“You have a spiritual blockage,” Rose said, in the same voice as Mo the psychic. “Surround yourself in white light,” she continued, making a lasso motion around her head.
“Okay, okay,” I said, nudging her with my shoulder. “I need some spiritual Ex-Lax and a strobe light. So, what about you? Do you believe in dreams?”
Rose shrugged, then let go of my hand and walked to the railing, which was chin high. Traffic zoomed behind us, and below, a barge floated by carrying what looked to be mulch. Rose had her elbows up on the rail, and her chin rested on her hands. I took a mental picture, to remember it later. “I don’t know,” she replied. “How do you know which dreams are real? How do you know which ones to believe in?”
I paused. “I guess you don’t know. You just believe in what feels right.”
Rose stared down at the water, then turned and grabbed both of my hands. “This feels right.” She smiled at me and tilted her head back the tiniest bit.
For once, I knew exactly what to do.
I leaned in and kissed her.
She slid her hands around my neck, holding me closer. I put one hand on her hip and pushed her hair back over her ear with the other, cupping her face. Our tongues met, sending a rush through my whole body.
After what felt like minutes, but was probably three seconds, a car drove by honking its horn, causing us to separate.
“Well then,” said Rose in a whisper, a sparkle in her eyes.
“Well then,” I replied.
We spent the rest of the afternoon lounging at the riverfront park, mostly lying on a picnic table, gazing at the sky. Boaters puttered by, seagulls screeched in search of human handouts, and a few fishermen sat at the river’s edge. Now that the floodgates had been opened, our make-out sessions came freely and with short intermissions. The sky had turned a deep purple by the time Rose called her mom for a ride.
TWENTY
I WON’T GO INTO GRAPHIC DETAILS, BUT I WILL SAY THIS: WHETHER ON a park bench or in the odd broom closet at Hilltop, Rose and I made the best possible use of our time together, which had increased exponentially since we’d visited the psychic. I’d hardly been home the past week except to sleep, since we’d started spending every evening together, too. I’ve never gone through so many breath mints and ChapStick tubes in my life.
Meanwhile, Grub and Blackjack had become nearly inseparable at Hilltop, making it easier for me to steal moments with Rose. Blackjack loved “playing army” with Grub, and Grub couldn’t have asked for a better partner. Blackjack had been having some really good days lately, and Mary allowed them a bit more freedom together while it lasted.
Admittedly, it was an odd sight—a little boy in army clothes pushing an old guy in a wheelchair, both rattling off battle cries and military jargon. People stopped and saluted them when they rolled by, all except for Missy Stouffer, who eyed them warily. But that seemed to be her typical reaction to everyone and everything.
Speaking of Ms. Stouffer, she’d finally backed off my case a bit since I’d proven my worth as a volunteer bunion rubber and puzzle assembler. Many of the residents knew me by name now, and my romance with Rose was quite the topic of interest. Being at the top of the social pyramid, Letty informed everyone of all new developments. I never gave her too many details out of respect for Rose’s privacy, but her incessant prodding during my volunteer time usually meant I told her more than I’d intended.
On Thursday, Rose and I stood outside the exercise room while a visiting instructor attempted to teach beginning yoga poses to those residents brave enough to try. The elderly Hilltoppers mostly giggled, groaned, and tooted, except for Letty, the lithest eighty-nine-year-old on earth. She achieved every single position, from half cobra to downward-facing dog.
The session ended with the room grapevining—an aerobic maneuver akin to line dancing—to Tom Jones’s “It’s Not Unusual,” requested by the usual suspect. When the song ended, everyone cheered and clapped, then began a slow exodus toward the door.
Rose and I rejoined Mary, Blackjack, and Grub in the common room.
“These two sure have a good time together,” said Mary, nodding at my brother and Blackjack, who sat side by side, perusing one of Grub’s homemade maps. “He’s such a creative kid, must run in the family! I think your Sunday surprises are so clever, Zeus. What’s lined up next?”
“Well, it’s a surprise. I can’t say.”
“Come on, no hint?” asked Rose with a “pretty please with sugar on top” face that nearly crumbled my resolve.
“Kailangan kong umihi!” declared Blackjack.
Rose and I shared a look, wondering what he’d said.
“I believe Sergeant Blackjack needs to use the restroom,” explained Mary.
“Take me to my bunk, nurse,” said Blackjack to Mary. He straightened in his chair, head held high, chin up.
“I’ll provide cover fire,” said Grub, diving behind the wheelchair.
“We have to get going, Private,” I said. “I think Mary can cover him.” I nodded at Mary, knowing she’d play along.
Mary looked down at Grub and in her best army voice said, “I’ve got this watch. At ease, Private.”
“Ten four,” said Grub, followed by a click of his heels and a quick salute.
On Sunday, I woke up feeling one part excited, one part exhilarated, and ninety-eight parts sick to my stomach. A big day lay ahead. Rose and I had planned to meet at World Peas Café at one o’clock. From there we’d make the short walk to the Beauty Saloon—owned and operated by Axl and Novie’s mom, Crash. Every Sunday afternoon in the summer, Crash hosted an Open Mic event on the patio of her bar-salon establishment.
For weeks Rose had been asking me to play my guitar for her, but I’d never had the nerve. I mean, Rose was an amazing musician, and I only knew how to strum some basic chords. The thought of her watching me fumble my way through a whole song made me wince every time she brought it up. But she’d kept insisting, so I finally caved.
Every day the past week, after visiting Hilltop, I’d spent a half hour with Dylan learning a song for Rose, one I knew she’d love. After I’d told Dylan the story, he’d not only promised to help but somehow had convinced me to surprise Rose by dedicating it to her at the Open Mic. Dylan would accompany on his guitar. I wasn’t brave enough to actually sing it, but I had most of the chords down (and there were a lot of them), with Dylan’s reassurance that he’d cover for me if I got lost. Dylan was bringing a guitar for me to borrow—a real guitar, not my garage-sale model—and Axl and Novie promised to be there for moral support as well.
Sunday afternoon Rose arrived at the café looking beautiful as ever, and I let her know it.
“I’m so excited!” she said, clasping her hands under her chin and bouncing up and down as if invisible hands held her shoulders, restraining her from jumping.
“Me too,” I replied, feigning confidence I didn’t feel.
“You have big shoes to fill, Mr. Gunderson. Going to be hard to top last week’s psychic adventure.”