NITEOWL: (laughs sadly) So? Should we wrap this up? Did you ever tell your crush you loved her?
DARK AND BROODING: Turn around, North.
Chapter Forty-Two
Someone knocks on the soundproof Plexiglas.
I’m afraid to turn around, not because of what I will find, though, but because how much it will mean. What it will mean. Steadfast is home to three hundred forty-seven people. I know every single one of them. Or, at least I thought I did.
I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I should. Just hearing his voice swells me with a sort of hope I’m afraid to feel. It makes me want to turn around, want to figure out what kind of possibility we could have, or how many cardigans he could fit his bulky shoulders into.
“North,” Dark says over the airwaves, playing over the years and years of my memories, like a dream.
I'm not sure how I missed his voice before.
Slowly I turn my roller chair around.
A boy is standing at the window. He has his cell phone in one hand and a bouquet of orchids in the other. His face is flushed, magenta hair askew, as if he ran five hundred miles to get here.
His blue-eyed gaze strikes me straight through the heart like a glass arrow. I know him. I know this golden boy with the pink hair.
Billie Bleaker.
“There’s someone here,” I say into the mic, but what I really mean is you’re here. As though I’ve been waiting, waiting for a person to come to my window.
What had Dark said at the beginning of the summer, that he’d been in love with a girl who loved someone else? That was me? I remember all the times he almost said something, the scrunched look on his face, the moments when something was on the tip of his tongue but I always walked away or changed the subject or forgot to listen.
But I’m listening now, and here he is with a bouquet of white orchids.
And this time, they’re for me.
I open my mouth to begin to say something—anything—when he blurts, “I’m sorry I changed, but I needed to. I needed to be someone else for a while. I’m sorry you didn’t think it was still me, but it was. I’m still me. I’ll always be. Remember the night Dad died? I ran into the sunflower maze. You were the only one who found me. We stayed there all night, remember?”
Frowning, I think back into my memories. That night was a blur of half-formed memories. I was sitting down with Grams watching Jeopardy until the phone rang. Grams answered it, and it was Billie’s Mom saying that Billie ran away. She couldn’t find him. She was worried. Grams quickly gathered her things and told me to stay put, that she would come back, but I knew she couldn’t find Billie. I knew where he was, and I found him, and we . . .
We had Twizzlers and Diet Coke, and we laid in the watchtower all night, and I held his hand as he cried. He cried all night, I think, until we fell asleep and the police chief found us a few hours after dawn.
Why didn’t I remember that?
“But you’re the golden boy,” I say dumbly.
“And I’m Dark. I’m funny sometimes, and sometimes I’m not. I talk too much, and I don’t say the right things and I’m still trying to figure out who I am—but I know one thing. I love that you bite your lip when you’re nervous, and your closet of tacky sweaters—”
“They’re eclectic,” I argue.
“And I love the way you get this crinkle in your brow when you’re mad, and I love the way you see the world. I love how you’re loyal, and I love how you’re honest.” He presses his forehead against the soundproof window, as if the question's too hard to answer. “And—like Billy Crystal running like a fool through New York in that movie, I ran all this way because I realized that when you love someone, you want to tell them as soon as possible,” he says, staring into my eyes with so much conviction I never think to doubt him.
I get up from my chair and hesitantly open the studio door. He meets me in the doorway, lowering his cell phone. I can feel his body heat radiating from him like the sun, and oddly enough I just want to get closer. Somehow, closer, even though I'm already so near I can smell his aftershave, and connect the constellation of spots on his face and neck and the sliver of chest between the open buttons of his plaid shirt.
“Me?” I whisper. “Me?”
“You’re my North Star, North.”
Then he leans down and kisses me.
He tastes like Twizzlers and Diet Coke and summer nights. I drink in the way his mouth moves against mine, and the sound of my heartbeat, and the hurt in my chest, so full of all the maybes I feel like I just might explode.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against my mouth. “I should've told you a million years ago how I felt—I didn’t know how.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“I’m sorry I made you.” His hands cradle my face as he pulls away for a moment. “But I’m not sorry for wearing your duck sweater.”
