The Sound of Us

  “When she sold you out to the tabloids?” Nick asks.

  I clench my hands. “I did not.”

  “She stole the memory card from that guy,” Roman corrects, and he begins to loosen up a little bit again. Boaz glances over at Jason, who seems to be enjoying the crowd a little too much. “And I’m thankful she gave me those photos. It gives Boaz and me closure. It gives our fans closure.”

  At the word, Jason whips back to Nick Lively. “Closure? I’m sorry, but wasn’t that what the funeral was for?”

  Roman slides a disgustingly easy smile onto his face, like he’s rehearsed it. It reminds me of the way he pulled his face into nonchalance at the Isla Lona, so fake it almost looks animatronic. “Do you have a problem with the photos, Jay?”

  “Oh, not unless you use her photos as an easy way back into the comfortable life you so crassly abandoned a year ago—oh wait.”

  “I’m not using them like that,” Roman snaps.

  The Prince of Punk scoffs. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Do I gotta be between these bros?” Boaz interjects almost painfully.

  “Uh,” Nick Lively scoots to the edge of his seat, darting his eyes nervously between the polar opposites on the couch, “speaking of Holly...Roman, you released an unexpected EP earlier this week, ‘Your Song Sweetly.’ It’s definitely a break from your usual.”

  Roman seems thankful for the interference. “The label needed something from me, so that’s it.”

  “Who did you write it for?” presses the anchorman. “It’s beautiful, if not a little, uh...”

  “Not in your usual repertoire,” Jason finishes for him. “No synthetic basses, no dubstep, and you’re actually singing. I didn’t realize you had talent. Maybe little Miss Pinky did inspire you after all...”

  I’m beginning to like him less and less the more he’s on air.

  Behind me, Mom makes a noise in her throat. “You can tell that young man’s a diva.”

  “I think he’s simply an ass,” Chuck argues.

  Roman pulls on his earlobe, seeming to think the same thing. “I’m sorry, but I thought he was asking the questions.” Roman nods to Nick, the most passive-aggressive “shut up” I’ve ever heard. “And can we please stop talking about Junie? She’s done nothing wrong, so please refrain from making dick assumptions.”

  The emo-punker flips back a lock of pitch black hair, and goes on, “Too bad, really. Hope this one doesn’t off herself, too.”

  Roman’s diabolically passive expression fractures then, and he shoots Jason a look of pure rage. “I suggest you shut up.”

  Jason puts his head on his hand, propping his elbow up on the arm of the couch. “She might’ve been a good fuck—I can say that word here, can’t I?”

  Nick Lively begins shaking his head, “Actually—oh shit!”

  Boaz ducks Roman’s fist as it connects with Jason’s face, and he flips over the arm of the couch.

  The camera shakes and cuts away to Nick Lively, who stretches a hundred-watt smile over his lips although the rest of his face hasn’t transitioned yet. “Tomorrow evening, Roman Holiday will open to a sold-out crowd for Jason Dallas’s BLACKHEARTED tour. Comment on our page for a chance to win exclusive VIP ticke—”

  I punch the OFF button on the TV and turn around to Mom and Chuck. “I didn’t imagine that, did I?”

  Mom and Chuck exchange a look of sheer disbelief.

  “I…think I’m going to be late for work.” Chuck excuses himself from the room, grabbing his tie on the kitchen counter as he leaves. Mom leaves me kneeling in front of the TV as a grin, slowly, begins to break across my face.

  Roman fought for me. Maybe not much. Maybe just a little.

  But a punch in the face is a start.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I trace my fingers over the slick faux-mahogany countertop, drawing smiley faces and shooting stars in the condensation, remembering how much Maggie and I used to gripe and complain about the humidity. Dad always said he’d fix the air conditioning, and he never did, and now it looks like I won’t be able to either.

  Sometimes, on afternoons like this when I’m the first one here, I can see Dad in the corner of my eye. He’s whistling Bruce Springsteen while counting out the registers. He’s in the last seat at the bar, drinking his Sam Adams and smoking a cigar. He’s leaning against the jukebox, calling me over to ask me what I want to hear.

