Roman Holiday

chapter Seven

The wind on the beach at night has a certain biting chill to it. I shove my hands into my muumuu pockets and shiver. Wearing nothing but my bathing suit and a cover-up was a genius plan. Thank you, Darla. I check my phone to see how late it is. She said she wasn't going out until eight. It's seven-thirty. Not too late yet, right?

Roman Montgomery walks beside me, slowly, and I wonder where he's staying. Not that I want to shove him off quite yet. It’s actually kind of...nice, walking with him. And it's definitely not the fame talking. I'm still waiting for his rumored Godzilla-sized ego to ruin everything, but he's genuinely just quiet. And when he looks at me, his eyes look lonely.

"So where are we going Wednesday?"

He tsks. "That's a secre—oooff!” He runs smack into a dumpster, and recoils with a metallic bong. I howl with laughter. "Ow, f*ck! How did that get there?" He winces as he touches his nose and pulls away blood.

Gingerly, I cup his face and inspect his nose, nodding. “I think you’ve successfully contracted karma,” I confirm.

“Karma? What the hell for?"

"For making fun of me yesterday—and today."

He can't argue with that. "I said I was sorry. I won't grovel."

"Poor wittle rock stars can't grovel?" I baby-talk. An annoyed scowl crosses his face as he pulls away from me. Good grief, it was supposed to be a joke. I roll my eyes and nudge my head toward CherryTree. “Come on, I’ll get you some ice for that.”

"Maybe some nose plugs too," he adds, and follows me to the condo.

By the time I unlock the condo door, blood is dripping down his face and onto his black shirt. At least black doesn't show stains.

“Mom, Chuck?” I poke my head into the condo. No one's home. Strange. Before I forget, I dig the box of condoms out of my purse and set them on the kitchen counter where Darla can see them when she comes knocking. Which will probably be any second now, knowing my luck. I grab a towel and fill it with ice cubes from the cooler.

Roman tilts back his head as he turns on the faucet to clean himself up. I hand him a dishtowel wrapped over ice, and he presses it against his nose. He hisses as the cold touches his skin. Then, for the first time, he surveys the condo. It must be nothing like he's used to. There are no TVs in bathroom mirrors or liquor cabinets—unless you count the cooler full of beer. “So you rent this out with your parents?”

“Yeah, for a week. We've rented it since…well, since forever. As long as I can remember.”

He wanders into the living room, and looks down at all of the little knickknacks we’ve unpacked, the playing cards, the koozis, the guide books for the week, and then he zeros in on the one thing I should've tossed. He stoops and picks up The Juice. The headline reads, ‘THE END OF ROCK SENSATION ROMAN HOLIDAY.’

“Yeah…my best friend snuck that into my duffle,” I say as an excuse, making a note to kill Maggie once I get home. “She’s obsessed with, um, your band..."

“Are you?” he asks nonchalantly, flipping through the issue with one hand.

“Am I, what?”

He snaps it closed and inspects me. “Obsessed. I know you said you hated Holiday at the store, but really? The truth, please."

"Okay, the truth." I take the magazine from his hand and toss it into the Jacuzzi with the pool floats and beach towels. “The truth is, your songs are super corny. Occasionally horrible—no offense. If I’m a fan of anything, it’s how they—you—revolutionized pop culture. You and Holly Hudson could actually sing. Your parents didn't buy you fame or put in a few good words to cooperate. Didn't you start out as a garage band or something?"

"In my dad's garage," he confirms, his face not giving away his thoughts.

"I mean, because of y'all now everyone else can really ask themselves, 'Why not me? Why can't I?' Even if I don't like your songs...I sort of like the story behind you. That anything's possible..." I force a laugh and pull my hair over one of my shoulders. "I wish you would've asked Mags this question instead of me. She could write you an entire dissertation on your left pinky."

"That's actually kind of scary."

"She loves your band."

"And apparently my left pinky."

