Roman Holiday

Wednesday

Chapter Fifteen

It's the same dream tonight. I'm dancing with Roman. Blurry shapes glide by us. I try to study the surroundings—but it's a swirl of bokeh colors. Purples, blues, oranges, blurs of light that never really stay in the same place for too long. Maybe we're in a dark ballroom, or a reception hall. Or the middle of nowhere. Quite frankly, I don't care.

He brings my hand to his lips, and kisses my knuckles. My heart swells, as if the only thing inside of me is a universe of him.

"Junebug."

I know that voice, a soft whisper so familiar the person is on the tip of my tongue.

I want to ask Roman if he knows the voice, but before I can, a blinding flash illuminates the darkness like an explosion. I wince, shielding my eyes. Roman drops his hand away, and suddenly I feel very, very cold.

Another bright white flash erupts in the darkness, then another, until the darkness is lit up with nothing but pinions of light. I squint through my fingers out into the darkness. What is that? A roar begins to fill my ears, so loud I can barely hear myself think. It's chanting something, over and over again, louder and louder until it becomes bigger than me.

Overwhelmed, I turn back to ask Roman for help—but he's not there. Instead, it's the tall dark-haired man is. He tilts back his gray fedora, a wicked smile curving across his lips like a twisted, white-hot brand of metal.

"Junebug," he says, and the word breaks the roar, turns it into syllables I've heard my entire life.

I scream, spinning back to the flashes to try and find an escape. But an audience stretches far and wide like a sea of fireflies, holding cell phones and lighters into the air.

The syllables twist and curve into a single word, over and over. They're chanting my name.

"Junebug!"

I bolt upright on the couch, my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat. I stare, wide-eyed, at the open curtains and the sun-lit beach out the window. "What time is it?"

"It's past three, honey. I thought I'd let you sleep in for a little while," Mom's voice cuts through my haze. I pull the covers off and plant my feet on the ground. The tiles under my toes are cold. Relief floods through me as I realize I'm not dreaming anymore. "Hon, are you okay?" Mom gives me a curious look, handing me a cup of coffee. "Thank you for getting the hazelnut coffee—I can't believe they still have it. Remember how your father loved it?"

I nurse the coffee. The hotness stings my tongue. "Yeah, he stole a few packs, didn't he?"

"Not that it lasted long." Mom laughs and strokes the top of my head. "Are you sure you're okay? You screamed in your sleep..."

I shiver at the thought of the man in the gray fedora. "Yeah," I reply, "I just..."

"I have bad dreams too sometimes, especially after your father died." She keeps stroking my hair. For someone who hates the color, she sure doesn't seem to mind touching it. "I know this year is weird, honey, but Charles really is trying."

Trying and succeeding are two very different things, I want to say, but instead I just shrug. The nightmare still has my heart in my throat. He couldn't really find out who I am, right? He passed me on the way out of the office and didn't even look twice. I'm just a name.

It's nothing to worry about.

"So, tonight, Charles and I were thinking of going out for seafood at your favorite restaurant..." She knocks me in the shoulder playfully. "You know, the one with the giant crab?" Mom still thinks I'm seven, doesn’t she?

I bring the cup to my lips again, and remember the Band-Aid on my hand. "I think I'm going out tonight with some friends."

Mom frowns. "I didn't know you had friends here, honey."

"Oh yeah, I've known him for years." Not quite a lie.

"Well, be careful. You know crazies come out at night." She goes to fish her phone out of her purse and turns it on. She’s been keeping her phone off a lot lately. She checks her messages with a frown and puts it back on the table. "We'll both have our phones on, so if anything happens..."

I roll my eyes. "Mom. I'm eighteen."

"And a very beautiful young woman. Even with your pink hair," she adds, kissing my forehead, before excusing herself to the bathroom.

"Thanks for clarifying," I mutter and lounge back on the couch.

My t-shirt still smells like last night—grass and pizza and salt water—and I smile to myself at how crazy it was. Do they live like that? Disregard to property, rules, and social norms? I've never so much as scowled at a teacher, and my idea of living on the edge is firing lazy sound engineers.

Mom’s cell phone startles me out of my thoughts. Should I answer it? What if it’s the bar? They are the only ones who'd call, as far as I know. My worst fear flashes through my mind. I quietly sneak over to the table to grab Mom's cell phone and slip out onto the balcony so she doesn't hear me answer it. The caller ID isn’t familiar, but the area code is Asheville. As I answer, I pray it’s not the fire department.

“Hello?”

“May we speak with Mrs. Baltimore?”

Definitely not the bar. Geoff calls her "Mrs. She" and the rest of them wouldn't call. Suspicion flares like a wildfire. The image of a smoldering heap of the Silver Lining flutters into my vision. Oh, hell. “Who's this?”

“This is Asheville Mortgage Bank calling on behalf of the foreclosure to your business.”

I try not to laugh. “Chuck, is this you?"

“Mrs. Baltimore, we have been trying to reach your business on behalf of—”

The deadness in his voice makes giggle. Whomever Chuck got to do this is really good.