  “I saw that rock star today on the news,” says a voice from the front door.

  I jerk my head up and spin around on the bar stool. Caspian sits down at the bar beside me. His hair is pulled up today, and he’s wearing a fun. band t-shirt. I swallow the sudden urge to shout him out of the bar. “Pop star,” I correct instead.

  “Punched the shit out of Jason Dallas, huh? Did you see how fast Boaz ducked? Reminds me when Holly almost nailed him in the face when she threw one of her Jimmy Choos at Roman onstage in Vegas.”

  I stare at him for a moment before, suddenly, it makes sense. “You’re a Holidayer.”

  He looks down at his fingernails. “Closet Holidayer.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “Closet lot of things, it seems.”

  I stare at the hearts and stars I drew into the condensation on the countertop. “So that night...”

  “I didn’t know.” He takes a deep breath and turns to me on his stool.

  With my pointer finger, I begin drawing a tail to my shooting star. “So, when did you know? About Geoff?”

  He chews on his bottom lip. “Geoff wrote me a love letter.”

  “A love letter?” I ask incredulously.

  “Oh shut up. He wrote me a note. On a napkin. In a coffee shop. It sounded a lot less dumb in my head. “

  I burst into laughter. “Dumb? That sounds—”

  “Gay?” He deadpans.

  “Romantic. I didn’t think you went for romance. You have electric candles on your headboard for God’s sake!”

  He rolls his eyes and elbows me in the side. “I said shut up! Do you think I’ve got a bat’s chance in hell anymore?”

  I sigh. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “Right. Thanks.” He slides off the barstool and walks towards the door. “Oh, and Junie?” he calls at the front door.

  I tear my eyes away from the hearts and stars to him again. “Yeah?”

  “Just so you know, you’re one hell of a kisser.”

  I don’t know why, but somehow that makes me feel absolutely fantastic.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “This is so not fantastic.”

  I pace the length of the bar, checking the time on my phone. It’s six-thirty, and people are already showing up for the party. Food is laid out across the bar, the beers are cold, and for once it’s not so humid outside it fogs up the windows. There is even a banner strung across the middle of the stage reading ‘WE’LL MISS YOU’ that I think is more for a going away than a closing-forever party, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

  Everything is perfect.

  Except the band’s not here, so it’s a complete disaster.

  I grapple for Geoff’s arm as he passes to get another patron a drink. “Where the hell are they?” I hiss.

  “They’ll be here—they just got caught up.”

  “Where? Who are they? Do you have their phone number?”

  He gives me a whoa-girl motion with his hands. “Boss, slow down and enjoy it, all right?”

  I glance around at the crowd. There’s more people here than I’ve seen in years. No one has elbow room. I mean, I know Dad knew a lot of people and a lot of people loved the bar…but some of these people I’ve never even seen before.

  “By the way, boss, have you seen...him?” he asks, flicking his eyes about, searching.

  I frown. “Caspian?”

  “Shh! I don’t want him to think I’m talking about him.”

  Good grief. I massage my temples. “Not since we opened…and if the band doesn’t come soon I’m going to have to pull out the karaoke machine, a
nd I’m not prepared to hear my step-dad sing. Have you seen Mags?”

  “She’ll be here.” He waves off absently, standing on his tiptoes to see across the bar

  “Or she might be watching a live-stream of Roman Holiday’s concert…” I mutter under my breath.

  Two girls pass me, both wearing matching hot pink SAVE HOLIDAY shirts. While I applaud their fandom, they’re five hundred miles away from the concert.

  Geoff disappears back toward his station, while I get jostled around toward the tables. I find myself in the middle of the varsity group, half of them here because Caspian’s here, and the other half just followed whoever they’re dating. I begin to wiggle myself away from them when one of the girls with a blond braid recognizes me. She catches my arm to stop me.

