Roman Holiday

chapter Twenty-Eight

"Grounded!" I growl, shoving my duffle bag into the trunk of Maggie's Buick and slamming it closed. Officer Nesky has gotten himself a donut and a coffee from the gas station across the street. He waves at us when I glance back at him, and scowl because no one should be that friendly at midnight. "After I came clean, told the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me Bruce..."

"Almighty?" Maggie slides into the driver's seat. I buckle myself in shotgun.

"Springsteen."

"Oh. It could be worse, bb." She backs out and we start down Ocean Boulevard toward the interstate, t-minus six hours until home. Officer Nesky pulls out after us. "We could still be in jail with those super creeps. I swear they were homeless."

"I think one was a prostitute." Roman Holiday's "Deep End" pulses through her speakers before I reach to turn the dial. "Classic rock?"

"Sure." She glances over. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I turn to The Rock MBK station from memory, and the sweet voice of Bon Jovi crackles through the speakers. Savoring the sound, I close my eyes and sink back into the polyester seats. The cherry-smelling car fragrance sways in time to "(Do You Want To) Make a Memory." "Yeah, I mean how unfair is this? I owned up to my mistake. Fat good that did me. God knows I'll be the talk of the town for the next year anyway, so go ahead and ground the soon-to-be social pariah!"

"At least they won't be talking about your mom's marriage anymore," she offers up. "But that's not what I meant, bb. I mean if you're okay with...you know."

"Oh," I reply, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible to the pink elephant in the car, "that."

What am I supposed to say? That I'm fine with it? That I had a three-day love affair with a guy I didn't even know? That, when he kissed me, even though it was bittersweet it felt like all the stars in the sky orbited around us? That with one touch he could set me on fire? That he had treated me with more respect and more kindness than any other man, save my own father? That I didn't care he used to be a playboy? Or that he blamed me for the paparazzi, but that I'm bitter he left without even a goodbye?

At least now, he can stop running and...what, get back to music? Return to the roar of the crowd? A small, aching part of my heart hopes he does. The way he talked about it on the boardwalk, I now can't imagine him anywhere other than adored by millions of people. He needs to be adored. He needs to be loved. Everyone deserves a second chance, even Roman Montgomery.

But there's a bigger hollow part of me full of nothing but the echoes of what might have been. His hand on the small of my back, his warm cheek pressed against mine, his breath hot on my neck...

I know what love is now. It isn't planning to give yourself up in a room full of stagnant electric candles. It isn't kissing behind dumpsters and stealing moments behind open doors in the hallway or the janitor's closet at lunch.

Love is not planned. It doesn't have a set time or place. It is something you can't define because it's bigger than any of us alone. It's the sideways glance of the stranger behind you in line, the well-worn silence between strangers over ice cream. It's serenading you on the beach, and with you dancing cheek-to-cheek. Love is made up of small impossibilities—inconsequential, incalculable moments strung together like imaginary constellations.

Maybe John's right and I was just another girl. I was a holiday, and I was a secret. Those two poisons, beating beside a heart that had fallen in love with him...

It fills me with a sadness bigger than my bones.

"I will be," I finally confide, as close to the truth as I'll ever get. "I will be okay."