The Sound of Us (24 page)

My hands unclench as I cross the stage to him and wrap my fingers into his hair, pulling him toward me, crushing my lips against his. He’s surprised at first, jaded, but then as I slide my tongue against his lips, he melts against me in a touch that sizzles all the way down to my toes. He tastes like butterscotch, and smells like cinnamon and fresh laundry, and it’s everything that I remember and dreamed that I wanted, and it’s
mine
.

He breaks away for a split second, surprised, breathless, before he fastens his arms around my waist, picks me up, and swirls me around, his mouth finding mine again in another mind-numbing kiss, and every thought, every worry, spirals off into the galaxy.

A roar begins to fill my ears, rolling like a tidal wave until it becomes a sound all its own. They’re cheering for us.

He laughs against my lips, and sets me down. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he rumbles, and I can see my entire universe in his eyes.

“Yes,” I whisper, and kiss him again.

And the roar is so loud, it makes my ears numb, and sends my heart singing across the Silver Lining like a shooting star.

The lamplights glow like pearls in the brackish orange morning light as Roman and I make our way down the main strip of Asheville. After the last of the patrons left the Lining, Geoff, the waitresses, and I began cleaning up for the last time. Tossing beer bottles into the rolling trashcan, circling up the sound cords, shutting down the stage lights, and the neon under the bar. It was a slow process, I think partly because no one wanted to throw away that last beer.

Maggie was falling asleep at the counter so Boaz opted to take her home, but Roman stayed until the last bottle was thrown away and the last garbage bag kicked into the overstuffed dumpster out back. He stayed for Mom’s farewell speech, and he held me when I bawled my eyes out as she locked the front doors for the last time.

The last time
—those sound like such definite words, but it’s just a building. I used to think that it housed all of the memories of Dad, all the late-night karaoke contests and conversations and perfect moments that made it seem like life itself was infinite. But my memories aren’t locked behind those bright red doors; they follow you like shadows, or like the echo of your favorite song.

It’s four in the morning, the shops are all closed and the bars are empty, and everything is so still and quiet it feels like we’re the only ones left to see the last night come to an end.

My arm fits comfortably through Roman’s, and his thumb, rubs soothingly against the side of my hand.

After I kissed him, he played for two more hours. He fit so perfectly onstage, like putting on a well-worn coat. The way he hugged the microphone during “Piano Man” and the delicacy he put into Bob Dylan’s “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.”

He chose my father’s stage instead of the Gardens, and I’m not sure I’ll ever know why.

As we pass another streetlight, I watch him out of the corner of my eye, as if we’re back to the night we first met, ice cream still sticky in our mouths. Even though his hair is honey brown, cut into one of those new wavy, side-swiped styles, if I squint I can see the shimmer of orange underneath. He doesn’t really look like the posters that used to hang on Maggie’s wall. I can see how some people might think he does by the lazy way he holds back his shoulders and how his face just seems to fall into a pleasant grin, but I don’t see how anyone can think he’s the
same
.

“I’m sort of relieved you aren’t mad at me,” he finally says halfway down the street. “I expected some yelling at least, maybe a little cussing. A slap.”

I trace my finger along the flannel pattern on his shirtsleeve. “You punched Jason Dallas in the face. You earned some brownie points for that.”

“
Really
? Huh.” His lips curl into a wicked grin. “Noted for next time.”

“Next time?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, but what else could “next time” mean if he just came back for tonight?

He glances over at me, the shadows from the streetlight stretching across his strong jaw. I miss his orange hair and the suspenders, and the Buddy Holly glasses. “Well,” he replies slowly, “I mean, if you want to get rid of me...”

“I thought I’d already done that!” I tease, unraveling my arm from his. “Can I ask you a question, in all seriousness?”

He hesitates. “All right...but be gentle.”

A silver car passes and disappears down the road toward the bakery. It’s probably Mac, going to start the bread in the oven. Time shifts from late to early, but I don’t feel it yet, maybe because we’re still waiting for dawn.

I take a deep breath. “How did you know my ice cream flavor?”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That’s the serious question?”

I give him a no-bullshit look. “It’s serious to me, okay? There was this one time when a boy ran into me at that ice cream place…and I think that was you. Was it?”

“
Me
?” His face scrunches in thought, and then it dawns on him. “
You
were the girl I full-frontalled with her ice cream?”

I’m about as shocked as he looks. “Yes! But...if
that
’
s
not how you know it, then
how
? I mean, no bullshit, but you couldn’t have
guessed
.”

He hesitates for a moment, debating, and leans back against the stoplight on the corner. “I met your dad last year before Holly’s funeral.”

“You...you met my
dad
?” My voice breaks at the thought of them meeting. To me, they exist in two different worlds, two things that could never intersect.

He nods and tilts his head just far enough back to look at the sky. There isn’t much light pollution in the mountains, so on clear nights like tonight you can see millions of stars spread overhead like a massive black circus tent.“I wasn’t planning on going to the funeral, but I went home anyway. I don’t know why, guess I was homesick or something. My old man told me to put on his tux and go. He ‘didn’t raise a coward’—” he put the phrase in mock-quotations “—and of course his suit swamped me. An hour or something before the funeral we got into a fight and I walked out. You know, I only lived a few blocks away from that ice cream shack, right? Got my first job there. So that’s where I went, and gorged myself on ice cream. I eat when I’m depressed, just so you know—”

“And my dad was there?”