  “Junie, right?” she asks, and when I nod her whole face lights up. “This party is so vintage, but it’s charming. I love it. Like your shirt! Who is that, Bowie?”

  “Bon Jovi,” I correct, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Where did you get it? Hot Topic?”

  “Um, no...at a concert, a long time ago.”

  Where the hell is Maggie?

  The blond nods. “Yeah, it’s a cute little place!”

  “Thanks…again.”

  The cheerleader’s friend pipes in, “So, we’re all dying to know, how did you meet Roman?”

  “...Ah.” I begin to nod, and hold up a finger. “Hold that thought.” I turn, trying to duck out of their group, when I collide with a tall, solid surface. I glance up. “Cas!”

  “Perfect party!” he shouts into my ear.

  “Thanks!” I yell back. His friends don’t even notice our exchange, or if they do they don’t think anything of it.

  He pulls his arms around me quickly, in a hug I remember all too well, and I dip my face into the nook between his neck and shoulder subconsciously. He smells good, like AXE body spray.

  “Thank you for coming,” I whisper, “and bringing all your friends.”

  “Least I can do,” he replies before releasing me. “But it could use some Roman Holiday.”

  “In your dreams!”

  He bathes me in one of his perfectly white smiles before the girl with the blond braid calls him over, and he excuses himself.

  I duck away from their group and ask Jess if she’s seen Maggie. No, she hasn’t, but my mom’s been looking for me. “She stepped out front,” Jess adds. I thank her and cut back through the bar, trying to artfully avoid anyone else who looks like they might ask about Roman—and push past the idiots loitering at the entrance.

  Hal, the bouncer, leans up against the side of the building smoking a cigar with Mom. She gets one look at me before stubbing it out on the concrete wall. “Junie! I thought you’d be inside socializing with your peers! A lot of young people came out tonight…”

  “For Caspian,” I dismiss, wrinkling my nose because the entire sidewalk smelled like cigars. “I thought you hated when Dad smoked.”

  “Well you do pick up some bad habits from people you love,” she replies indignantly. “Why aren’t you inside enjoying yourself? It’s a really nice party.”

  Hal snorts. “Too crowded to enjoy anything.”

  “I know! Everyone’s here! I’d like to see Mary Johansen’s barbecue right now!” Mom throws her head back with a cackle. “Shows her for blacklisting my daughter.”

  Not this again. I turn to go back inside, because facing the jockstrap team is a lot easier than facing the faux-rage of my mother.

  “But I couldn’t be more proud on how she’s handling it all,” Mom goes on. I have to do a double take. Did I just hear that correctly? I open my mouth to ask when my ears perk.

  A wail of guitar chords, a roar of cheers—and music.

  Not jukebox music, but live music. There’s always a keen distinction, like comparing a cassette to a record player. There’s just this fullness, this sound that makes you want to drop everything and listen.

  Hal frowns, “Is that coming from inside?”

  It is, and my heart is beginning to beat faster with each note vibrating through the cement wall.

  “I know this song,” I whisper, back-stepping, one foot at a time, until I whip around and make a dash for the front door. I rip it open, and the sound hits me like a cacophony of familiar memories.

  Fingers slide across guitar chords like molasses, knitting together into the unmistakable notes of a ballad. My breath catches in my throat, because it’s so loud and so close, I don’t want to breathe.

  I can’t see over the crowd gathering around the stage because I’m too short. Between the cracks of people, there is a flash of a red Fender guitar, a burst of anti-freeze blue.

  Geoff’s band?

  Everyone begins to sway, back and forth, like the song itself makes them move. The stage is dark except for the soft blue backlights. A few people near it flick out lighters, others illuminating their phones, until the crowd is lit by a hundred flickering stars rocking like an ocean.

  The voice sounds familiar, and against my beating, doubtful radio heart, I begin to hope.

  Shoving through the crowd to a collection of abandoned tables and chairs by the sound booth, I climb onto one of the high-back chairs to get a better look.

