The Sound of Us

  I blink away the coming tears. The memories I have of him are so insignificant compared to his life, they hardly do him justice. I’ve almost forgotten what he sounded like, what he smelled like. I’m scared that when I forget, a part of me will die too.

  Maybe, when I finally forget what he looked like when he smiled, those forgotten memories will leave me hollow and dry.

  Sinking back onto the couch, I curl into the blankets and pretend to go back to sleep. It isn’t until three in the afternoon until I finally get my lazy butt off the couch, and put on my bathing suit. I refuse to look into the mirror in the bathroom. I know what I’ll see. Not enough to be anything. Not enough to be too fat and not enough to be too skinny. Not athletic enough, and not flabby enough. I’m short like my dad, and minimally endowed like my mom.

  To put it plainly, I’m a wreck in a bathing suit.

  Last night while Mom and Chuck played tonsil hockey, I found a magazine Maggie snuck into my duffle without me noticing. The Juice is probably one of the worst tabloids out there. At least, it’s something to read, so I take it down to the pool with me.

  I dodge a running kid and flop down in the pool chair beside Darla.

  “It’s about time you came down. I was beginning to think you’d become a hermit.” She gives me a serious look over her sunglasses. She’s slick with tanning oil, a beer in one hand, and her phone in the other. “Good gravy, your hair is florescent.”

  I shrug. “At least you can’t lose me in a crowd.”

  Chancing a cautious glance over at Chuck lying face-down in the pool chair on the other side of her, she leans over to me and whispers, “Why did you dye it? You had beautiful blond hair. Is it because they aren’t giving you enough attention? I know after Willy died...things must’ve been—”

  “Hard. Yeah.” I flip open the magazine, hoping Darla will get the hint that I don’t want to talk about it. I didn’t dye my hair to make a statement, or because I don’t get enough attention at home. I hate attention, so no attention is a dream come true.

  I dyed my hair because I realized you only live once. And, besides, it’s not like the Silver Lining has a dress code.

  She perks at the magazine. “You a Holidayer, too?”

  “No. My best friend is, though.”

  “You know, I feel sorry for him. Why on earth would he kill his band mate? Rumor has it he got mixed up on drugs and alcohol and all this craziness. He might have killed her for all we know but he just doesn’t remember!”

  “She drowned in her bathtub. The judge ruled her death inconclusive, so whether he did or not, he got a lucky break.” I flip through the magazine. Faces of unfortunate starlets stare back at me from the pages.

  “But even if he didn’t do it, it must really be hard when everyone says he did. I mean, if he was a normal person this would just blow over, but he’s famous. “

  “Infamous,” I correct, “and I really don’t feel bad for stars. That’s just the risk when you sell yourself for fame.”

  Darla barks a laugh, reaches over, and pats my upper thigh. “You’re your momma’s child, that’s for sure—a ball-buster.” She gets up, collecting her towel and beach bag. “I’m off to get a shower. Got a big night tonight!”

  “Have fun.” I wave goodbye and turn to the main article in the magazine—the one Maggie has bookmarked with a sticky note saying READ THIS OR ELSE!

  My luck she’ll pop-quiz me when I get back, so I might as well try to tough through it.

  The article was written a month before Holly Hudson’s death. They reprinted it in memory of her. Holly’s face stares back at me, fierce and beautiful, her hair a cascade of brown ringlets. A blue and green peacock feather is tucked behind her right ear. She really was pretty. Not in an exotic way, but hometown pretty, someone you’d see working in an eclectic coffee shop. Throughout the article, The Juice put in the best pictures of her and Roman Montgomery. Having picnics, at the beach, buying coffee, smiling at each other, conveniently leaving out the third member of their band.

  I understand why Maggie loves Roman Holiday. Roman and Holly were America’s sweetheart couple—or, they were supposed to be. Never quite official, but always skirting around the edges. They did everything together—wrote music, attended charity events, recorded in the studio. Sometimes it seemed like Boaz was the third wheel. If I feel sorry for anyone, it’s him. Did anyone ask Boaz how he felt about Holly’s death? Or what he thought about everyone accusing his best friend of murder?

