"And I can finally make my potato salad," Mom adds. "I always get stuck making the deserts!"
I start shaking my head. "Guys, no, you don't really have to—"
"This Friday?" Mom reaches into her purse and flips open her planner. "I'll pencil it in and call Darla. We'll show them how to do a cookout. Oh, darling, who was that on the phone?"
“I dunno—”
The phone rings again. I answer it. “Hi, this is the Conways.”
“Is there a Junie Baltimore?” asks a voice.
Not another one.
“This is her..."
“I'm from the National. Is it true that you have had past relations with Roman Montgomery?"
“Excuse you—?”
“And that you sold him out to the paparazzi for fifteen minutes of fame?”
My mouth gapes open. I can't even figure up a response that is anything short of a spew of profanities. Finally, I manage to say, “Who the hell is this?”
“And,” the woman goes on, “that you and your friend...Magdalena Strieveport?...desecrated Holly Hudson's gravesite during the vigil?"
If I call this reporter all of the names those letters called me, I wouldn't be any better than them—but that doesn't mean I don't want to. For all I know, she's taping this conversation. And waiting for something to nibble at. So, I do the only thing I know how to—I slam the phone down on the charger.
No wonder Roman always ran.
Chuck and Mom give me a confused look, abandoning their cake pops. "Darling...who's calling? You look pale."
"Hell," I whisper, somewhat frightened.
The phone rings again.
Chuck checks the caller ID. "Who's in Chicago? Junie, do you know anyone in Chicago?"
"The Cubs?" I guess.
"Maybe I should answer it..."
“Junebug," Mom's voice sounds calm, but she always sounds calm when she's nervous or upset. At Dad's funeral, she was the most composed out of any of us. The rumors started then, because no one else lived in our house to know she waited until she locked her bedroom door to cry. “Is there something wrong?”
Chuck waves the cordless phone around. "Should I answer it?"
"NO!" Mom and I snap in unison before I race back up the stairs and grab my cell phone, punching in Maggie’s number with shaking fingers. She picks up after the first ring, as if expecting me. “Mags, what's going on? People are calling me—I have fucking hate mail! Please, tell me you know what’s going on.”
Her voice is solemn when she answers, and as dry as death. “Bb, you’re gonna totes hate this. You're really gonna totes hate this. I can see your house. Right now.”
"Are you outside?"
"No."
Then, like the fucking cherry on the cake, the doorbell rings. Chuck calls me back downstairs again. His voice is urgent.
"Coming!" I call, and hiss into the phone, "What did he do?" She doesn't need elaboration on who he is.
She clears her throat. "Well...let's just say that those photos we gave Roman? They're live. And I'm staring at one right now on the front page of the New York Times."
"New York Times..." I sink down onto my bed with the weight of her words. "He went public with them."
"No, an anon went public with them. And John is fighting back."
"By making up stories," I finish.
"Let's just say there's a whole fuckload of yellow journalism," she replies grimly. "I hope the NYU admissions office doesn't read the papers."
"Maggie, I'm so sorry—"
She cuts me off before I can even start to grovel. "Like hell this is your fault, Junie! It'll blow over."
My stomach twists. "Probably just another week or two, right?"
"Yeah." I can tell she doesn't sound so convinced either. "Don't you have to be at work soon?"
I nod, although she can't see it, and rise to my feet again. Chuck hollers at me from the living room, and I take the stairs two at a time down. He and Mom are standing guard by the front door. They both look as pale as sheets.
"We...have a problem," Chuck admits grimly.
The doorbell rings again.
Keep yourself together. I duck into the dining room and pull back the curtains. No, we don't just have a problem. We have close to thirty problems loitering on our lawn. Three media vans. And a group of high schoolers with signs calling me names I'd really rather not read.
"Maggie, they're here. On my doorstep," I inform.
She groans. "Fuck-tastic."
"What do I do?" One of the paparazzo notices me in the window and raises his camera, but I drop the curtain again and step away from the window before he can catch me. "I can't leave my house!"
"Okay...okay...Plan B?" she offers helplessly.
