Page 6

Five

The ceiling above me is speckled with stucco. I stare at each groove, each line, my mind spinning as I lay on this couch. “It was just like a movie.” The rolodex of romance films living inside of my head knows exactly which one too.

“Wait, it worked?” Rosalie sits on the floor of our small living room, the coffee table separating us. In a whisper, she adds, “They never work.” I’m not offended. Rosalie would never be purposefully unkind.

When I don’t answer, she claps her hands to get my attention. “Fran! Your remake with Doug was a success?” She doesn’t complain that I’m taking up the entire couch. I need to stretch out. I need to think.

“Who?” I say, my brow furrowing in thought. And for a second, I’ve truly forgotten. “Oh, Doug. No. That was a bust. But after…” I bite my lip, thinking. Dreaming. Because holy mama, that was one good kiss.

“Fran Fairchild!” Rosalie gripes, tossing a throw pillow at my head. “What was like a movie? You’ve never come home from a date with that glassy look on your face before. I can’t tell if I should be concerned or celebrating. What happened?”

I push up and lean on my elbow, looking over at my friend.

“ Grease 2 .” Okay, I will be the first person to admit that of all the romance movies out there, it’s not the classiest, or the sweetest, or the most well-written, or even in my top one hundred.

But it qualifies. It is a romance film. I’ve seen it—a couple of times, actually.

It’s old, like from long before mine and Rosalie’s births. But it still counts.

So, Grease 2 isn’t wonderful . But! That scene where Stephanie kisses Michael and he has no idea what’s happening—well, that’s now officially a scene from my life story. It’s a core memory.

Rosalie wrinkles her nose, unimpressed. “ Grease 2 ? The one with Michelle Pfeiffer? Didn’t they sing about reproduction in that movie?

” Her eyes turn to saucers. “Holy, Fran. Tell me you didn’t sing about reproduction on that karaoke stage.

Tell me you did not make a love connection while singing about sex organs. ”

“No!” I pitch my gaze upward and sit up fully on this couch. I hold the pillow Rosalie just threw at my head in my lap, wrapping my arms around it like it might hug me back. “Do you remember the scene where Michael walks up to the bowling alley and?—”

“No,” she interrupts. “Let me save you some time. I saw half that movie once because my aunt was watching it. I never saw the rest. I don’t remember any of it.”

I groan. But then—I’ve been working on making Rosalie watch every single worthy romance ever made, and Grease 2 isn’t on that list. “Fine. Well, in that scene, Michael is coming into the bowling alley while everyone else is walking out, and for no reason whatsoever, Stephanie, Michelle Pfeiffer’s character, kisses him. ”

Rosalie bounces up from her butt to her knees, her hands level on the coffee table between us. She leans in. “Wait. Are you Stephanie or Michael in this scenario?”

“I’m Michael!”

Rosalie moves until she’s sitting right next to me. “Okay—back up. I have no idea what any of this means.”

I’m too giddy to feel annoyed. So, I start at the beginning—singing with Doug as he gives me the kill sign. The cute guy in the back chuckling at me. Ending my date with Doug very publicly on stage. Then walking outside where the cute guy kissed me for no reason whatsoever.

Rosalie’s cheeks puff out as she listens. She’s holding her breath, and if she keeps it up much longer, I’ll have to smack her. Soon, she exhales every ounce of air from her lungs. “You should have kneed him,” she says.

“Um, what?” Did she not just hear what I said? I finally experienced a real-life romcom. After all this time, after all my remakes… The first successful one just accidentally found me.

Rosalie smiles at me, but her words do not match her face. “Fran, if some strange guy—from a bar of all places—decides to lay one on you in the middle of the street?—”

“Sidewalk,” I correct.

“You don’t kiss him back?—”

“But Grease 2 . And it was a good kiss, Rose. He smelled earthy—like pine needles and lumberjacking. It was so intoxicating,” I say, picturing my cute kissing friend in suspenders with an ax thrown over his shoulder. I think there is a very good chance that man is actually a lumberjack.

“I don’t care. You don’t let a stranger?— ”

“Rosalie!” I huff, slapping my palms to my thighs. Whack! Oo, that’s gonna leave a mark. “You are ruining this for me.”

Her blue eyes widen, but her mouth clamps shut.

“Do you want the rest of the story or not?”

“There’s more? Oh, boy.” Her jaw clenches, but she nods, telling me to go on.

“Okay, then. It was a good kiss. A very good kiss. A dreamy kiss. Like a Zendaya and Tom Holland kind of kiss.” I exhale. Wowza, it was good. “Not long, but not short. Intimate, but not invasive. Gentle and?—”

Rosalie lifts one finger. “Uh?—”

“No tongue.”

Her shoulders fall with relief. I understand her concern—but she wasn’t there. It was innocent . I swear it. I didn’t feel as if I’d been taken advantage of. Somehow, I felt like I was being seen, like I was saving him, and only I could save him. It was a good feeling.

In fact, I’d kiss him again. But I don’t tell Rosalie that. She’s a little too fired up at the moment.

“It was nice, Rose. It was sweet.”

“Sweet.” Her brows lift in disbelief. “Did you catch his name?”

I lean back against the couch and hug my throw pillow tighter. “No. He was with friends. But after, he looked into my eyes—I swear, it was as if his eyes were thanking me for the lip service. And then he left.”

“He didn’t say anything?”

“He told me I sang nice.”

“Weird.” Rosalie wobbles her head in a shake, her breath gusting with a sigh .

“Serendipitous,” I say, and a small tingle moves from my lips throughout the rest of my body.

Rosalie tilts her head and peers at me. “What are you going to do now?”

“What can I do?” I shrug one shoulder. “Besides give the whole thing a really fabulous code name. Are you ready?”

She snickers and wraps one arm around my shoulders. “A code name? Fran.”

“Yes! It needs an alias. I’m thinking…” My hand and arm float through the air, conducting the words as I speak them. “Serendipity on Second Street.”

Rosalie sighs again, the breath she releases long and tired. But she tips her head to mine. “I like it,” she says.