“You totally stretched it out.”
“Call it a boyfriend cardigan.”
My mouth smiles against his. Boyfriend, I like how that sounds. “I’ll just buy you one and we can match.”
He laughs, and we're staring, staring into each other’s eyes as if we want to drown in each other. Maybe we do, maybe we already have, drinking each other in like Diet Cokes in the middle of a maze. “So, I held up my end of the promise. I told the girl I loved her. It’s your turn.”
“Oh, my friends are a bunch of blockheads,” I muse, remembering the first time we talked over the airwaves. It feels like eons ago, and now I know why talking to him felt so natural. Because I have been—for my entire life. “They couldn’t see love if it came hurtling at them from a canon.”
“But if they could?”
At the booth, the phones begin to ring, their little lights flickering to life like new stars. I ignore them, my world the narrow space between gold and dark, sunflowers and night skies. “I’d tell them,” I whisper, “that I’m a kiss away from liking a dark and brooding Golden Boy.”
I feel his mouth curve up into a grin, and he says against my lips, “Then I better fix that. I love you to the moon and back, North.”
"And all the stars in between," I reply.
He kisses me again under the flickering neon of the radio sign, before it finally blinks out.
Acknowledgements
We Own the Night was a very different book when I first wrote it. It’s evolved over the years as I’ve grown to know Iggy—and myself. When I was her age, all I wanted to do was leave my suffocating and small southern town. I wanted to chase my dreams. Move to a big city. Get away. And, spoiler, I did. But unlike Iggy, I didn’t see all of the things I would leave behind.
But—and I’ll tell you a secret Iggy and I know—going away doesn’t mean leaving things behind. You take them with you. You carry them on the plane, tucked comfortably into a small nook in your heart so wherever you are, you are home.
This book wouldn’t be possible without those friends and family.
To my brilliant editor, Meredith Rich. Iggy would’ve gone off the air a long time ago without you. To Eric Smith, who has championed me through writing and life with unending motivation and support. Bro, he’s cool. To my writing friends—Nita Tyndall, Jarad Greene, Christianna Marks, Rae Chang, Hannah Fergesen, Bess Cosby, Lauren Spieller, and a few others I’ve forgotten--thank you for putting up with me during my god-awful writer’s blocks, and for brainstorming with me, and those last-minute coffee dates. To all the readers, reviewers, and bloggers who loved and supported my first book, The Sound of Us—thank you for being the light at a very long tunnel. To my writing playlist—especially the band Motion City Soundtrack—because this book was built on their album Even If It Kills Me. They might be defunct now, like a fictitious pop-rock group I know, but their music survives.
And finally, to my parents.
Wherever I am, I carry you with me.
About the Author
Ashley Poston’s fangirl heart has taken her everywhere, from the houses of
Hollywood screenwriters to backstage at music festivals to cosplaying at geeky conventions. She graduated with a BA in English from the University of South Carolina, and now lives in New York City where she can occasionally be seen sitting in coffee shops doing what she does best—procrastinating.
Tweet her at @ashposton and read her blog at www.casuallybeingweird.com.
Wondering where Roman Holiday and Jason Dallas got their start?
Find out in
THE SOUND OF US
from Ashley Poston
THE DEATH OF ROMAN HOLIDAY
John Birmingham
The Juice, June Issue #327
Even if you haven’t heard of Roman Holiday, you have. Multi-platinum and award-winning, the trio of young bright things—Roman Montgomery, Holly Hudson, and Boaz Alexander—have made a name for themselves with breakout hits like MTV’s Video Music Award winner “My Heart War” and the Billboard-crushing “Crush On You.” At their last concert in San Antonio over a year ago, fans stood in line for three hours to snag exclusive tickets to the venue, and their Madison Square Garden gig sold out in twenty minutes flat after fans stood in line for two days in the sweltering New York City summer heat.