  The article—We Are Golden—is cliché, but most exposés are. Out of the corner of my eye, Chuck rolls over in his chair and slowly gets up. His entire back is as red as a lobster, and by the way he waddles over toward the vacant chairs beside me he can feel it, too. His swim trunks are outrageous—neon yellow and green. Even if I was blind, I couldn’t miss him. I slap the magazine up so he won’t be tempted to stop for a nice chat.

  I try to read on, but I find myself flipping through the pages instead. There’s nothing in it I care about. Some film star got married this past weekend in Las Vegas, and Jason Dallas denied his rumored drug addiction again. I don’t see how Maggie can bring herself to care about people like them—privileged, stupid stars screwing their life up one arrest or failed marriage or nude photo at a time.

  Suddenly, fingers crawl over the top of my magazine and tilt it down, and I’m staring into the heart-shaped face of Darla. She gives me a sweet smile.

  “Darling, I need a favor.”

  So, that’s how I end up at the local stop-n-shop for the second evening in a row buying an economy pack of condoms. I don’t even get to change clothes first. Darla shoves me into her outrageous pink muumuu with a twenty-dollar bill, and hurries me on my way.

  Seriously, karma hates me.

  I’ve never bought condoms a day in my life. I’ve never even seen one before—the night with Caspian notwithstanding. In the store, everyone gives me a wide berth, probably scared that my bad mood is catching.

  Or maybe it’s because I look like an all-pink Candy Land reject.

  I snag the brand Darla wants and situate it in the nook of my arm so it doesn’t look too conspicuous. Who am I kidding? I look like I’m buying condoms. The box looks like condoms. It has latex written on the top for God’s sake. The only thing I can do is make a quick getaway, but that plan is soon foiled when I get to the checkout and every single cashier is, in classic fashion, is a man. Wonderful.

  Old guy with the off-center bald spot it is.

  I massage the bridge of my nose. The things I do for the change from a twenty-dollar bill. Is this even worth the change? I mean, seriously. Can’t Darla get her own condoms when she’s feeling frisky? At the very thought of Darla and some schmuck doing the old hoedown, I want to shove the condoms into the magazine rack by the register and head for the door.

  Behind me, a hand reaches over to pick up a Stars from the rack, and a light, caramel voice says, “’Packed on the Pounds’? That’s shitty Photoshop skills.”

  Goosebumps prickle up my arms. I know that voice. Maybe if I stay still, he won’t recognize me.

  Junebug, you have pink hair. Like hell he won’t.

  “Oh brah, not as photoshopped as that meat-alicious burger. What is that, a Godzilla-Mac?” Another guy laughs. Great, he has a friend this time, who squats down beside me and snags a Cosmo. He has a ridiculous aquamarine mohawk and so many earrings it looks like he has ear armor—wait.

  Aquamarine...mohawk?

  “Ooh! This one’s better. How to do a pedi at home. Man, pedis are the shit. I had one done in Santa Monica that one time and my feet felt like holy baptized shit for the rest of the week.”

  I tilt my head slightly to sneak a peek out of my curtain of hair. Aquamarine mohawk, earring affinity, kilt, combat boots—I might be a bad Roman Holiday fan, but I know Boaz Alexander when I see him. Beside him is my nightmare from last night—tattoos, soda pop orange hair, emerald eyes.

  And, if that’s Boaz Alexander then...

  O
h, shit.

  “Did they scrub the fungus off too?” snickers the tattooed jerkface.

  “Bro-ha, you suck.” Boaz flips through the rest of the magazine. “Man, I’m so bored. Hey, I got a killer thought—let’s fire ourselves up and go drunk midnight-mini-ing? YOLO!”

  “Say YOLO one more time and I’m leaving your ass here.”

  Boaz scoffs. “What crawled up your crack, brah? Be lighter. You’re way too doom-n-gloom these days.”

  “Maybe I like doom and gloom. Together. In a civil union.”

