Roman Holiday

by Ashleyn Poston

  He tsks. "That's a secre—oooff!” He runs smack into a dumpster, and recoils with a metallic bong. I howl with laughter. "Ow, fuck! 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.

  Tuesday

  Chapter Eight

  I have four more days until I can return to a normal life.

  Stretching, I fix myself a
cup of coffee and close myself out on the balcony so I don’t wake up Mom and Chuck. I check my phone. Caspian left a voicemail last night, so I should probably call him back and be a good invisible girlfriend. But I find myself on Twitter instead, searching for Roman Montgomery sightings. I'm not obsessed. I'm really not.

  There isn't a single picture of us from last night—thank God. One person said she saw him in Myrtle Beach, but no one believed her.

  Exiting out of Twitter, I dial my best friend's number. She picks up in two rings. “Good morning, bb,” I greet happily. "How's work hanging?”

  "Like how bad do I want to hang myself or how low Mrs. Jackie's hemorrhoids are hanging today?"

  "I'm sort of disgusted you know the second one."

  "She talks. A lot," Maggie deadpans. "Like, her voice echoes in the library."

  The palm trees sway against the breeze. The condo is on the fourth floor, so we're eye-level with the top of them. Cyclists move in lines across the beach, leaving thin trails in their wake like comet tails.

  “I met someone last night.”

  “Ooh!" Maggie's voice raises an octave with interest. "Do tell! Cute? Tall? Hunky? Dorky? Sneezy?"

  "And he lives with six other men in a cottage by the woods, sure."

  "I always loved the polygamous type. Is he hot at least?"

  "Yeah," I reply, trying not to think about that one half-naked poster of him in Maggie's bedroom.

  "On a scale from one to fuckable?"

  "Super fuckable. And I'll probably never see him again."

  "Oh, you know what they say, never say never."

  "Where have I heard that before?"

  "Besides," she goes on, "he can't possibly be comparable to Roman Montgomery. Oh, hunky piece of hipster manflesh...I just read a new amazing scoop on John's blog. Well, it isn't really amazing. It actually kinda sucks."

  My stomach twists. I sip my coffee to try and loosen my nerves. The coffee is warm and bitter, just the way Dad would've liked it. "How does it suck?"

  “Like, no one can find him so the music company they're signed with, you know, Muse Records? They’ve got Renee Prosperity and Jason Dallas, too?”

  Renee Prosperity has a ‘true love’ fetish, and Jason Dallas is as emo as a black crayon. "Jason Dallas's new song isn't that bad. I mean, for an emo pop-rock—"

  “Are you even listening? Roman has no contract anymore! I mean, it's like duh because you can't have a band that doesn't want to be found, but still. I think my heart broke a thousand times when I read that. The record company even gave their Madison Square gig to Jason Dallas. This is huge, Junes.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “This is bad.”

  Does Roman even know this? I remember the bitterness in his eyes last night. He probably does. “What if he just doesn’t want to be found?”

  “Or maybe he does but he’s been kidnapped and locked in some crazed fangirl's closet, screaming for help but only we can save him and—”

  I interrupt her. "Have you been watching those Korean dramas again?"

  The line quiets for a moment. "Maybe."

  Rolling my eyes, I slouch down in the chair and prop my feet up on the railing. I watch a seagull hover in the air, cutting against the beach breeze. “Mags, think about it. What does he have to come back to? What in the world could he miss more than his best friend slash love interest slash whatever the hell Holly was?”

  If Maggie replies, she does it in her own mind, because the next I know she's drilling me about the boy I barely met last night. “How tall is he? Hair color? Social Security number? Oh! I forgot to tell you yesterday, I saw Cas with some guy yesterday. Tall, dark-haired...totally McDreamy material. I didn't recognize him at first but bb, it was Geoff. Like, out in the wild. I NEVER see him outside the Lining. Did you know they knew each other? They were having coffee down at the Bean. Now, I wouldn't mind getting between those two hunks of manflesh. Mmmh."

  No, I didn't know that my head bartender and my secret boyfriend knew each other. It surprises me, actually. I thought Cas hated the Lining. “Cas doesn’t even like coffee,” I murmur more to myself than to her.

  “He sure seemed to be enjoying it.”

  A kid takes off from across the pool deck and goes kamakazi-ing into the deep end after a beach ball. The poor kid belly flops and sends a tidal wave across the pool. He pops his head up, and goes paddling after the ball.

  "Anyway, my smoke break's up. Yay, summer reading. Do you think I can get away with pretending to have mono for a week?"

  "I doubt they'd buy it."

  "True. I'll try hemorrhoids instead. Have fun without me, loser!" She makes a kissing noise over the phone and hangs up.

  I melt down into the hard plastic chair like chocolate on summer cement and can't help but wonder if Cas just doesn't like coffee with me.

