Roman Holiday

Chapter Six

Despite my best friend being a Roman Holiday aficionado, I only know three things about Roman Montgomery. One, he has dark brown hair he likes to style up in a wave. Two, he doesn't have visible tattoos—although there were rumors he had a song quote on his stomach. And three, Roman Montgomery would never, ever be seen 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 in 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. "Ribbed," I echo.

"Yeah, ribbed. And economy-size. Getting some action with my face on your crotch, aren't you?"

It's supposed to be a joke, that much is clear from the lithe in his voice, but it just makes my stomach churn. Oh, God, he knows I have underwear with his face on them. I am beyond mortified now. 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. Last night we got off on the wrong foot. Let's try again?"

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. "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 often rude, and snarky. It comes with the territory.”

"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 catches on too and 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, a*shole."

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 bypass 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 they'll be no love lost.

"Three guesses," he says.

"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 the jerkface dumps the change in the Hope jar. His legs are so long, 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? Boaz? Hello? Are you even—?"

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

I try to snatch the bag out of his grip again, but he holds it over my head. "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. "Hell yeah! I'm good. Boo-yah!"

"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 rock 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 did 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 bronzy than orange, sort of like a tarnished gold, but his roots are already beginning to show dark growth. 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 downturn my eyes to my Chucks, another hot blush creeping onto my cheeks.

“Something wrong?” 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 bodychecks him, but the rock 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. He ordered this massive sundae that probably should be titled 'Everything But the Kitchen Sink.' “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 you look really familiar.”

"Must be the hair. Just a forewarning, if you bleach your naturally red-tinged , it evolves 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. His eyes are so green they seem to light up from the inside out like Christmas lights. Green.

Like from the dream.

He clears his throat and pokes at his ice cream. "What gave it away?"

"YOLO," I reply, mimicking a mohawk with my free hand.

"Ah."

A group of girls are watching him again. I swear they're the same ones from last night, still in their florescent pink SAVE HOLIDAY shirts. Maybe they have one for every day of the week. Wouldn't surprise me, knowing Holiday fans. I'm betting by Thursday, half the population of Myrtle Beach will be wearing them. One girl raises her phone to take a picture. The rock star quickly turns his face away.

Why am I always so nice?

I lean closer to him over the picnic table, and say in a loud enough voice for the girls to hear, "So, Evan, what brings you to this neck of the woods?"

Hesitation flickers through his eyes for a moment. "Evan?" he mouths and I give him a meaningful look. He plays along. "Just traveling," he replies loudly. "I'm a—um—shoe salesman!"

"Seriously?" I say under my breath. Well, I never thought he was creative, anyway. "Sounds like fun!"

"Lots!"

The girls turn back to their ice creams, their shoulders slumping. He mouths a "thank you." I bite through the top of my cherry crust in reply, and cringe a little at the sweetness.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"Just haven't had ice cream in a while."

"They don't have ice cream where you live?" he jokes.

"They do, everywhere. And it's Asheville."

"Oh, the hipster town with the bowtie. Passed through it once or twice." He eats another spoonful of chocolate ice cream. "Why don't you indulge in ice cream?"

"I just don't."

"There must be a reason," he prods.

I divert the question. "You're here for the vigil?"

"Just passing through," he replies, not answering my question. "Living in a small town sounds claustrophobic.”

“Not living anywhere sounds lonely.”

He shrugs. "You get to meet a lot of interesting people." Taking his cherry off the top of his mountain of ice cream, he twirls it between his fingers. “Like you. Like her" —he nods briefly to the girl who took his order— "life experiences. Seeing who buys discounted underwear.” He pops the cherry into his mouth and rolls it around.

I huff. “I forgot to pack mine, okay? So sue me. Haven't you forgotten anything important?”

“Not underwear.”

I scowl. “Excuse me, Mr. Perfect.”

“Not perfect,” he notes, and then takes something out of his mouth. He holds it up to me. It’s the cherry stem, tied in a perfect not. “But very damn near close.”

