Page 91 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I don’t even know.

I’ve always approached acting in such a serious way, I wonder if it’s possible to find the fun in it again—if I ever found it fun at all.

After my mother made me promise to fight for nothing less than a big dream, I became solely focused on it. This dream of being an actor has been my identity for as long as I can remember; I’m not sure I know what my life looks like without it.

“This is why you feel like a failure,” he says. “Not because you are one, but because the thing you’ve dedicated your life to isn’t working out the way you pictured it.”

When he says this out loud, it makes so much sense. I stare hard out the window, my vision clouding over with fresh tears.

“What are you afraid of?” he asks. “I mean, besides chipmunks.”

“Everything.” My slight laugh eases the knot in my throat. “I have three best friends back home. Maya, Marnie, and Taylor. They’re allthriving. All three of them. Getting married, having babies, getting promoted at work. They have careers and families and—”

“Rosie, you know it’s not a competition,” he says gently.

“I know.” I groan, unable to fully agree. “I know it’s not. And I want them to do amazing things and be so happy.”

“And I’m sure that’s what they want for you too.”

I nod. “They do. They’re such good friends. They’ll be thrilled to hear I’m spending time with someone so attract—” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

He pounces, overly dramatic. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, this relationship is goingwaytoo fast here, geez.” He grins over at me.

I smile back in spite of my flushed cheeks. “That just sort of slipped out.”

“Uh-huh. I see your marriage-trap plan from a mile away.” His tone is flirtatious as he turns his attention back to the road.

All of a sudden I’m keenly aware of exactly how far my body is from his. There’s a weird pull to figure out a subtle way to shrink the space between us.

“But your friends know things have been hard, right?” he asks.

I wince, and for a moment I wish I hadn’t said anything about feeling like a failure.

“Oh,” he says. “They don’t?”

“Nobody knows,” I say.

“Except me,” he says.

I nod. “Except you.”

And my short-lived regret in sharing that dissipates. I find I don’t mind him knowing.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” he asks. “Would they judge you?”

“They’ve never once made me feel anything other than brilliant and loved.” I stare out the window, not sure why this is all hitting me. “And in typical Rosie fashion, I made my life sound like a shiny penny.”

“Do you know why?”

Why?There’s that question again.

“I mean,” he continues, “I usually do things because I’m bored, hungry, or tired. But I’m a simple guy.”

“Emphasis onsimple,” I jab.

“Funny.” He eyes a sign on the side of the road and slows down to turn as he says, “I don’t think anyone actually knows what they’re doing. We’re all in various stages of making it up as we go.”

I know I am. But is he right? Is everyone, to some degree, pretending?

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