"Because showing my boobs for a second time will really make things better!" I hiss.
"Jeez, it was just a suggestion! Don't have to get all brimstone on me."
Suddenly, Chuck marches back across the house into his study, which used to be Dad's study, and comes back out with a Winchester shotgun. Mom blanches. "Now, darling..."
"Honey, they're in my flowerbed," he replies simply, as if that's any justification for shooting a man, and throws open the front door. He steps out with his shotgun and yells "Get the hell out of my yard!" When no one moves, he pumps it once—and that's all it takes. The people on the lawn scatter like roaches. "If any one of you steps in my flowers again, you'll find a bullet in your ass quicker than you can call a lawyer!" He turns, marches back inside, and slams the door. "Junie." His voice is level and scarily calm.
"Maggie, I'll call you later." I hang up. "Yeah, uh, Chuck?"
"Get dressed. I'm taking you to work—"
I try to wave him off. "I can call in sick."
"Junie."
"No, really, I'll just call Geoff and tell him that I won't be coming in to—"
"Now."
I snap ramrod straight with the urge to salute him. "Be ready in ten," I reply, and dart up the stairs again.
Eight minutes later, Chuck tells me to duck down into the floorboards of the SUV—which is much bigger than my station wagon, thank God—as he reverses out of the garage and down the driveway. I pull my jacket hood over my head as an extra precaution. He almost runs over a cameraman as he turns out onto the street.
By the time I'm dropped off at the back door to the Lining, everyone's seen the news. They—Mindi, Jess, even Geoff—stare at me like three deer in headlights. Do they really not have anything better to watch? It's as if they're waiting for Roman to just show up. Get real. He's a thousand miles away by now. When I dump my purse on the back counter, Geoff begs me to give him the deets.
"Don't you have work to do?" I snap, unraveling the sound cords from underneath the sound booth.
Mom booked a gig tonight, or else I'd lose my mind. I already told Hal not to let anyone who looks remotely paparazzi-like inside. I'm sure they won't try to fight him for the door. Pulling the black chords over my shoulder, I haul them up to the stage and begin connecting the mikes and speakers for the night.
Because I fired our only sound guy, looks like I'll be taking the board for a test-drive tonight.
"Do you know who's playing tonight?" I ask my bartender.
"Band called The Black Sheep." He shrugs, opening up the refrigerator to count the stock. "Big in Columbia, but I've never heard of them."
"If they're from Cola they're probably some new-age indie metal shit," I reply, hooking up the speakers. There's a squeal of live feed before I kick the mikes away. "So, anything new happen while I was gone?"
"Oh, the usual, love." Geoff counts the pale ales. "Massive orgies. BDSM parties. Naked Jell-O wrestling..."
"Did you let women enter this time?"
He mocks a gasp. "Why, of course not! This was heathen central, thank you very much." Closing the refrigerator, he hops up to sit on the bar and swings his legs over. "Tell me, how tight is Roman Montgomery's ass?"
"Pretty tight," I answer.
"And abs? As rock-climbable as GQ said?" He wiggles a black eyebrow.
I laugh. "I honestly didn't check." When he narrows his eyes I elaborate, "But his chest was pretty rock-solid when I danced with him?"
"You danced with RoMo? Oh be still my beating, bloody, black heart!" He cries, clutching his chest, and mock-falls across the bar. "You are such a lucky bitch."
"Uh-huh, so lucky I got arrested."
"For streaking. Ballsy, love, but I dig it. All in the name of love!"
I kick the rest of the cords into the wings of the stage and hop down, wiping my hands on the backside of my jeans. "Speaking of love, anything new with you?" I quirk an eyebrow, wanting him to just come out and tell me.
He hesitates. "Well, love..." Then, his eyes rise to the front door opens. He seems to both illuminate and wilt at the same time. "Oh, Cas."
A chill creeps down my spine. I turn, slowly, to the entrance. Caspian closes the door behind him. Achingly gorgeous, as always, his platinum blond hair swept back, cornflower blue eyes glittering in the dim Lining glow. He's wearing a white v-neck shirt with a plaid over-shirt and skinny jeans. My stomach twists into a knot until I remember that he doesn't swing my way, and then the sight of him just makes me mad. Did he know, that night, that he was gay? Did he know and still have sex with me because...
