The Sound of Us (7 page)

“High school,” 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 pillow 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 what he’s doing, 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.

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 I was special when he called me that, one of a kind.

Then, this stranger calls me
Junebug
. He said 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.

“Junie! Thank God, you’re back!”

I snap out of my thoughts, whirling around to Darla coming out of the condo next door, throwing her arms wide to embrace 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 really 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 bunch 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 man of the night. I close the door behind me, and fall face-first into the couch.

Four more days until I’m homeward bound, but it feels like forever.

Stretching, I fix myself a cup of coffee and close myself out on the balcony so I don’t wake up Mom and Chuck. Caspian left a voicemail last night, so I should probably call him back and be a good non-girlfriend. But I find myself online instead, searching for Roman Montgomery sightings.

There isn’t a single picture of us from last night—thank God. One person on a forum said she saw him in Myrtle Beach, but no one believed her. But she reminds me of the only Holidayer I actually care about, so I dial my best friend’s number. She picks up in two rings.

“Good morning,” 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 begin to trace the hairline scar across my knee where I fell on a broken bottle while playing in the bar when I was nine. “I met someone last night.”

“Ooh!” Maggie’s voice jumps 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, 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
.

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.