I shrug. "It's the price of fame, right?"

There's something in his face that changes then. Bitterness, I think. "Yeah. What a price."

"I mean—I didn't mean..."

"No, you're right. The price of fame." He flunks down on the couch and tilts his head back to rest the ice pack comfortably over his nose. I get two sodas from the refrigerator and sink down on the couch beside him, handing him one. "Thanks," he murmurs as Def Leopard’s "Rock of Ages" blasts from my purse, and I jump up to get it.

It's... Caspian.

I swallow the knot in my throat and let him go to voicemail. “Male suitor?”

I glance over at him. "Telemarketer," I lie.

"Ah. I hate those. I always pretend like I'm—"

"Indian, right? Welcome to Havar's Indian Cuisine," I adopt my best Indian accent, a miserable attempt he chuckles at.

"I prefer not to mock a culture." Then he clears his throat and barks, "Hello, you've reached Bendo's Massive Dildos, where our girth is your pleasure—"

Laughing, I pick up a throw and shove it against his face. He falls dramatically onto his side. "You're horrible."

"Press one for more sizes," he adds before I hit him again with the pillow. "Press Two to start your Sex Phone trial, where you'll never find more pleasure in another receiver."

"You're horrible!"

"And yet startlingly good at it," he adds and begins to grin, but then, as if realizing something horrible, his face drops and he gets to his feet. "Sorry, I need to get going."

“Oh,” I frown, glancing at the clock on the microwave. It's only eight o'clock. I see him to the door. He looks at the makeshift icepack in his hands and stretches it out to me, but I wave it back to him. “Oh no, all yours…a souvenir.”

"From the night I met the pink-haired radio heart."

“Just Junie."

The edges of his lips twitch up into the first signs of a real smile. He holds out the hand not holding his icepack. “It was nice meeting you, Junebug.”

I accept his hand, and we shake like...friends? Acquaintances? I'm not sure, but it feels significant, like the moment just after you put on a new CD and the white noise fills your car, just before the first actual notes when you're thinking this could be amazing. "You too, Roman."

He salutes before he leaves, fading down the hallway like a ghost. Will Wednesday come at all?

A voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

"Junie! Thank God, you're back!" Coming out of the condo next door, Darla embraces me. She's decked to the nines in silver jewelry and a form-fitting cocktail dress, ponytail pulled back into ringlets. She's curvy and beautiful and confident in a way I don't think I'll ever be. "I was beginning to worry you'd gotten lost!"

"Sorry," I reply earnestly and retrieve the condoms from the kitchen counter. Holding the door open with my heel, I hand them to her. "Hope it's not too late?"

"Oh, honey, the night doesn't start until ten!" She winks, tossing the pack between her hands like she doesn't care who knows she likes ribbed deluxe condoms. Like Maggie. Her eyes migrate down the hallway after the orange-headed boy, but by now he's long gone. "Was I imagining voices earlier?"

I decide to play dumb. "Voices?"

"I swear you were talking to someone..."

"I talk to myself a lot."

"Huh." She frowns but decides to let it go. "Thanks a bunches again, hon, you saved me. Now all we need to do is find you a looker, huh?" She kisses my cheek before leaving to meet her shadow of the night. I close the door behind me, and fall face-first into the couch.

Only Dad ever called me Junebug. He used to say it in a slow, southern drawl, as if my name was a rumble of adoration in his chest.

“Junebug, going with me to that boat show today?”

“Hey, see if we got any pale ale, Junebug.”

“Junebug, I love ya girl.”

“Goodnight, Junebug. Sweet dreams.”

I don't remember when he first called me that, but I remember the times that meant the most, when he called me his Junebug, as if I was no one else’s in the world. I was special when he called me that, one of a kind.

Then, this stranger calls me Junebug. He says my name slowly, lingering on the u, softening the g, as if my name is…

As if my name means something again.

As if it’s a secret the two of us know.