The Sound of Us

by Poston, Ashley

  “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, Roman doesn’t have a contract anymore. Muse Records dropped him. 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 like a thousand times when I read that. The record company even gave their Madison Square gig to Jason Dallas. This is huge, Juniper.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “This is bad.”

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

  “But why wouldn’t he?”

  Rolling my eyes, I slouch down in the chair and prop my feet up on the railing. A seagull hovers in the air, cutting against the beach breeze. “Mags, think about it. What does he have to come back to?”

  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 it was Geoff. Like, out in the wild. 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. “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 flying 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 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 peepho—oh.”

  Orange hair. Suspenders. The Kinks 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. “Yeah, no, it’s fine. Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. In fact, I really don’t even go on the internet, 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 is hammering in my ribcage at the sight of him.

  His eyes widen. “No, that’s definitely not what I meant. Last night was—it wasn’t...”

  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. He must be awfully lonely, even with Boaz.

  I push my hair behind my ear in frustration. “What are you doing for dinner?” He stops in his tracks, and that prompts me to go on. “I—I mean, not like a date or anything, but company? My parents have gone to some stupid dinner and left me here so...”

  It’s almost as though he’s relieved when he returns to my door. “Yeah?”

  “I mean, if you’d like a friend.”

  An amused look charms his face. “I’d like a friend and dessert 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.”

  “Pop star,” I correct.

  He looks positively stricken. “What, do I need to grow my hair out? Get more tattoos? Sing about sex, drugs, and more sex?”

  “It might help,” I reply jokingly. “But fine, an AWOL rock star.”

  “Ah, music to my ears.” 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.

  “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 glances around in horror. There’s a slight bruise on the bridge of his nose where he body-checked 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 in the world, 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.

  “Didn’t there used to be a roller coaster here?” Roman asks, frowning at the expanse of weeds and dirt that takes up an entire block.

  “Yeah,” I reply, shrugging. “They tore it down. Owners couldn’t afford to keep it open...but I think the roller coaster moved to another amusement park down the street.”

  “The really small one with the weird kid rides?” He makes a face.

  “I know, right? Ghastly.”

  “I hate that everything changes.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking across the hills of grass and dirt where a theme park once sat. “Sort of unfair, you know? Everything changes and suddenly you feel like one of those bent puzzle pieces.”

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  At night, the boardwalk turns into a whirling, twisting stream of lights and colors. Carnival bulbs and neon lights illuminate everything as the pops and hisses and boings and whirs of games and cooking grease and children playing skeet ball crash together in idiosyncratic harmony. When was the last time I came to the Strand? I can’t remember.

  Maybe it was when the magic of deep-fried Oreos wore off, or maybe it was when I realized that the carnival games were rigged, and the moving statues that line the boardwalk are really out-of-work actors.

  Everything is achingly familiar, as if I can just turn around and Dad will be right behind me, asking to dance to the beach music playing at the bandstand or share a corndog. It was on this boardwalk that he taught me how to dance, my feet atop his, as we shimmied to “Good Rockin’ Tonight” and “Brown Eyed Girl.” Do they even play beach music on the Strand at night anymore?

  I rub the ache in my chest, hoping Roman doesn’t notice, and lean against the railing. Waves knock against the boardwalk, trash mixed with the foamy yellow-white waves, as a flock of seagulls fight over an abandoned French fry a few feet away.

  He leans against the railing next to me, and spits over the edge. Like a kid, I swear.

  I turn around and gather my hair over my shoulder. “What’s it like singing in front of a crowd?”

  “Odd question. What brought this up?”

  I shrug. “My family owns a bar—the Silver Lining. Bands play there sometimes, and I’ve just wondered. I’m a shitty singer, and I can’t play an instrument worth my life, so I’ll never know.”

  “That’s an odd name for a bar,” he comments.

  “Roman Holiday’s an odd name for a band.”

  He tips further over the edge of the railing, giving in. “Imagine being blinded by stage lights. Not knowing where anyone is, but you can feel a million eyes on you, staring at you, like you are the middle of the universe. And the noise...it roars.” He pulls himself straight again, closing his eyes, as if he’s there, imagining the sound. “It drowns out everything—absolutely everything. This sound...it’s transient and consuming. I feel alive when I’m up there, Junebug, like my blood is on fire and every note just consumes me. It’s crazy.”

  I cock my head. “Then why don’t you go back? You and Boaz? Start over? The Madison Square gig, I’m sure you could still play.”

  He finally opens his eyes, and his eyebrows furrow. For a moment, I don’t think he’ll answer me, but then his shoulder slump a little and he shakes his head, as if even entertaining the idea makes him tired. “You can’t always get what you want.”

  “Rolling Stones, 1969, in the album Let It Bleed.”

  He shakes his head with a chuckle. “Radio heart.”

  I timidly place my hand on top of his on the railing. His hand is warm and soft as I curl my fingers into his palm. “Maybe you’ll get what you need.”

  He looks down at my hand and smiles, bringing it up to his lips, and kisses my knuckles. A thank you. Warmth blooms in my belly, and flushes against my cheeks. “Maybe I will. How about some pizza?” he asks, letting go of my hand.

  “We definitely need pizza,” I reply, trying to not sound too disappointed. I don’t even know what I’m disappointed about, but I rub my knuckles where the skin still tingles from his lips.

