snaps it closed and inspects me. “Obsessed. I know you said you hated Holiday at the store, but really? The truth, please."
"Okay, the truth." I take the magazine from his hand and toss it into the Jacuzzi with the pool floats and beach towels. “The truth is, your songs are super corny. Occasionally horrible—no offense. If I’m a fan of anything, it’s how they—you—revolutionized pop culture. You and Holly Hudson could actually sing. Your parents didn't buy you fame or put in a few good words to cooperate. Didn't you start out as a garage band or something?"
"In my dad's garage," 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 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 something horrible, 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. Will Wednesday come at all?
A voice snaps me out of my thoughts.
"Junie! Thank God, you're back!" Coming out of the condo next door, Darla embraces 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 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 bunches