away, electrified a thousand times over. The smell of the sea mingles with his scent, so intoxicating it feels like a dream. Cinnamon and merlot. All I want to do is sink into him, into the mystic—my heart so full of sound and sea and sky it could burst.
I've never felt like this before, not with Caspian, not with anyone. With Caspian it was always give and take, but then after a while I gave so much it began to feel like I was supposed to and Caspian always took, always expected it. I don't feel like Roman expects anything at all, or if he does it isn't obvious to me, and I think I like this sort of friendship, the type that isn't based on merits and gifts, but moments and memories and songs.
His voice grows softer as the song finally winds to a close and my stomach dips because I don't want it to end. I am in big, big trouble.
"Roman?" My voice is timid and foreign to my ears. His fingers brush lightly against my cheek as he pulls a stray strand of pink hair behind my ear. My face turns toward his hand to feel his warm fingertips against my cheek again. Caspian is ten thousand leagues out of my mind.
"Yeah, Junebug?"
"I'm glad I met you."
Down the beach, a group of college kids from Coastal Carolina light a squadron of roman candles into the night sky, sparks of white that, from a distance, look like shooting stars. They howl as the sparks fade into the darkness. I almost jump out of my skin, startled by the sound. Roman blinks and shakes his head as if snapping out of a daydream.
“It’s getting late,” he mutters suddenly, and jumps to his feet. “Aren’t your parents worried?”
Anger flushes over my cheeks. "No. I'm not a kid!"
"How old are you?" he calls over his shoulder as he begins to leave. "Sixteen?"
I fist my hands, marching after him. "Almost nineteen! Fuck you very much!"
"Same differe—" His foot catches a sinkhole and he faceplants into the sand. I squat down beside him. He props himself up on his elbows and gives a long, tired sigh. "Karma's a bitch."
"Apology accepted," I reply, and jut out my hand to help him up.
Chapter Twelve
You'd think Roman would drive a Bentley or a BMW, a sleek car with way too much money spent on the rims. Nope. He drives a crappy-ass Mentos green VW Rabbit. And when I say crappy, I mean that very modestly. This car looks like it runs on duct tape and prayers. Mid-90s. Rusted hubcaps. Tan pleather seats—the works. I glance into the backseat to make sure there aren't any serial killers waiting under the massive amounts of fast food wrappers and dirty clothes.
"Are you sure there aren't any...murderers? Rapists? Homeless people back there?"
He doesn't even glance back as we get inside, and he pulls the seatbelt over his shoulder. "Nah. Just empty Taco Hell wrappers and my moldy socks."
Because that makes me any less frightened.
"Charming," I reply.
"Boaz contributed. I think he left some underwear back there, if you're interested."
"That's gross."
"And knowing my face is on your..." he flicks his gaze down to my lap, then back up again quickly, "is awkward."
I calmly put my hands in my lap, my cheeks prickling with embarrassment. "Touché."
He inserts the key and the engine whines as it tries to turn over. "C'mon baby..." he begs until, after a squealing noise akin to the death of Wilbur, the engine roars to life. He kicks it into drive and we pull out of the parking lot. "So, taking you back to the condo?"
"Yeah," I reply, like there's any other place I could go. Back to his place, maybe. But wouldn't that be super sketch? Or an invasion of privacy? "Where do you stay, anyway?"
He gives a stiff shrug. "A motel off the interstate."
"Not your parent's—" I stop myself before I finish, but I've already let too much slip. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry..."
"No, it's fine," but I can tell by the tightness in his voice he'd really rather talk about something else. "My dad lives in Myrtle. So does Holly's family, but let's just say I'm not welcome within a hundred yards of their house and leave it at that."
"And your dad?" As I ask it, his knuckles tighten around the steering wheel.
"He disowned me when Hols and I moved to Nashville. To him, trying to make a career in music was like joining the circus.