“Your dad sat down beside me because I was eating alone, and we started talking. He had a—”

“Swirl with sprinkles, right?” Dad never ordered anything else. On the walks home, he’d always stick out his tongue and ask what color it was. Usually, it was piss-brown, but sometimes it would look like an abstract oil painting.

“Nope, he had a vanilla with that cherry stuff. He said his
Junebug
liked it. We talked about the bar. You should’ve heard him...you could tell he really loved it, you know? Then he said I looked familiar, so I told him who I was and when he found out I was going to my best friend’s funeral, he lent me these.” As if he’s exposing a gunshot wound, he pushes back his flannel shirt to reveal bright red suspenders.

My dad
’
s suspenders
.

“He told me they were on
extended loan
until I could make it up to the bar and he could show me around the place...So when I heard you talking to yourself and call yourself ‘Junebug,’ I remembered that the guy from last year mentioned a daughter he called Junebug. I thought there was no way in hell you could be her. What are the fucking odds of that, right?”

“Yeah, the fucking odds,” I echo, not sure if I should be more upset that he didn’t think I was my dad’s daughter, or that he recognized me because I talked to myself in third person.

He chuckles, but it’s warm, as if he doesn’t expect me to be anything different, and turns his eyes to me, beginning to unhook the suspenders from his jeans. “So, now that I’m here...”

I stay his hands. “I think you wear them better than me.”

He juts his chin out a little. “You’re right, I do sort of rock ‘em.”

“Oh,
whatever
. They’ll come in handy when you start losing that pudge.” I poke him in the stomach.

He winces. “You really know how to ruin the moment, Junebug.”

“I like it when you call me that.”

He bends down and presses his lips against my ear, his breath warm and wispy, tickling my neck. “
Junebug
,” he whispers.

My stomach curls into knots.

“Hey Roman! Roman, over here, Roman!”

He snaps ramrod straight and glances over his shoulder, eyebrows knitting together. It’s a man with a camera, and then another one steps out of her car. Paparazzi—
again
. I wilt a little. Whoever dreams of being a celebrity needs to get their head checked. If anything, it’s
annoying.

“And here I thought they were gone,” I grumble, and nod my head across the street. “There’s a back alley where you can lose them.”

“Actually,” he drawls, and outstretches his hand for me to take it, “I think I’ll stay.” Behind him, the gathering dawn begins to curl pinks and oranges into the dark star-studded sky. “Secrets don’t make friends, after all.”

“Just friends?” The moment I ask, I instantly regret it. I don’t want to know the answer.

But then he begins to smile, and I decide that smiling looks so much better on him than anything cheshire. “I was hoping for more. We could start a new trend, be ourselves—you never know, people might actually
like us
.”

The paparazzi are closing in, ready to steal their next meal. I wonder, briefly, if there are any
good
paparazzi, or if they’re all just bloodsucking cockroaches.

His hand falters, as if he thinks I might not take it, but then I fold my fingers into his, and he pulls me into him.

Our lips collide, and the softness of his burns in my stomach with a hunger I can’t sate. Like everything inside of me is dormant and dull until these moments, when his long and calloused fingers cup the side of my face and he sinks into my mouth. . He tastes like every song I want to sing.

The first paparazzo asks if we’re official. Another asks how well he kisses. Do I have any plans for the future? Will I go off with him? How will I respond to the ridicule of dating America’s hottest bad boy? What would Holly think? Where are you going next?

“Everywhere,” Roman answers.

He looks at me for confirmation, the breaking dawn dancing in oranges across his handsome face, and all I can do is kiss him again, on the lips, because I can’t stop kissing him, and I don’t want to. Everywhere doesn’t seem as frightful as it used to be.

Actually, everywhere sounds fantastic.

The Sound of Us
would not be possible without an entire army of people.

First and foremost, to Cheryl and Randy Poston, for being the best darn cheerleaders a daughter could ask for.

To my editor, Meredith Rich, who without her guidance and her support, I would never have gotten this far. Thank you for believing in midnight mini-golfing and radio hearts.

To the band fun, whose albums gave
Roman Holiday
the first spark of life.

To Savvy Apperson, my best friend. Even though our lives might take many unexpected roads, whenever I remember those late-night write-ins, wired on coffee, our cats on catnip, it makes writing alone a little more bearable.

To my extended family—Michelle Scheponick, Ashlie L’Homme-Mueller, Alda Kendall, Lori Pittman, Dora Bowman, Jarad Greene, Christopher Harris, Billy Apperson, Jose “Pepe” Pilar Sanchez, Heather Hamby, Cera Osmialowski, Henry Held, Kathryn Williams, Thomas Creek, Michael Low, Alisha Polkowski, Kelsey Sharp, my fellow Bloomsbury Sparkies, and to all the readers who read
The Sound of Us
in one incarnation or another.

And to the family we lost along the way, Charlie Poston and Daniel Bowman.

This story started on a napkin during a family dinner, and without all of these fantastic people it wouldn’t be where it is today. I hope Roman and Junie will become as good of friends to you as they are to me.

Here’s to many more Plan Bs.

Ashley Poston has a fondness for toe-curling romantic comedies and the perfect music playlist. She currently lives in the South with her cat, takes way too many road trips, and tweets about it all. THE SOUND OF US is her first novel. Visit her at
www.ashleynposton.com

Copyright © 2013 by Ashley Poston
All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce, or otherwise
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may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Published in the United States of America in December, 2013
by Bloomsbury Spark, an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.
www.bloomsbury.com
First published in 2013 by Createspace and Kindle Direct Publishing.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request
ISBN 978-1-61963-470-1

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents, and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

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