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 pillow 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 what he’s doing, 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.
Only Dad ever called me Junebug. He used to say it in a slow, southern drawl, as if my name was a rumble of adoration in his chest.
“
Junebug
, going with me to that boat show today?”
“Hey, see if we got any pale ale,
Junebug
.”
“
Junebug
, I love ya girl.”
“Goodnight,
Junebug
. Sweet dreams.”
I don’t remember when he first called me that, but I remember I was special when he called me that, one of a kind.
Then, this stranger calls me
Junebug
. He said my name slowly, lingering on the
u
, softening the
g
, as if my name is…as if my name means something again. As if it’s a secret the two of us know.
“Junie! Thank God, you’re back!”
I snap out of my thoughts, whirling around to Darla coming out of the condo next door, throwing her arms wide to embrace 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 really 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 bunch again, hon, you saved me. Now all we need to do is find you a looker, huh?” She kisses my cheek before leaving to meet her man of the night. I close the door behind me, and fall face-first into the couch.
Chapter Eight
Four more days until I’m
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 pillow 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 what he’s doing, 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.
Only Dad ever called me Junebug. He used to say it in a slow, southern drawl, as if my name was a rumble of adoration in his chest.
“
Junebug
, going with me to that boat show today?”
“Hey, see if we got any pale ale,
Junebug
.”
“
Junebug
, I love ya girl.”
“Goodnight,
Junebug
. Sweet dreams.”
I don’t remember when he first called me that, but I remember I was special when he called me that, one of a kind.
Then, this stranger calls me
Junebug
. He said my name slowly, lingering on the
u
, softening the
g
, as if my name is…as if my name means something again. As if it’s a secret the two of us know.
“Junie! Thank God, you’re back!”
I snap out of my thoughts, whirling around to Darla coming out of the condo next door, throwing her arms wide to embrace 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 really 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 bunch again, hon, you saved me. Now all we need to do is find you a looker, huh?” She kisses my cheek before leaving to meet her man of the night. I close the door behind me, and fall face-first into the couch.
Chapter Eight
Four more days until I’m
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