“Nice song,” I say. I swallow and think…unexpected. I drop my gaze to her mouth and give it a second… She doesn’t back up. She doesn’t run. She doesn’t ask any questions. In fact, her eyes fall to my mouth in return.
Huh.Unexpectedfor certain.
“Have you ever kissed a stranger?” I ask.
“Never,” she says, her sparkling honey eyes lifting to mine.
The woman, whose name I do not know, leans in—toward me. She’s moving in on me.
And that’s when I make my move.
Wrapping one hand behind her head, I press my lips tohers—soft and easy. But this girl, this stranger—she’s in it to win it. Her lips don’t mash against me like grass beneath a cleat. No, they mold to my mouth like a harmonious song, two voices in synchronization, intimate and eager.
We’re already deep into the unexpected, so I go with it, my hands cupping her face. And for six seconds, I forget that we’re strangers on the street, that my team is watching this encounter—actually hooting and hollering in the background. I forget that she just broke up with someone on stage, and that I know nothing about her. Besides, I understand the ache of ending a relationship, even when calling it quits is right. Maybe this kiss is somehow healing the both of us.
I breathe her in, sweet and sensual. Tingles run through all of my nerve endings, my body warming.
She doesn’t pull away. She never makes a move to slap my face. And while I did watch for signs of consent, she’s turned my peck into a show. Still, I’m the one who approached her. A stranger. And I probably deserve to be slapped.
Finally—I pull back, separating the two of us. As if she were tipsy, her body continues to gravitate toward mine, though I didn’t taste any alcohol on her. Her eyes blink open as a small, sweet moan escapes her.
I clear my throat, at once very aware of the situation I’ve put us in. At the team still hooting around us. I nod and pull in a breath through my nose before patting her upper arm. “Great job, tonight.” I step backward, put two feet of space between us, and zip shut my freshly kissed lips.
Five
The ceilingabove 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’ttell 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. Itisa 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 2isn’twonderful. 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, andGrease 2isn’t on that list. “Fine. Well, in that scene, Michael is coming into the bowling alley while everyone else is walking out, andfor 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.