  I stare, startled and confused and so hopeful my heart feels like it just might burst.

  Dad once told me that falling in love is like hearing your favorite song for the first time. It’s something so unsuspecting, something so quiet, that you don’t realize it’s happening until it’s over, and all you want to do is hear it again. All you want is to press repeat and keep yourself caught in that beautiful, breathless moment.

  Roman looks up from his guitar, and through the stage-lights his gaze finds me, as if there is no one else left in the world, and he grins that toe-curling cheshire grin.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  A part of me wishes I’d never met him, but there’s another part of me—and I don’t know how big it is, or how significant—that has been waiting my entire life for him to buy that stupid box of condoms. That part of me has built a window in my mind that I keep peeking through, where I can roll down the window in his minty green hatchback and let the wind blow back my hair, and classic rock blares from the radio. It’s a small window, and I can barely see where we’re going or where we’ve been, but it doesn’t matter as long as he’s driving. And I wouldn’t trade those blissful hours dancing at the Isla Lona and serenading on the beach and trespassing into mini-golf courses for a million Bon Jovi concerts.

  That strange and hopeful part of me is the part that smiles when he sees me, and all the dormant butterflies in my stomach burst into a million rays of sunshine.

  Someone grabs me by the ankle. I jerk my head down. “Mags!” I cry.

  “Hey girl! Missed me?” She winks, the headphones from the sound booth around her neck, her hair pulled up into an intricate braid that must’ve taken hours. An eat-shit grin spreads across her face. “How do you like the concert?” she yells over the sound. “Sorry I’m late!”

  “Where’s Geoff’s band?” I shout back.

  “They are Geoff’s band! Apparently Roman’s been calling for the past week trying to get to you, but your mom and step-dad’s been picking up the office phone! They wouldn’t let him talk to you! Geoff intercepted them a few days ago and—” she throws up her arms “—here we are! They flew into Charlotte and the traffic was totes crap! But I am now officially the biggest Holidayer in history!”

  I squat down to level with Maggie, my mind reeling. “All week? He’s been—all week?”

  She nods and replies in all seriousness, “All week.”

  “And he’s here because…”

  “Not for me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she fills in, rolling her eyes.

  But he’s supposed to be at the Gardens. He’s supposed to be headlining for Jason Dallas. He’s supposed to be living Holly’s dream.

  My face must show my confusion because Maggie asks, “You
okay?”

  No. No, I’m definitely not okay. Come to think of it, I haven’t been okay in quite some time. I hurtle off the chair into the crowd and weave through the bodies, cutting through with my elbows. The crowd, closer to the stage, grows so thick I can barely squeeze through, but I somehow manage from all the years I plowed through concert crowds to catch a guitar pick, and years of songs about other girls and other love stories.

  Now this one is mine, and with each step a weight sloughs off me.

  Maybe I’ll never have this bar again, and maybe I’ll never work in another one. Doors close like they always do. The Silver Lining’s will tonight…but maybe there’s something else, something better, just through that sliver of window.

  And it will be spontaneous, and it will be wonderful, and it will be impossible.

  I reach the stage and hoist myself up on the side as the song ends. The crowd hushes until it’s so quiet, I can hear nothing but my own thundering heart. He turns to face me, his emerald eyes dazzling in the stage lights.

  “Junebug,” he greets, a little out of breath.

  I shake my head. “You...shouldn’t you be at the Gardens? You shouldn’t be here. You have a concert—”

  “Junebug,” he interrupts, and I shut up. “Did I guess right?”

  My eyebrows furrow. “What?”

  “Did I guess right?” he repeats.

  The song, I realize, a hot blush creeping onto my cheeks. He never asked about my favorite song. I thought he never cared. “I...well...”

  My fists clench. I don’t want secrets anymore. I don’t want half-assed goodbyes, and I don’t want kisses that taste like bittersweet sorrows. I don’t know what I want in life, or what I might want in love, but I know that this is the second time he’s guessed a favorite of mine, and guys like that you don’t just let go.

  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.