Roman Holiday

chapter Twelve

You'd think Roman would drive a Bentley or a BMW, a sleek car with way too much money spent on the rims. Nope. He drives a crappy-ass Mentos green VW Rabbit. And when I say crappy, I mean that very modestly. This car looks like it runs on duct tape and prayers. Mid-90s. Rusted hubcaps. Tan pleather seats—the works. I glance into the backseat to make sure there aren't any serial killers waiting under the massive amounts of fast food wrappers and dirty clothes.

"Are you sure there aren't any...murderers? Rapists? Homeless people back there?"

He doesn't even glance back as we get inside, and he pulls the seatbelt over his shoulder. "Nah. Just empty Taco Hell wrappers and my moldy socks."

Because that makes me any less frightened.

"Charming," I reply.

"Boaz contributed. I think he left some underwear back there, if you're interested."

"That's gross."

"And knowing my face is on your..." he flicks his gaze down to my lap, then back up again quickly, "is awkward."

I calmly put my hands in my lap, my cheeks prickling with embarrassment. "Touché."

He inserts the key and the engine whines as it tries to turn over. "C'mon baby..." he begs until, after a squealing noise akin to the death of Wilbur, the engine roars to life. He kicks it into drive and we pull out of the parking lot. "So, taking you back to the condo?"

"Yeah," I reply, like there's any other place I could go. Back to his place, maybe. But wouldn't that be super sketch? Or an invasion of privacy? "Where do you stay, anyway?"

He gives a stiff shrug. "A motel off the interstate."

"Not your parent's—" I stop myself before I finish, but I've already let too much slip. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry..."

"No, it's fine," but I can tell by the tightness in his voice he'd really rather talk about something else. "My dad lives in Myrtle. So does Holly's family, but let's just say I'm not welcome within a hundred yards of their house and leave it at that."

"And your dad?" As I ask it, his knuckles tighten around the steering wheel.

"He disowned me when Hols and I moved to Nashville. To him, trying to make a career in music was like joining the circus. It wasn't respectable enough. You ask him, I abandoned my family. You ask me..." He trails off. The lights of Ocean Boulevard flicker shades of blue and red over his face like a kaleidoscope. I wait for his answer, but he just presses his lips together and flicks on the radio.

His own song, "Deep End" blares through the speakers and he quickly turns it back off.

He clears his throat. "Silence is good, yeah? We don't need music."

"I can hum something?"

"Can you sing?"

"I'm so good I can shatter windows."

He chuckles, and for the first time since the beach, he cracks a ghost of a smile. "Then let's play The Shitty Song Showdown."

"Sounds awesome." I roll my eyes.

"We take turns humming a song and see if the other can guess it."

"Are you challenging my radio heart?" I press my hand to my chest, aghast. "How dare you!"

"I want to see if you're the real deal."

"You're on."

The traffic on Ocean Boulevard is slow and steady. Tourists pass in front of us to street vendors and souvenir shops. Ice cream shops dot the streets like confetti. It's easy to think how Myrtle Beach is fun and exciting, especially in the throng of lights and laughter, but in the winter when the tourists clear out and the vendors move down to Florida, Myrtle Beach becomes a ghost town. Roman grew up here, so he must be used to people passing through like sand through his fingers. Fame can't be much different. Am I just another grain of sand? Is he just another boy of summer?

I almost don't catch the beginning notes to my dad's favorite song tumbling from Roman's lips. "'Born to Run,'" I immediately quip. "Bruce Springsteen."

"That was an easy one," he relinquishes and waits for me to think of a song. I warble the first few notes of "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by the Rolling Stones, and instead of guessing the song, he begins singing with me. Show-off.

We coast to a stop at a light, the windows rolled down. The tourists hustling across the crosswalk give us a curious look as we howl the chorus. A laugh bubbles up in my throat, and I successfully hold it in....until he does a terrible Mick Jagger impersonation, and I lose it in a fit of giggles.

He slides me a cheshire grin. "So? Did I win? Huh?"

"That was decent," I reply, wiping the tears out of my eyes. "Your turn."

Thinking, he taps his finger on the steering wheel until it evolves into a beat. He ducks his head down and begins rapping.

"Oh my God, that's so 90s. You're showing your sublime age, Roman. 'What I Got.'"

"How the hell do you know that one? How old were you, ten?"