  Mohawk rolls his eyes and puts Cosmo back. “I’m going to go get a box of Twinkies. Don’t ditch me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Like last time, brah?”

  “Miss?” the old cashier calls. I whirl my head around, not having noticed that I’m the next in line. Orange-haired jerkface looks at me then, emerald eyes meeting mine, and as the recognition dawns on his face, it dawns on mine too.

  Double shit.

  His eyes drift down to the jumbo pack of condoms under my arm. A blush begins to creep up the back of my neck, and flood across my face. That sinful, aching grin from last night curls across his lips again. It’s cheshire. It’s trouble.

  “I take mine ribbed, actually,” Roman Montgomery says.

  Chapter Six

  Despite my best friend being a Roman Holiday aficionado, I only know three things about Roman Montgomery.

  One, he has honey brown hair that’s usually gelled up in a wave.

  Two, he doesn’t have any visible tattoos—although there were rumors he had a song quote below the belt.

  And three, Roman Montgomery would never, ever be seen shopping at a cruddy old Stop-N-Shop in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

  Apparently, I don’t know anything about Roman Montgomery after all.

  The longer he holds my gaze, the more I can’t write him off as a good look-alike—it’s the angle of his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way one eyebrow is always a little higher than the other. He’s gained a little weight since his last interview with GQ, or maybe it’s more muscle, I don’t know, but it’s definitely him.

  Suddenly, I jerk my eyes away from his gaze. Oh, God, I have underwear with his face on them. I am beyond mortified. The blush on my cheeks is so hot, it probably matches my hair. And he seems entertained by it.

  “I should be flattered, meeting you here again,” he goes on. “Last night we got off on the wrong foot.”

  I quickly turn my back to him. Last night I even touted that I hated his band. See, this is why I shouldn’t talk to strangers. “It’s fine. I don’t care.”

  “Let’s try again?”

  “Uh—no, no thanks.”

  But apparently “no” is not in his vocabulary. He slips around in front of me so smoothly, it could be a dance move. He juts out his tattooed hand. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you.”

  Is this a joke? I’m almost tempted to glance around to see if there are any hidden cameras. His outstretched hand doesn’t waver, waiting for me to accept it, and I have a feeling he’d wait a very long time if he needed to. So, I accept his hand. His callused fingertips feel like sandpaper, but his grip is strong, and warm. “Sure,” I offer uncertainly.

  He doesn’t let go. “Let me buy you ice cream to apologize. I’m not usually that rude, believe me.”

  “It’s fine, you don’t need to—”

  “I insist, really.”

  “I don’t think...” My eyes slide down to the box of condoms in my arm. Oh, I get it now. Roman Montgomery, the international playboy. I force a laugh. “I’m sorry, but you’re so not my type.”

  He quickly lets go of my hand. “I didn’t mean that. You’re not exactly my type either—that came out wrong. I mean you are pretty, don’t get me wrong, but I was a dick last night and I want to apologize. I’m not looking for a good time, sweetie.”

  I set my jaw. “Don’t call me sweetie, asshole.”

  He winces again. “Just one ice cream.”

  “Why are you so adamant?”

  He holds up a finger. “One. Singular. Uno.”

  “Please, leave me the hell alone.” I try to move past him to the register, but he slithers in front of me again. I narrow my eyes.

  “If I guess your favorite ice cream flavor, will you let me take you out for ice cream?”

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I study him. I could just save him the trouble and tell him that I dislike ice cream, but there’s a small part of me who wants to drag this out as long as possible. Not because he’s famous, because I have an allergy to his sort of fame, but because I’m curious. This is a very bad idea, I realize, but I figure since I hate his music there’ll be no love lost.

  “Three guesses,” he says.

  “You get one.”

  His face falls. “One guess?”

  “Yep. One.”

  “You’re that confident in me.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m that confident I want to pay for my damn condoms and leave.” I elbow in front of him again to the register and slam down the box of condoms, daring the elderly man to say a single word about them. He scans the box without pause and drones, “Eight seventy-four.”

  “Add these too will you, Pops?”