  Chapter Nine

  A knock raps against the door. At first, I think it’s the TV, but Nick Lively is doing a special on Jason Dallas's new BLACKHEARTED tour and how it's taking over Roman Holiday's gig at the Garden. With his swoony black guyliner and tricky crooked smile, I figure he's already sold the place out.

  When the knock comes again, I finally roll off the couch.

  “Coming…” I mutter, annoyed, and reach up on my tiptoes to peek through the peephole. It’s dark, which means some asshole has their finger over the eye. It’s probably Chuck, since he’s as mature as a two-year old. I twist open the lock and poke my head outside. "You know, there's a reason God invented peepholes—"

  Orange hair. Suspenders. Game of Thrones t-shirt, a pair of cut-off jeans, and blazingly red Vans. Definitely not Chuck. He gives a timid wave. “Uh, hi.”

  “You.”

  “Yep...me.” He hesitates in the doorway, pulling at his earlobe. “Listen, I just want to talk to you about last night...”

  My hand grips the doorknob tightly, because I sort of figured this would happen. He's famous, and I'm just a girl from rural North Carolina. Girls like me are never with guys like him—not that I ever entertained the idea...outside of my dreams, anyway. Stupid dreams—why can't I ever dream about good things? Wholesome things? Things that will not send my mind straight into the gutter or to the half-naked poster of him on Maggie's wall? “Yeah, no, it’s fine. Don't worry, my lips are sealed. I don't even have a Twitter account, so you are super safe—”

  He hesitates, running his thumbs up and down his suspenders. “That's not what I meant.”

  “It's not like anything happened, you know," I add dismissively. "We're fine. It's fine.” But it's not fine, because my heart hammers in my ribcage at the sight of him. “Don’t worry, we all have our dirty little secrets.”

  I'm just more familiar with them than most people.

  His eyes widen. "Dirty little...no, that's definitely not what I meant. Last night was—it wasn't..." He's having a hard time finding the right words, which means he's a good guy. Guess the tabloids were wrong, or perhaps people change.

  People can change, right? Isn't that the whole human condition? A playboy rock star turning into a golden-hearted hipster?

  Maybe in my dreams.

  I wave it off. “Really, don’t worry about it. We're cool. I had...fun last night.”

  He nods, rubbing the back of his neck, a little defeated. “Yeah, okay. Okay. So, that's really all..."

  "Yeah, it's fine."

  "Okay." Slowly, he steps back, and then another step, pulling his hands into his pockets to try and make himself shrink into the scenery. He did that last night, too, when we were walking home, as if he wanted to be invisible. That must be awfully lonely, even with Boaz.

  "But," I add, and he stops in his tracks. "If you're not busy...I could use some company for dinner?."

  "And why would you think I'd be busy?"

  "Being an AWOL rock star and all."

  He walks back to the door and leans against the doorframe, an amused look charming his face. "I might can squeeze in a desert too, if you're not too busy."

  I mock-gasp
. "And why would you think I'd be busy?"

  "Oh, you know," he retorts, "going to dinner with an AWOL rock star and all." Then he rakes his emerald gaze down the length of my body, and I blush. I knew I should've gotten dressed before four. "You have a very charming fashion sense. Is that vintage Stones?"

  I nod sheepishly. "And my pajamas. Give me thirty?" I ask.

  He flicks his wrist toward himself to check his non-existent watch. "You have ten minutes."

  I don't move. "You can't be serious."

  "Seven…"

  "I thought you said ten!"

  "Nine, then."

  "That's funny."

  "Eight…"

  And what would I wear? My Roman Holiday underwear and...what? The floral dress Maggie begged me to pack because it was "simply adorbs" on me? I look like a walking flower garden in it.

  "Five…"

  Oh, what the hell.

  "Give me twenty!" I start for the bathroom door, but on second thought, I spin around and jab my finger into his face. "No more running into dumpsters, got it?"

  "Dumpsters?" He looks positively horrified. There's a slight bruise on the bridge of his nose where he bodychecked the one from last night. "Oh, God, they're after me again?!"

  "Drama queen." I roll my eyes and close myself into the bathroom. Twenty-seven minutes later as I straighten the last of my hair, the bathroom door flies open. Roman unplugs my straightener. I squawk in protest. "Hey, I'm not—"

  "You are so done."

  "It's only been like—"

  "Thirty minutes. You look beautiful. Let's go." He wraps his arms around my middle and picks me up, carrying me out the door. I'm so stunned, I simply let him. He called me beautiful.

  Roman Montgomery, probably the sexiest, strangest man at the beach, called me beautiful.

  And he doesn't tell me to keep it a secret.

  Chapter Ten

  The Strand smells like old cigarette smoke and greasy fair food. Vendors hawking painted conch shells and oriental fans litter the boardwalk in front of old retro diners and ice cream shops, beach museums and gaming pits. The entire boardwalk is built on rotten planks of wood hovering precariously over the waves. I used to be scared one of the planks would break and I'd fall into the ocean, but I think they replace the rotten boards with fresh ones every so often.