"Why?" I find myself saying aloud, and then add, "...Are you here?
He stops in his footsteps and purses his lips together. Geoff slides off the bar, hesitantly shifting his eyes between the two of us.
"I'm not staying long," Cas says. "I just wanted to stop by to tell you..."
"That you're gay?"
He prickles at the word. "That, and..."
I shake my head. "We're not open yet. Sorry, you'll have to leave."
"Baby—"
"Do not baby me," I snap vehemently.
His gaze snaps down to his shoes. "Can I apologize at least?"
"Sure, you just did." He tries to say something else, but I don't let him. "You really can leave," I add, sliding behind the bar to get myself a glass of water. I'm not really thirsty, but it's something to do to get my mind off of him. This whole situation. Everything.
Cas gives Geoff a helpless look, and Geoff caves. "Hear him out, love?" Nervously, he pulls his hand through his curly hair and a new ring glints on his finger. Mine and Cas's high school ring. Geoff didn't go to our high school.
So, Caspian just didn't like to have coffee with me.
Cas begins to back away the longer I'm silent. He twitches back toward the entrance, and I let him get there before I say, "I just want to know one thing."
"Yeah, anything."
"Did you know you were gay when we...?"
He turns around and gives one slow, concise nod. "Yes."
Oddly, I'm okay with that answer. I set the glass down on the counter. "And were you seeing someone else while we were...?"
He swallows, his cornflower eyes flickering to Geoff. "Junie, my parents...if they knew...I didn't mean for things to go like this. I thought if I had you, then my parents wouldn't find out about...but then you wanted to get serious and we already had it planned and..."
I trace my index finger around the lip of the glass. "So, you used me."
"Junie, if I could take it back, I would."
"I didn't know he was seeing you either, love, until after Maggie ousted us at the Bean," Geoff adds, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm sorry, too, if that's any consolation."
"It's not your fault." I shake my head. "And you can't give me back my virginity, either."
All color drains from Cas's face.
"You were her first?" Geoff whips around to Cas, his shoulders clenching like a feral cat. "You had—you two—you never said you had sex with her!"
But it's like Cas doesn't even hear him. He stares at me in a mixture of disbelief and self-disgust. He puts a hand to his mouth, shaking his head.
Geoff slams his fist into the counter. "You didn't tell me that! And her first?"
"I—I didn't know," my ex-boyfriend mutters into his hand. When Geoff begins to shake his head Caspian adds in a voice that's so sincere it cracks, "You're everything to me, Geoff. I'm so, so sorry."
Cas has this expression, like a wet puppy in the rain, that makes me sort of cave. Caspian really didn't know that I was a virgin. For all I know, he was, too. Or maybe he wasn't—the point is, we never talked about it.
Geoff scrubs the back of his head. "Cas, this is too Springer for me. These sorrys taste like shit—"
"I forgive him," I interrupt.
I want to be angry with him, but I must've misplaced my anger somewhere. Or maybe I'm just too tired of being angry to care. Perhaps, that's worse. Caspian is a dick, yeah. He pushed people into lockers and he called people Camel-toes and Humpbacks behind their backs, and he dragged me along for six months as we pretended to be attracted to the people we made up in our heads, but people can change, right? Isn't that what Roman swore?
"I'll forgive him," I repeat.
Geoff stares at me like I've grown two heads. "Really? Really?"
"Really?" Cas echoes, just as perplexed.
"Yeah, really. I can't blame you, it takes two to tango and I really...I should've said no, anyway. I didn't want to that night, but I thought you did."
"And I thought you did."
"And still, everyone forgot to tell me they were fucking!" Geoff throws up his hands. "You know, Cas, I was fine with being your secret as long as you loved me, but I can't. Not after this. Either you love me and come clean to everyone, or we're done."
Cas begins to shake his head. "No, Geoff—"
Geoff slams his hand down on the countertop, his voice so loud it cracks. "Get the hell out of my bar!"