"Mr. Davidson, is this you? You almost had me fooled there. Did Chuck set you up to do this?"

“I'm referring to The Silver Lining, on Haywood Street?" But the man isn't cracking. "If Mrs. Baltimore is there—”

“It’s Conway,” I correct, my voice small, and hang up. My hands are shaking.

Darla looks up from her pool chair and calls up from below, "Hey honey! Tell your mom to get her cute ass down here! I'm bakin'!"

I barely hear her. Dazed, I stumble back into the glass door, push it open, and return Mom's cell phone to the table. Asheville Mortgage Bank? Chuck would pull a trick like this, wouldn't he? He has that sort of sick sense of humor, right?

The toilet flushes as I settle back down on the couch with my cup of coffee. Mom yawns as she comes out, and digs into the refrigerator for a piece of leftover pizza, humming "Hotel California." I watch her silently, trying to process—but I can't function. Foreclosure? The Silver Lining... my Lining...

Foreclosure?

Why didn't Mom tell me? How long has she known? It makes sense now, why she doesn't answer her phone. She's trying to prolong the reality of it, like she does with everything else. Instead of acknowledging Dad's death, she married an architect. Instead of throwing me a graduation party, she and Chuck celebrated their fourth honeymoon in St. Martin. Instead of scolding me for my pink hair, she ignores it.

Foreclosure?

No—I refuse. I refuse to lose the Silver Lining.

When Mom asks me to come down to the pool with her to enjoy the gorgeous day, I have half the mind to tell her there’s nothing gorgeous about it. The sun’s too bright and there isn’t a single cloud in the sky, which means it’s hot as balls, and excuse me if I don’t feel like baking in it. Would that be too harsh?

I down the rest of my coffee and grab my cardkey and phone. "I'm going to the computer lounge," I tell her as I leave.

The computer lounge is down the hall in a humid little room with three computers and Wi-Fi. No one's inside, so I pick the middle computer and boot it up.

I don't know what I'm looking for. I Google foreclosure. I Google the Silver Lining and read the two one-star reviews Yelp. Even bad reviews say the best about my dad's bar. This isn't helping. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I dial my best friend's number. It's comforting, if nothing else. Two rings and she picks up.

"I feel a disturbance in the force," she says in greeting.

That's all it takes. My bottom lip wobbles and then, suddenly, I'm blubbering about the foreclosure.

"Whoa, whoa! Easy on the waterworks, bb, I can barely hear you."

"I just Googled it and I'm pretty much f*cked." I sniff, rubbing my eye with the palm of my hand. "And I had an amazing night last night with that guy I met—and his friend, and we broke into a put-put course and almost got arrested and—"

"Junie Baltimore—"

"Conway."

"Trespassing? Hold the phone. I need to get this in writing. What sort of guy makes my best friend do the stupid shit only I'd do?"

I wipe my snotty nose on my arm, leaving a trail of goo. Disgusted, I rub it off on the back of the chair. "Roman Montgomery." The door opens to a hefty guy in a Hawaiian shirt. He gives me one look before he leaves again, secluding me to my snotty, crying pity-fest.

"Bb? You still there?"

Complete and total silence.

And then, "OH MY GOD, YOU BROKE AND ENTERED WITH ROMAN MONTGOMERY—"

I yank the phone away from my ear, wincing. She's so loud, her voice echoes in the room.

"—AND DIDN'T CALL ME? WHAT ARE YOU SOME SORT OF SECRET RUSSIAN SPY HERE TO DISREGARD OUR FRIENDSHIP? DOES THE HO-CODE MEAN NOTHING TO YOU?"

"I didn't think I'd ever see him again! I didn't want to get your hopes up, I..."

"YOU ARE THE WORST FRIEND IN THE ENTIRE WORLD AND I AM NEVER SPEAKING TO YOU AGAIN." There is a beat of silence where I think she hangs up, but then she adds, "Does he pack right or left?"

At that exact moment, the door opens again to the same Hawaiian shirt man. Behind him is one of the CherryTree employees. Oh, I get it. "Bb, I'm being kicked out of the computer lab. I'll talk to you later."

"Are you kidding me?!"

I hang up, and glance between Hawaii Chub-O and the employee, who I recognize as the night auditor from last night. He looks as pained as I am to see him. Snot dribbles down my face, my eyeliner is streaked like Marilyn Manson, and my hair defies gravity on the side I slept on. I must look like any night auditor's worst nightmare.

Might as well ham it up.

"So I can't cry in public?" I cry dramatically. "You're ruining my rights as an individual! I demand the right to cry anywhere I like! This is a free country! My parents pay for a condo! I demand that you never interrupt me again! Also, this chair smells. And I wiped my snot on it."

I stand and shove between them into the hallway—and freeze.

“Good afternoon, sleeping beauty.” Orange hair. Suspenders. Tattoos.

"Oh, you," I sigh.

He studies me. If he thinks I look like hell, he doesn't say a word. Instead, he takes his keys out of his pocket and jingles them. "Ready for a little fun?"

"Please," I reply with honest relief.

"I'll let you change first."