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 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 blares, a guitar-heavy emo-rock homage to bands like Thirty Seconds to Mars and My Chemical Romance, that 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.”
I follow him to the edge of the lot. “Then what
is
my song, oh All-Knowing-Pop-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.”
“Who 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 someone already.
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.”
“Well, in that case,” he says, leaning across the table on his elbows, “how about we fix that?”
Chapter Seven
The wind on the beach at night has a certain biting chill to it. I shove my hands into the pockets of Darla’s muumuu and shiver. Wearing nothing but my bathing suit and a cover-up was a genius plan. Thank you, Darla. I check my phone to see how late it is. She said she wasn’t going out until eight. It’s seven-thirty. Not too late to deliver the goods, right?
Roman Montgomery walks beside me, slowly, and I wonder where he’s staying. Not that I want to shove him off quite yet. It’s actually kind of...
nice
, walking with him. And it’s definitely not the fame talking. I’m still waiting for his rumored Napoleon-sized ego to ruin everything, but he’s genuinely just quiet. And when he looks at me, it feels like he’s simply lonely.
“So where are we going
“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 blares, a guitar-heavy emo-rock homage to bands like Thirty Seconds to Mars and My Chemical Romance, that 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.”
I follow him to the edge of the lot. “Then what
is
my song, oh All-Knowing-Pop-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.”
“Who 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 someone already.
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.”
“Well, in that case,” he says, leaning across the table on his elbows, “how about we fix that?”
Chapter Seven
The wind on the beach at night has a certain biting chill to it. I shove my hands into the pockets of Darla’s muumuu and shiver. Wearing nothing but my bathing suit and a cover-up was a genius plan. Thank you, Darla. I check my phone to see how late it is. She said she wasn’t going out until eight. It’s seven-thirty. Not too late to deliver the goods, right?
Roman Montgomery walks beside me, slowly, and I wonder where he’s staying. Not that I want to shove him off quite yet. It’s actually kind of...
nice
, walking with him. And it’s definitely not the fame talking. I’m still waiting for his rumored Napoleon-sized ego to ruin everything, but he’s genuinely just quiet. And when he looks at me, it feels like he’s simply lonely.
“So where are we going
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