He tries to argue again, but Geoff vibrates with so much anger all Cas can do is retreat.
I watch him go, helpless, but when he's gone I place a hand on Geoff's shoulder. "I'm sorry," I whisper.
"It's not your fault, boss." He hangs his head, and his muscles unwind until he wilts. "The course of true love never did run smooth."
"It just runs away," I agree, and rub comforting circles on his back as he sinks to the counter and buries his head into his arms.
Tuesday
Chapter Thirty-Three
The Black Sheep were new-metal indie rock. And terrible at that. They screamed the entire time, and the guitarist fell off the stage drunk before the end of the set. What's worse, instead of drawing a crowd, they repelled people like the Black Plague. That should've been their band name.
I still have a headache from that stupid band when I wake up in the morning. Sleeping only made it worse. That, and the paranoia setting in. A paparazzo got a shot of me changing into my PJs last night and thirty minutes later, it was viral on every Roman Holiday forum on the net. The most constructive criticism I got was "Slut nds 2 wrkout."
Welcome to Junie's Hell.
Chuck has to drive me to the Lining again. Second day on the floorboards and it's getting old.
Twisting my hair up into a sloppy bun, I tell Geoff, "I'm taking ten before we open. Didn't get a chance to eat dinner."
"Sure thing boss." He salutes. There are dark circles under his eyes where he didn't get much sleep. He managed to keep himself together during hours last night, but he ducked out the moment we closed. I think he's still in the clothes he wore yesterday. "We getting any deliveries today?"
"The usual Tuesday shipment. Stock what you can and put the rest in the back." I grab my purse and return his salute.
"Don't get caught!" he hollers after me.
I pull up the hood of my jacket and open the front door. A paparazzo leaning against a meter perks and snaps a few shots before I dash by him. He follows me halfway down the street until I lose him in a boutique and pop out the back entrance. That's one good thing about Asheville, I guess. Bookstores sit beside coffee shops that sit beside art galleries and bakeries and eclectic shops you can get lost in for hours. Dad and I used to walk t
hrough downtown every Wednesday while Mom went to her book club meeting at the library. She doesn’t go to book club anymore—although with how well my slut-shame has gotten around, she might be welcomed back with open arms.
I rarely walk downtown anymore. It’s as if Dad’s ghost follows me wherever I go, breathing down my neck, so that I’m both alone and never alone, always with him and without him. Kind of like whenever I turn on the radio and hear him.
I duck into my favorite bakery and wave at the cashier, Mac, behind the counter. “So what’ll it be?” Mac asks. “I got a good cheesecake today.”
“I’m in a double-chocolate mood,” I reply, and he cuts me a piece of plush chocolate cake, nutty peanut butter lining—the works. It’s decadent and savory, Dad’s favorite. Mine too, when I am on the verge of an emotional breakdown.
Paparazzi, Roman, foreclosure...
I'm pretty sure my life is beginning to rival a soap opera.
On the way home from the beach, Maggie discussed her plans for saving the Lining. She calls it Operation Rock-N-Hard-Place, because that's exactly where the Lining is now. A car wash wouldn't be enough money, and since the only gigs that come through our bar are the local kind, a benefit concert is out of the question. I don't want to tell Maggie that the future looks bleak, but in a month she won't have to worry about it anymore. She'll be at NYU studying journalism. Caspian will be at Northwestern.
And I'll be here, eating double-chocolate cake and listening to Roman Holiday on the radio, and consoling Geoff. The paparazzi will die down soon enough when they realize I'm nothing to Roman Montgomery. He hasn't even made a public statement about me. After the photos ran, he emerged in L.A. with his manager and answered everything the press asked him—about the photos, about his music, where he's been for the past eleven months. But the moment they bring up my name? Interview over. Like I really am a secret—or worse, not important enough to be a secret.
A pair of high schoolers at the window table—they look like sophomores—suddenly gasp. One flips her long, black hair back and asks Mac, “Hey, turn it up! It's about Roman Holiday!"
Mac reaches back and turns up the volume. "I thought they were broken up."
Roman Holiday Page 16