  Chapter Eleven

  Roman stops in mid-step in front of an airbrush parlor, and I run smack into the back of him. “Oof! Hey, at least gimme a head’s up when you stop—”

  A man with inky black hair surfaces from the surf shop next door. The man from the stop-n-shop a few nights ago. The eagle feather is pinned into the ribbon on his gray fedora tonight. He picks into his bag of cotton candy for a blue puff and eats it.

  Roman grabs my forearm. My eyebrows scrunch. “Do you know him?”

  “Nope”—and suddenly he shoves me into the airbrush parlor and behind a clothes turnstile, grabbing a dorky Myrtle Beach hat from the top of it as we pass. He holds it up beside our faces facing the street, and we’re so close his hot breath warms my lips, too close for comfort.

  Maybe he’ll...

  Roman jerks me down below the clothes rack until the man finally passes. After a minute, he pulls away and returns the hat to its proper place as if nothing happened. I turn to the cashier to make sure she’s giving us a funny look, and sure enough, she is.

  Okay, so that actually happened.

  “Roman?” I go to grab his shirt but my hand comes up empty. I pale. “Roman?” The orange of his hair hangs a right out of the store. “ROMAN!” I run out of the store after him and catch up on the sidewalk. “What was that for?”

  “What was what for?” he asks flippantly.

  “Please, don’t do that.”

  “Do what? I’m starving. Where’s this pizza place again?”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Impossibly possible,” he corrects. “Ah-hah! I knew it was over here somewhere.”

  I scowl and follow him into the nearby pizza joint. It’s a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant with cheap beer and free smells. Locals scatter across the dry-rotted booths, watching some soccer team at the World Series on the small TV in the corner. We order two sodas and a large olive and mushroom pizza, and sit down at one of the cracked vinyl booths. The lighting is low, and terrible, and the walls are this horrendous eggshell white with kitschy Italian pictures and signs strung up with duct tape. The pizza is the sort you can fold in half, and watch the grease trickle down onto your plate like water.

  Roman takes another slice, popping a fallen mushroom into his mouth. “How the hell do you like mushroom and olives?” he asks between chews.

  “I should be asking you the same thing. Weirdo,” I tease.

  “Oh, yeah we are.” He lifts his soda and we clink glasses. “It’s a wonder you’re single—you are single, aren’t you?” he adds, more curious than nervous.

  I shrug, eating another olive. “I dunno. I’ve been too busy for a relationship. I mean...there’s this guy, but it’s nothing serious. He’s about to go off to college, and I’m about to stay put. When we started seeing each other I was...in a bad place. But to him, I was enough.”

  “Enough...I like that. The whole notion of it. My manager told us to be perfect, to be examples. We weren’t good enough. We had to be better. What a different world I’d live in if he just wanted Holly, Boaz, and me to be enough.”

  I look down at my uneaten crust of pizza. “Too bad it’s a faulty notion. Because being enough is never good enough.”

  “I think your hair is pink enough,” he offers.

  “And I think your hair is orange enough. But it’s not good enough, right? You can’t honestly say you were aiming for that color.”

  His nose scrunches. “You’re right. I wasn’t. Were you aiming for that pink?”

  “I wasn’t really aiming for anything,” I reply, picking another olive off my next slice. I can only eat half of it while he devours the rest of the pizza. “Must be nice, not having to watch your weight.”

  “Are you kidding?” he downs the last bite with a gulp of soda. “I ate nothing but salads for thre
e years straight. I had to buy new jeans four months ago. Living on Ramen noodles is killing my figure.”

  “Isn’t that a shame. You had such nice abs too,” I joke, but he just gives me this pained look. “Mag’s has that poster, yeah,” I clarify, “then one where you’re all, you know...ripped.”

  “That really doesn’t surprise me. Ready to go?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  He takes my hand, fingers lacing into mine, and pulls me out of the booth. We blend into the swelling evening crowd, and follow them across the boardwalk. A sign pointing toward the beach is lit up, and we follow the arrow onto the sand. The beach at night reminds me of those old grainy black and white movies, the moon painting everything in monochromatic colors. The stars shimmer as if they’re fireflies stuck in a vat of molasses.

  He flunks down on the sand, spreading his legs wide. “I always thought I’d retire to the beach, but that hasn’t worked out so far. What do you think, this a good enough spot to start?”

  I sink down beside him and dig my toes into the sand. “My dad used to say the same thing.” It feels so strange to bring Dad into conversation, but in the good sort of way. Like when you can’t hold a sneeze in any longer.

  “Yeah? I mean, who doesn’t love the beach, right? Sand, surf, beachside bars, girls in tiny bikinis...”

  “Not necessarily in that order,” I mutter under my breath.

  He chuckles, running the thick white sand through his hands. His orange hair glows like frozen fire from the light pollution on the Strand. After a moment, he tilts his head to the side, as if something flicked his ear. “Do you hear that?”

  “The...waves?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No, listen.”

  I cock my head, but all I can hear is the roar of the ocean. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Yeah, you do.” Then he begins to hum. I recognize the tune immediately, and my ears prickle at the sound of faint, but real, music. A band, somewhere, is playing a song. The bandstand does play shag music at night after all.

  I grin. “Van Morrison. ‘Into the Mystic.’”