The speakers outside of the Emporium fade from Taylor Swift to the DJ calling out a wrap-up of the week’s music events. Bon Jovi's new CD, some rock star’s divorce from an A-list actress, and—"All you Holidayers out there getting ready for this week's vigil, St. Michael's Cemetery has said that they will restrict entrance to the cemetery on accounts of too much foot traffic."

He frowns, annoyed, glaring up at the speaker hanging from the corner of the Emporium. I eat the rest of my cone and wipe my sticky fingers on my pink muumuu. "Ten bucks says the next song is 'Ever for Always.'"

His frown disappears, replaced by a curious eyebrow quirk. “Why'd you say that?”

I shrug. "Easy, I have a radio heart. I'm very confident.”

As if on cue, the familiar catchy beat floods over the picnic area, and the table of tween girls next to us squeal in unison and wave their cell phones high in the air like lighters. They begin to sing along.

He gives them a pained look. "A radio heart, huh?" he asks. "Can it turn the station?"

I genuinely laugh. "No, but give the opening notes of a song, and I'll name it. I'll even go so far as to name the band. I'm that good."

"No shit. And how did you achieve this great gift?"

"My dad was a music junky. I mean, vinyl was like crack to him, so I guess I just followed in his footsteps. I remember when I was little, we'd go on these mini-vacations into the mountains or to the beach, and he'd play this game with me where we scanned the stations, and the first one to name that song won. Good times."

"Sounds like it." He nods appreciatively and shovels a spoonful of strawberry ice cream into his mouth. The silence between us stretches. I shift, uncomfortable. The tween girls howl, "I’ll be with you ever-forever, and always for always. We are going to be for-ever and ever and for always for always for ever."

"Do you wanna get out of here?" I ask, trying not to sound too urgent.

The DJ, a guy who can't seem to get the sports-casting announcer out of his voice, follows up the song, "And now, a special world-premiere event! Are you ready? Here's Jason Dallas's new single, 'Shotgun Heartache.' Remember you heard it here first! WOKK 95! Myrtle's number one pop music station."

He groans. "Oh, God, not him."

"You don't like him?"

"He's a prick. And yeah, let's go."

The song, an emo-rock memoriam to My Chemical Romance, pulses over the picnic area.

I mock-gasp. "What? This is my favorite song!"

"This is a world-premiere. You've never heard it before," he deadpans.

I sniff indignantly. "Well, maybe I like it already." It is sort of catchy.

"I don't think this is your type of song." He grins, shaking his head, and begins to get up, swooping his legs over the bench.

"And why's that? You don't even know me."

"My best friend" —Holly, I realize— "used to say there are songs that resonate with you. They're songs that do more than just mean something—they're songs you want to light a candle to. And this? I don't think 'Shotgun Heartache' is your song.”

"You're probably right," I agree, following him to the edge of the lot. "So what is my song, oh All-Knowing-Rock-Star."

He runs his thumbs underneath his suspenders thoughtfully. "You look like you listen to the Boss."

"I also dig some pretty mean Meat Loaf," I reply, "but no cigar."

"You can resist Meat Loaf?" He takes his spoon in hand like a microphone and belts the opening lyrics to 'I Will Do Anything For Love,' which runs straight into a question I almost miss.

I give him a blank stare. “Say what?”

"I asked," he tosses the spoon into the garbage can in the corner of the lot, "what're you doing Wednesday night?"

"As in...like..."

"Like what are you doing Wednesday night?" he repeats, and turns around to face me when I stop.

As in a date? I want to ask. I have a boyfriend. But do I, really? I shift on my feet uncomfortably.

"Never mind, it was a stupid question," he begins to say, but for some reason I catch him by the back of his suspenders.

"I'm not doing nothing," I reply, and for the first time I think his smile is genuine. "I mean, I'm doing absolutely nothing. Nothing at all."

"Now you are."