There seemed to be no stopping Roman Holiday.
Then, tragedy struck the former pop rock sensation when one dark June evening last summer, Holly Hudson was found dead in her LA apartment.
“[Holly’s] death took us all by surprise,” says musician friend and punk heartthrob Jason Dallas at a recent show in Albuquerque. “We lost the best of us that day. There was no justice in it. It should’ve been Roman, and where is he now?”
Lead guitarist and back-up vocalist, Roman Montgomery had been living with Hudson in the modest West Hollywood apartment where he discovered her body, and what pursued was an avalanche of speculation that it was not suicide at all, but murder. In court, Roman Montgomery refused to state where he had been the night of her death, and without any witnesses to attest to his whereabouts, an LA judge ruled her death accidental.
Hudson had allegedly been taking prescription pain medications for a sprained ankle and a coroner reported alcohol in her system at the time of her death as well.
After Hudson’s funeral in her small hometown of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, both Montgomery and Alexander disappeared without a trace. The award shows were very quiet last year without Roman Holiday, and while they were nominated for both Best Music Video and Best Pop Song of the Year, they went to Jason Dallas.
A year later, Roman Montgomery and his wingman are yet to be found. Muse Records has issued a last offer for the duo to return to their contracts before they become void in August. The fans of Roman Holiday—Holidayers—have pitched tents in front of Muse Records, pleading for an extension. They haven’t given up on this star-crossed band, but perhaps it’s finally time.
The last shot for Roman Holiday was their pre-scheduled event at Madison Square Garden this July 27th. According to the band’s manager, this was Holly Hudson’s dream gig. Now, Holidayers around the world hold onto the last vestiges of hope that Montgomery and Alexander might reemerge to claim their rightful place.
Will Roman Holiday reunite for one last gig in the name of America’s late sweetheart?
Or will the gig—and Roman Holiday—be left for dead?
It’s a dream.
Although, that doesn’t seem to deter him. His hand slides up my arm, slowly, the calluses on his fingertips feeling like sandpaper against my skin, and sends gooseflesh rippling up my body. We’re swaying on a dance floor. People shift around us, shadows, moving to a song that sounds so familiar. I can’t remember the name of it, but he’s humming along. I feel his throat vibrate with the notes as I press my face into the nook between his shoulder and neck. He smells like cinnamon and the sticky sweetness of wine.
I want to ask who he is—but then I stop myself. I’m not sure if I want to know. He pulls me closer into him. His embrace is like iron, complete, solid. It’s a wholeness I can’t explain, like there is nowhere safer, and no place I am more welcome or more at home. The spheres of lights spiral across the dance floor. We’ve stopped dancing, and just stand there in the dark, listening the sound of our breath, my heart to his, existing. He says my name, and my eyes draw up to his. They remind me of melted emeralds. No, I don’t know him at all, but every atom in my body feels like it wants to. “Junebug.”
I jolt up on the couch.
A sliver of light leaks through the closed curtains, and between them, I can see the morning. The beach is sandy white against cobalt waves. I sit up on the couch, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. A runner jogs by down on the surf. I watch him, trying to remember my dream. What was it? Something about green...green what? I frown, and silently study the dark condo. When I fall asleep, I usually have nightmares. The same one, really, repeating the night he died, trying in vain over and over again to...I don’t know. Not save him, because he’s dead. You can’t save the dead.
But in those nightmares, I still try.
The stranger in my dream reminded me of him though, like vanilla reminds you of chocolate, or summer reminds you of the beach, and that only makes me miss Dad all over again. I can still see Dad sitting in the kitchen chair, sipping his morning coffee. Still in those terrible red and yellow swim trunks, belly overlapping his waistband, sunscreen smothering his nose and bald forehead. Sometimes, he passes just out of the corner of my eye, flipping pancakes by the stove, humming “Tequila Sunrise.” And sometimes I hear his footsteps, long but light, like he always had pep in his step, coming out of the bathroom.
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 fo
r 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?
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