Authors: Ashley Poston
“We’ll always be okay. Love you.”
“You, too. Goodnight.”
I get to my feet and wipe my swollen eyes. No need to call Caspian now, at least. There is an unopened bottle of wine sitting in the refrigerator, just waiting for me. I find Mom’s wine opener in her suitcase and pour a glass and shuffle out onto the balcony for some fresh air. My nose is still running, but I don’t really care.
My mind starts to wander back to Roman. Where are they now, on the interstate bound for some other destination, cursing the bane of my existence? I shouldn’t have been so stupid—I should’ve
known
John Birmingham would come looking. That he would find me. Or if not him, then another paparazzo, and they’d follow me to Roman all the same.
Maybe if I’d listened to Maggie, maybe if I’d been more of a fan...
Stop it.
Below, the beach is vacant. Pitch black waves rock against the pale gray sand, in and back out into the sea. There isn’t a divide between the sea and the sky tonight. It looks infinite when the stars shine like brilliant diamonds on a velvet-black curtain. I read somewhere once that the stars were just holes in the heavens where the love of our lost ones pours through the sky to tell us that they are happy. I imagine if that’s true then Dad’s the Big Dipper. Leave it to him to be the big-ass ladle in the sky.
Would he be disappointed?
I pour myself another glass and toast to the Big Dipper, and for the next hour, I talk with him about Roman. It sounds crazy. But I can’t ignore the feeling that Roman began to fill the crevice Dad left behind, and that scares me because I didn’t think anyone could. It’s not because he paid attention to me and called me beautiful—I’m not that vain, or that in need of attention.
Or am I?
When Caspian and I first started, it was right after Dad’s funeral and I was in pieces. But when we were together it was like he knew he could shake me once and listen to all the bits of me rattle around, and everything would be fine—that I was broken, but still wanted. Not beautiful, but
enough
.
I
let
myself be a secret. I never argued otherwise. I thought I knew myself. I thought I knew what I wanted and where I wanted to go and what I wanted to be, but every time I think I’m finally in control my life turns upside down, as if I’m looking in a mirror where everything is the exact opposite, and I really don’t know at all.
I leave the balcony and curl up on the couch, hoping against that this night will have just been a bad dream.
Sloane Hartford
The Juice
, June Issue #317
It’s early June, and I’ve waited outside of Muse Records for three hours. I am hot. I am sweaty. Los Angeles has never felt more like Hell. However, there is one saving grace in this fire and brimstone town: Holly Hudson. She is supposed to walk through those double doors and into my life in five minutes (as long as I keep my camera tucked safely in my car, her agent stressed).
Holly Hudson, while she is best known for the sensational pop rock band, Roman Holiday, with playboy frontrunner Roman Montgomery and pianist Boaz Alexander, Hudson reportedly celebrated her twenty-first birthday by
herself
. Which is odd considering she could have more hot tail than every bachelor on the Sunset Strip combined. And yet, she is still fantastically single.
So, my editor has charged me to find out
why
.
Holly Hudson barges out of the double doors, screaming into her phone, waving her hands in the air as if channeling a lightning strike to whoever is unfortunate enough to be on the other end. Her ringlets of chestnut hair are pulled into a high ponytail, bracelets singing in a chorus of clatter, her clothes a retrograde neon 80s fashion nightmare. But she works it. After all, her sensational style has been on the cover of
Vogue
and
Cosmo
for months. They’re calling it “eclectic.” Her trademark peacock feather is tucked behind her left ear today, bouncing with her boundless energy.
“I told you she’d be here! Honestly, you never
listen
anymore! I swear to God, if there’s one scratch on that Sweet Pea I will cut off your dick and feed it to the sharks at the LA Zoo!” she says—no,
scolds
—into her pink cell phone.
She has always been a fiery phoenix of a girl, having risen from poverty to become one of the highest-paid entertainers on the market. She ends the call right before her bright blue eyes set on me. She slides her phone into her left bra strap and presses her hands on her hips.
“
The Juice
,” she says deploringly.
“Sloane, actually. Sloane Hartford. I spoke with you on the phone—”
“You’re early.”
“Actually, you’re—”
“Let’s skip the small-talk.” She descends the steps on her fuck-me heels and stops a foot and a half away. Close up, her cheeks are gaunt and dark rings show under her eye makeup. She’s five three, but even in heels she looks small.
“Small talk skipped,” I confirm.
She cocks her head. “Wait…aren’t you the chick who wanted to order Chip ‘N Dales for me?”
“And take you out to dinner, since you look so stressed. That’s still an option.” I grin.
“I never said no to the Chip ‘N Dales.”
Her manager interrupts then, shooting Holly a meaningful look. “But she’s much too busy with her schedule,” the man digresses.
Holly sighs, and tells Joe Maroski she doesn’t need a babysitter. “I’ll be a princess, I promise,” she says, before leading me up the street to a little corner cafe. Joe tries to deter us, but once Holly’s mind is set there is no changing it.
At the cafe, she orders a skinny soy latte, no whip, in a dejected sort of tone that tells me she’d rather have the triple mocha latte with extra whip, and could you be a doll and drizzle some of that caramel on it too?
“It must be hard,” I begin, “to be in the public eye all the time.”
We sit at a window seat, a peculiar spot, since it’s just inviting the paparazzi to take a good shot of her. Perhaps that is her plan: playing nice with the paparazzi—after all, I’m one of them. “That’s one question you can’t ask,” she replies, “so save your breath. Oh, and don’t ask about my family. Or Roman.”
“Did he get you anything for your birthday?”
“You can’t ask that.”
There goes half of my interview. The world believes that they are the Cory and Topanga of Hollywood. I size up her expression, her mood, but she has sealed it all away. Even testing the waters might land me on the permanent blacklist, and that would be bad for business. So, we skim the water to find something we
can
talk about.