  The orange-haired jerkface slips a pack of gum onto the conveyor belt and hands the cashier a ten before I can even dig my wallet out of my purse. The old man bags them together as Roman Montgomery dumps the change in the charity jar, and takes the plastic bag. He walks so fast that I don’t catch up until we’re outside, and by now I’m sure the old man thinks we’re together.

  Not even if he’s the last person on earth!

  “Hey! Hey! Slow down! What about your friend? Hello? Are you even—?”

  “Listening, yes.” He stops abruptly and turns back around. I stop on my heels before I collide into him. “And my friend can take care of himself.”

  I try to snatch the bag out of his grip again, but he holds it over my head. Even though he isn’t tall, he’s taller than me, and his arms are long. There’s no way I’m reaching that. “No fair,” I growl.

  “Vanilla,” he replies without a fragment of hesitation, “dipped in that cherry stuff.”

  I stop trying to reach the bag and squint up at him. “How did you...?”

  He shrugs. “I’m good like that, what can I say?” He drops my bag of condoms into my hands. “So? Am I right?”

  Obviously, he is, and he already knows that. I grumble, stashing the bag into my purse.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say? You weren’t quite loud enough—”

  “Yes,” I snap.

  He flashes another one of his brilliantly deceiving smiles. “Of course I am!”

  “But just this once,” I add as he hops over the curb and into the Emporium’s gravel parking lot. Under my breath I add, “I really don’t want to give you the wrong idea...”

  But I think I already have.

  The neon sign blinks sporadically in the window of the shop. The Emporium itself is a crusty white shack with ashen gray picnic tables scattered around the gravel lot. A gaggle of girls cut their eyes at the pop star as he passes, giving him a once-over. Can they tell who he is, too? My heart begins to speed up—I don’t know why. Why would I care if they did recognize him? But then they turn back to their phones as if he’s just another hipster with orange hair and red suspenders. He leans against the order window where two disgruntled teens push back and forth in the cramped kitchen, twisting around each other in a strange half-hearted dance. He knocks on the glass and waves.

  “Evening guys.” He flashes the girl the same cheshire smile he gave me, but unlike me, she swoons. “Gimme one of those vanilla cones dipped in cherry, and a Titanic for yours truly.”

  “O-Of course!” the mousy girl chirps.

  I don’t think she even notices me. Roman Montgomery was on the ballot for Sexiest Man of the Year last year, beaten out by Ryan Gosling. This year, I’m not sure he’d make the list—not with
his mismatching hair and eyebrows, that’s for sure. Although, in the streetlight his hair looks more bronze than orange, sort of like a tarnished gold, and his roots are already starting to show. He must’ve dyed it between grocery shopping in Montana on Saturday and meeting him last night. Or was the guy in Montana even him?

  He cuts his eyes over and wiggles an eyebrow, having noticed me staring. Embarrassed, I turn my eyes to my feet, another hot blush creeping onto my cheeks.

  “Something on my face?” he teases, retrieving our ice creams. “Here you go. Let’s sit over there.” He points to a vacant picnic table.

  I hesitate. “After you.”

  “Sure thing, mademoiselle.” He starts down the row before a kid careens between two picnic tables, hyper-crazed on sugar, and almost body checks him, but the pop star twists out of the way just in time, and falls down on one side of the table. I slide into the other.

  “Nice save,” I commend. “That was a close one.”

  “I’ve been on the other end of one of those collisions before.” He laughs, scooping up a spoonful of chocolate. “You’re still giving me a weird look.”

  Do I tell him I know him? Or that his cover is safe with me? Or that I’m really sorry for saying that I hated Roman Holiday? Or ask how he’s going to eat all of that?

  I lean in and say in a hushed voice, “It’s just that you look really familiar.”

  “Must be the hair. Just a forewarning, if you bleach your naturally red-tinged hair, it turns into this.” He points his spoon to his hair. “You know anyone with orange hair?”

  “No, but I know someone with a crush on you,” I say his song title very slowly so he understands the implication, and his eyes grow wide. They’re so green they seem to light up from the inside out like Christmas lights.