Roman Holiday

by Ashleyn Poston

  I turn down the breezeway toward the main office, inspecting my elbows and arms to make sure I don't have any more permanent scarring. What was I thinking? Trespassing in a put-put course?

  So hardcore.

  "Maggie should be proud of me," I mutter. "I must've been batshit crazy tonight."

  I stop just before the door to the front office flies open and step aside to let a tall, dark-haired man pass. He scowls at me, and I'm surprised he doesn't recognize me from the stop-n-shop. I slip into the office, glancing back at the weird man. That can't be a coincidence.

  The poor night auditor looks exactly how I feel. He's a tall and gangly guy with a scruff of blond hair of his chin and a buzzed head. College kid, probably, unlucky enough to work at CherryTree. He gives me a wary once-over. "Can I help you?"

  "What was that guy's problem?" I thumb over my shoulder in the direction the man went.

  "Wanted to know what room someone rented," he replied exasperatedly. "I can't tell people that—you don't want to know either, do you?"

  "Nah." I show him my hand, and add in my worst Cockney accent, "Just need a fixin', doctor."

  He wilts with relief. "That I can do." He stoops down and pulls out a small First-Aid kit. I rub a little Neosporin on my cut before wrapping a bandage over it. "Anything else? Towels? Toilet paper?"

  "Do you have any of that hazelnut coffee from last year?"

  "I think you're in luck..." He disappears into the back and comes out with three packets—enough to last me until Saturday.

  Thank God.

  I take them hungrily and hold them to my chest. "You are a godsend. Have a great rest of the night, and I hope that weird guy doesn't come back. Who was he looking for?"

  He shrugs. "Some girl named Junie Baltimore." I freeze the moment before I start to turn out of the office. "You know her?"

  "...Nope." I force a smile and quickly push out of the doors, hazelnut coffee clamped tightly to my chest.

  Why would someone be looking for me? My first thought is, of course, the police—but he didn't look like police, or even a detective. My second thought comes to the only other sane conclusion I can think of. Why he was at the stop-and-shop. Why Roman hid us behind the clothes turnstile. Why he'd want to know my condo number.

  Paparazzi.

  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 referri
ng 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 fucked." 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."

  Chapter Sixteen

  "What I didn't tell you yesterday," Roman says, spinning around on his toes to face me as we walk to his Mentos green car. It sticks out like a sore thumb in the parking lot. No wonder the paparazzi can follow him wherever he goes. "Is that this car? Her name's Sweat Pea, and she is a very fickle beast. Like most women are."

  "I should take offense to that," I reply dryly.

  He walks backwards on his toes, which is odd but cute, like a kid.

  "I didn't name her." He shrugs and unlocks the car. "So, it's 5:49," he adds as he glances down at his Rolex, probably the most expensive thing I've seen him wear. "Grub or go straight to the bar?"

  "Where're we going?"

  "Where it all started," is his cryptic reply.

  The car cranks with a cough and with a burp of black smoke it rumbles out of the lot. He turns off Ocean Boulevard, down a side road.

  My cell phone begins to vibrate. I swear, if it's Mom wanting to know where I'm going...

  The ID blinks an unsaved number, but I've memorized his number by now. I go to silence it when Roman snatches it out of my hand and answers it.

  “Hello, you've reached the Pizza Palace, where I can be your personal pan pizza for the low price of—”

  Mortified, I snatch my cell phone back and punch END. “Are you crazy?”

  “What?” He laughs. “They’ll call back if it’s important.”

  I purse my lips into a thin line and stuff my phone back into my purse. I guess he’s right. Not that Caspian will call back. Am I even in his phone, or am I an unknown number like he is in mine? What sort of lovers—friends, even—are not listed in each other's cell phones?

  The leather squeaks a little against my shorts. Roman let me take a shower and change before we left the condo—thank God, because despite loving the smell of adventure on my clothes, salt water and grass doth not perfume make.

  I reach for the radio, but he slaps my hand away. “Ow! Jeez, I just wanted to turn it on.”

  “Driver picks the tunes, shotgun forfeits the right to complain.”

  “Those are stupid rules."

  With a quick flick of his fingers, he turns the radio to one of the presets. It instantly goes to a talk show. I sigh. Well, at least it’s about music.

  “Better?” he asks, knowing full well that no, it isn’t.

  "Sure, I just love boring middle-aged men talking about crescendos and treble clefts. Almost better than a station dedicated to Roman Holiday."

  "Good, then you'll love this one."

  He drives in silence, listening to the NPR show about classic music. And not of the rock and roll variety. Does he actually understand this blather about andantes and sharps and dolces? I barely know what a crescendo is.

  He turns into a gas station and taps the broken fuel gauge. It's been stuck on empty for three miles now. “N
ever too careful,” he says as an excuse, and gets out, grabbing a clip fold of cash from the middle compartment.

  "Do you just have money hidden everywhere?" I joke, pretending to look in the back seat. I look under a McDonald's bag. "Nope, not there."

  He chuckles. "I’ll leave it running while I go in. It's hot as balls outside."

  "You're so kind." I drop the bag back and wipe my fingers on his shirtsleeve. He has on his own band shirt today. It's white and purple with the silhouettes of him and Holly in the logo. Narcissistic much? "Where did you find this shirt? Goodwill?"

  "You're hilarious. Want a Coke or something?”

  “Water."

  “Sure thing. Candy, gum?”

  “I’m good.”

  “You sure? They might have the little sucky sour straw things…”

  "Well..." I debate. "Only if they have the green ones, and if so I'd like a diet soda, if not then nothing at all."

  Confusion crosses his chocolate eyebrows. "Not even water?"

  "No, water but no sucky straws or soda."

  "Ah..." Shaking his head, he briskly makes his way over to the building. I think I saw a smile, too.

  The skin on my legs makes a horrible sticky noise as I slide down in the seat. Maybe I can text Caspian and tell him what that was all about...

  But why should I?

  No, must resist the urge. I try to sit back up in the seat, but the skin on my leg sticks. I hate pleather seats. My sweat somehow solidifies my legs to the pleather. Painfully, I pry one leg up and my knee hits the dashboard. The compartment pops open with a snap and a CD case slides out and hits the floorboards with a sharp clatter.

  I pick up the case and pop it open. The burned CD inside is labeled in sloppy chicken-scratch handwriting, Untitled EP. He still burns CDs? That's sort of adorable. I haven't burned a CD since the iPod was invented. Curiously, I pop it into the antique CD player. I don’t know if the player even works anymore, but here’s to hoping.