problem, the slew of heartbroken one-night-stands, his reckless driving ticket, the speeding tickets—all seven, the rumored drug habit...
“I’m twenty,” he says as if it’s the end-all excuse.
“No, you’re reckless,” Holly counters. I like her more and more, a girl not afraid to bust a super hot guy’s balls.
“Life in the fast lane,” he impromptu-sings.
“Did you sing that into the girl’s boobs last night?”
“I do not serenade women’s breasts. I’m surprised you even think that, Holly,” he replies with mock-indignation. “And here I thought we were besties.”
“The Eagles, really?”
“Rather me sing Hall and Oats?”
“Take that back or I’ll burn all your Elvis records.”
“Ooh, I’m shaking in my blue suede shoes!”
I prompt, "So, you like being infamous, Roman?”
“Like it? I love it!” He laughs. “It’s the best thing that could’ve happened to us, right Hols?”
“Right.”
“Where do you get your inspiration?” I ask them. “A girl? Love? 'My Heart War' is pretty hipster,” I comment.
He shrugs. “Everything. I do most of the lyrics, but Hols and Boaz are good at the beat.”
Holly rolls her eyes. “And as long as I’m alive he’ll never write a song about a girl. It’s so cliché.” She scowls, although Roman is quick to argue.
“But everyone writes songs about girls. KISS, The Rolling Stones, Justin Bieber…”
“The Biebs has a girlfriend song?”
“If not, he probably will.”
“Isn’t it called 'Boyfriend'?”
“Whatever floats his boat.”
Before I know it, my time has run out. Holly asks if I have any last questions before they leave. And I do—one question for her. Roman says he’ll meet her outside.
“What is one word to describe you and Roman?” I ask after he’s gone.
She doesn’t even blink. “Ya’aburnee.”
Three hours later, I find myself in the small hotel room I can afford on my measly paycheck. There’s a cockroach in the bathroom, and I’m not sure whether it’s alive or pretending to be dead. As I sit down and lament over my own romantic failures, and how thankful I am to have a job that I love as much as it loves me, I type Holly’s word into Google.
Ya’aburnee.
Arabic. Morbid and beautiful, it is a declaration of one’s hope that they’ll die before the other because life, no matter how wonderful and exciting, would be too difficult without them.
It means, quite simply, “You bury me.”
Thursday
Chapter Twenty
A thunderous knock wakes me out of a dead sleep. I spring ramrod straight, my legs tangled in the comforter. An empty bag of Doritos and the wine glass I lost somewhere between the balcony and the couch go rolling onto the carpet. Found it. I bend to pick it up as another loud thud quakes the front door.
I wince, massaging my throbbing temples. Oh, God, did I drink that entire bottle of wine? Where is the wine anyway? Looking around, I find it wedged between the couch and the cushions. You know you've hit rock bottom when you sleep with a bottle of merlot.
No wonder my head's pounding.
A muffled voice half-yells from the other side of the door. It sounds urgent. And sort of familiar. I disentangle my legs and roll off the couch, twisting my hair up into a bun. "Coming!" I half-yell, half-moan.
No one came home last night—Mom and Chuck probably crashed with Darla after their casino cruise. Guess I could've slept in the bedroom, but I have no idea what I might find under those covers—and that's a scary thought. The couch isn't that uncomfortable. Okay, that's a lie. It definitely is.
Another knock, this time so urgent it rattles the deadbolt.
This better be the fucking president, waking me up at 10:07 in the morning. Or maybe Bon? Finally read all of those love letters I sent him as a kid and realized he's the cougar I always knew he was? Come to feast on some supple Baltimore—Conway, damn it!—flesh?
When I open the door, my hopes die quickly.
A young woman with red dreads turns back to the door, throwing up her arms. "Oh my God! Finally!" She barges inside, all sweet coconut perfume, and four-inch heels. "Have you seen the rags this morning? You're in some deep shit, bb."
Am I still dreaming? I blink again, squinting at the blast of magenta dreadlocks that looks ridiculously eccentric this morning against her dark chocolate skin. "…Maggie?"
"Who else would it be? The Pope?" She rolls her eyes, digging into her purse, and pulls out a tabloid. She waves it into the air, the bazillions of bracelets on her arm jingling like sleigh bells. I wince at the sound. Hangover no likey.
"This is deep.