Page 12 of Rose's Ripped Van Winkle

I take my usual spot on the end of the couch, leaving him his choice of seating arrangements. It doesn’t surprise me when he slides next to me, sets his bowl on the coffee table, and slings his arm over my shoulder.

No one has a right to smell as good as he does. How does he manage to smell spicy and sweet at the same time? And why did I approve the soft flannel shirt he’s wearing? It’s just too inviting to lean on his pec and settle in next to him. Over the opening credits, I force myself to focus on the movie rather than his hard, muscular chest and steady, masculine breathing.

My thigh grazes his, he tugs me a bit closer, and then reaches with his other arm to grab my hand. It strikes me that this is probably what most people experience in high school. Chaste movie dates with furtive kisses in the front seat waiting for your parents to flash the porch lights to call you into the house.

I’ve seen it in movies, but never had the opportunity for what my parents called foolishness. My fate, if I hadn’t run away one night with the help of one of the producers, would have been an arranged marriage to a boy in the cult.

I breathe a sigh of relief that I got myself out. It’s more than I can say for any of my siblings.

My phone chooses this moment to ping. Since no one knows this number, I have a sinking feeling. When I peek at it, I see: “Unknown Caller.” I know what that means. My dad has found me again.

I allow my fear to sizzle along my veins and pool in my stomach for a few seconds, then I get a grip on my panic. I’m here with Rip. Something is happening between us that feels so good and damn it, I deserve it. Fuck my dad. I’ll change my number again tomorrow.

Rip didn’t notice my momentary fright, he’s mesmerized by the movie. I admire the way he can be in the moment. Me? I’m flicking back and forth between vignettes from my past, the movie on the screen in front of us, and my awareness of every detail about Rip from how his body radiates heat, to the precise way his elegant fingers transfer the popcorn to his mouth, one kernel at a time.

It surprises me when he interrupts the movie.

“Stop!” His voice is so forceful I wonder if he heard an intruder.

“That controller in your hand can stop it? Make it go backward?”

“Yeah?”

“Play the song again!”

He listens, mesmerized, to Something’s Coming again.

“It could be our theme song, Rose. It even mentions your name.”

I must admit, I didn’t pay much attention the first time around, but on the second go-round, it seems as obvious to me as it is to him. The entire song is about something wonderful coming, just around the corner—something good.

I get goosebumps from how the song could be the soundtrack of our relationship.

He asks me to play it a third time, and this time he sings along, not missing one word. His voice is beautiful, as rich as any operatic tenor, like honey warmed by sunshine. He imbues each word with so much meaning, so much excitement and hope for the future. This is a moment I’ll treasure forever.

After the song quits echoing in the room, we settle into the couch and continue to watch, both of us transfixed.

Although I knew it was coming, Rip is gut-punched when Tony dies at the end of the movie. He wraps his arm tightly around me, holding me close while we both sob until no more tears will come.

Although we’re both in our own heads, dealing with our demons of loss, I never once feel alone. Rip’s embrace feels so safe I feel my heart open even further. I want nothing more than to stay in his arms forever, where no harm can reach us.

Chapter Thirteen

Rip

After West Side Story, we spend the rest of the night talking and laughing. It’s as if time doesn’t exist and we’re the only two people on the planet.

She promised me a movie marathon, but neither of us is up for another emotional rollercoaster. Instead, we keep it light. Despite what she shared with me about her childhood challenges, she has some funny stories to share.

With twelve siblings, no matter how many hardships they all endured, there were some hilarious times.

“We had fun at the holidays: singing, baking, and decorating the house. Even with the producers crowding in, we managed to feel like a family.”

She pauses and glances at me after a funny story about how her younger brother was in a hurry and slathered hot jalapeno jelly instead of strawberry jam on a peanut butter sandwich.

“And you, Rip? Any stories for me?”

I imagine she’s run out of happy stories and wants to change the subject before the bad memories come crashing in.

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