees of heat and pressure to increase before I push my lid off and spill all over the stove, then Booker is more like a serene mountain lake. Calm. Easygoing. Relaxed.

“It’s just—” I clamp my jaw shut.

“Not what you expected,” he says. “I know.”

I shake my head.

“I get it.” He pauses. “I was going to work with professional athletes.”

I lift my chin to meet his gaze. “You were?”

“I mean, that was my dream,” he says, laughing more to himself than at something funny.

“So what changed?”

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