I frown. "Do I really look sixteen?" I flop down the visor and inspect myself in the mirror. Even at night, my pink hair glows. "Jesus, you can see me from space."

"Just means I'll never lose you, and no. I was just being an a*shole."

I slam the visor up again. "Surprising," I reply, but all I can think about is the phrase Just means I'll never lose you.

"But I have seen sixteen-year-olds who look thirty. Now, that's scary. Ever been about to go down on a girl and realize she's not even legal yet?"

"Is this your way of saying you make poor life choices?"

"F*ck youuuuuu."

I punch him in the arm playfully and flick the radio back on, quickly turning it to the classic rock station. A sweet, slow power ballad drifts through the stereo. Almost instantly, my throat seizes. I want to turn it off, but Roman knocks my hand away from the knob before I can.

"Name this song!" he demands.

I swallow hard. Of all the songs in all the world, the radio had to play this one. It's the song I wish I'd heard with Caspian that night, instead of Roman's own "Crush On You"—the one I always wanted to...

Well, to fall in love to.

And here I am in a minty green WV Rabbit that smells slightly of ass, listening to the song that means more to me than Roman could ever guess. What are Roman and I? What are we pretending to be? Friends? Acquaintances? Even that? There's an invisible line where whatever we are ends and something quite frightening begins.

I look over to him to see if he's really waiting for my answer, and he is. "Bon Jovi," I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away from his melted emerald gaze, "'Bed of Roses.'"

If he can sense my trepidation, he doesn't show it as he turns his attention back to the road. We follow a gray Cadillac up the street. "All right, Miss Radio Heart, name the album title and year."

I don't say anything for a long moment. "You don't even know that."

"So you concede?"

"1993. Released as a single, but then with the album Keeping the Faith."

Is it your favorite song? I want him to ask that so badly, it's almost a physical pain, and I would answer without a blink of hesitation. Yes, it's my favorite. It will always be my favorite. It's the first song I fell in love with, and it's the song I want to dance to on my wedding night. But we must not be friends enough for him to ask, because he begins to hum Richie Sambora's guitar solo with a makeshift air guitar before finally saying, "All right, fine, you win."

A little bit inside of me deflates. "Awesome."

"It is. Not everyone can say they beat the great Roman Montgomery with a Bon Jovi song."

"No, I guess not."

We hit a standstill at the bungee-jumping attraction on the Strand, so Roman detours off Ocean Boulevard onto King's Highway. It's pretty much the main vein of Myrtle Beach. Here there are strip malls and outlets, restaurants, Wings souvenir shops, and mini-golf courses as far as the eye can see. CherryTree is on the northern end of Myrtle Beach, where there are more beach houses than motels, and liquor stores take the place of tourist shops.

I wonder where Roman's dad lives? It bothers me that his dad is still alive, and wants nothing to do with him. What sort of father is that? If my dad were still alive, he'd be front row at every concert. He'd buy the t-shirts, wear the visors, scream the lyrics. He'd be my biggest fan. "How long has it been since you've seen your dad?" I ask.

He counts on his fingers. "Five...six years?"

I gape. "That long?"

"Don't give me that look. I call him at Christmas."

I blow out a sign of relief. "That's good."

"It would better if he answered."

Frowning, I look out the window at the passing mini-golf courses that promise to take you to the Mayan ruins, or the jungle, or through an exotic plane crash. Most of the lights are shut off by now, the courses dark and vacant.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "Price of fame, right?"

That isn't what I meant by the phrase when I first said it, but I nod anyway. I want to say something comforting, that it'll be okay, but his phone begins to ring. He digs for it in his pocket, a cruddy disposable flip-phone, and answers it. "Yeah Boaz?"

We ease to a stop at a red light. I recognize the liquor store on the corner. CherryTree is close now, just a few blocks away.

"You sure?—All right, hold on. Lemme ask." He turns to me. "How adverse are you to breaking and entering?"

"Is that rhetorical?" I deadpan.

He tells Boaz, "We'll be there in five. Yeah, I'm right close to it—you took a taxi? Uh, huh." He flips the phone shut on his shoulder and shoves it back into his pocket. He flicks the turn signal on, looks over his shoulder, and swerves into the turn lane.

I give him a leery eye. "Where are we going?"

"To pay our respects to the dead."