Which is—that’s right—the weather.
“Got a hot date on this beautiful Friday evening?”
She’s not going for it. “I don’t see why you try to interview people like me. I’m not going to tell you what you want to know. I won’t tell you where I live or what type of car I drive. You want to know my astrology sign? Aries. My SAT scores were 1460. Someday, I want to play a gig at Madison Square Garden.”
“Which, congratulations, by the way. Summer of next year, right? End of July?”
“I’m stoked.” A smile blossoms onto her face like a moonflower. “It’s been my dream since, well,
ever
.”
“So dreams really can come true.”
“Sometimes…” She shrugs. “Dreams change, too. What you thought you wanted at seventeen isn’t what you want at twenty-one.”
“Did you ever dream you’d be on the cover of
Vogue
?”
“Used to! Now, all I dream about is a good night’s sleep. And pizza. With stuffed crust!”
We laugh together, as if I know exactly what she means, even though I just had a pepperoni deep-dish last night. “This sort of popularity must be tough. You’re the spokeswoman for CoverGirl now, right? And a lot of charities.”
“Yeah,” is all she says. She sips at her skinny soy latte, looking out the window. A little girl passes with her mom and pauses at the window. She recognizes Holly, who smiles and waves down to her.
“If you could do it all again, would you?” I finally get up the gumption to ask.
Her pink lips, seen in commercials for CoverGirl across the nation, press into a half-moon frown. “I would do one thing different.”
“And what’s that?”
Her eyes light on me, and she gives a coy grin. “You’re not allowed to ask that.”
Five years ago, Holly Hudson was a high school junior, known for her killer guitar solos on YouTube and a seven-year spelling bee champion. Her best friend, Roman Montgomery, was a high school deadbeat working at a mini-golf course as a pirate on the weekends. Then everything changed when Roman and Holly played a talent show together, and brought the house down. That night, a beautiful partnership was born. “We were just dicking around, Roman and me,” she’d reportedly told
Esquire
when asked about the viral video “Crush on You” a year later that subsequently scored them the infamous record deal with Muse Records. “We didn’t expect people to enjoy us in our pajamas. Then Boaz came along and we really dug his style, so we became a threesome.”
The rest, they say, is history.
A paparazzo passes the window and snaps a flurry of photos. She tugs down the blinds without even looking up.
“Then what can I ask?” I finally cave, because all of my questions are apparently enemy territory.
She shrugs. “The thing I don’t like about interviews is how twisted words can get. If I say
I love Roman
, you think we’re having sex. What is
love
, anyway? I know the word in fourteen different languages. I can give you examples of their uses. Everyone wants to know about
love
. About
my love
, so you can twist it any way you want. But what about
saudade
?
Duende
?
Toska
? Words that should be like love—
untranslatable
.”
The door to the cafe opens, and a guy in a New York Yankees baseball cap and Ray-Bans makes a b-line for our table. An errant fan? Amusement crosses Holly’s face as she pulls off his sunglasses. I’m struck dumbfounded.
Why, hello there Roman Montgomery.
“You really
are
gorgeous,” I make the mistake of saying.
“Thanks, you too,” he replies absently, and presses to Holly, “Joe-Blow needs us back.”
“Needs or
wants
?”
“Is there a difference?”
She gives him a level look. “Roman.”
“Holly,” he mocks with the same deadpan inflection.
“I’m staying. The interview isn’t over yet.” Even though it pretty much is.
“You’ve stayed long enough,” he retorts.
“Let me finish my coffee at least.”
“That yours?” He points to her cup.
“No.”
He chugs the entire drink and slams the empty cup back down on the table. “Gross, soy.” He makes a face. “Now you’re done. Let’s go.”
“You’re buying me another one.”
“
That
? That was disgusting.”
“So are your manners.”
He puts on a grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I love it when you talk dirty.”
They bicker like an old married couple.
I ask if he wants to join us, partly because I don’t want to attempt to follow in fear that my knees might buckle, and partly because seeing Roman out in the daylight is like seeing a panda in the wild.
“No thanks, we should be going,” he replies. “There are too many people with camera phones. It’s a pain in the ass.”
Their lives are swept along hidden skyways: the backdoors of music studios, their secluded apartment, and their unmarked cars. Holly gives him a pleading look and he sighs, sits, and removes his hat. He reminds me of a fugitive on the run, a tiger who has escaped his cage. Even in the cafe, they’re squashed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the same predicament for however long their empire lasts.
“So…what’s this interview about anyway?” he asks.
“Me,” Holly replies.
“What about you?”
“Everything. My bank accounts in Switzerland, illicit love affairs, my baby daddy in Zimbabwe.”
“I didn’t know about the baby,” he replies with mock-seriousness, and then waves his hand off toward me. “You know how these cockroaches are—excuse me, paparazzi are cockroaches.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You, Madame, are a
vulture
.”
“Potato, tomato.” I shrug. I ask him point-blank about his drinking problem, his slew of heartbroken one-night-stands, his reckless driving and 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 guy’s balls.
“Life in the fast lane,” he impromptu-sings.
“Did you sing that into some girl’s boobs last night?”
“I do not serenade women’s breasts. I’m surprised you even
think
that, Holly,” he replies. “And here I thought we were besties.”
“The Eagles
,
really?”
“Rather me sing Hall and Oates?”
“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 pop for an alleged rock band,” I comment.
He shrugs. “I just do the lyrics, so blame Hols and Boaz if you don’t like the sound.”
Holly rolls her eyes. “Whatever. We can only work with the lyrics he gives us—”
“Unless it’s a song about a girl,” he interjects. “Even in ‘Crush on You’ you had me take out anything gender specific.”
“And as long as I’m alive you’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.”