Open Road Summer

Open Road Summer by Emery Lord




For Janelle, who has always held on tight





Chapter One

Nashville to Charlotte


The fans scream for her, but they don’t really know the girl on the magazine covers—the girl with the guitar and the easy smile. Her given name is Delilah, and they think she goes by Lilah. But anyone who really knows my best friend calls her Dee. They think she’s seventeen, and she is. But she never acts seventeen. She acts either thirty years old, like a composed professional, in record-label meetings and interviews, or twelve years old, with me—giggling like we did back when she still had braces, back when our summer plans were nothing more than sleepovers and swimming at the pool. They think she wrote the songs on this album while getting over a breakup. But they’re wrong. She’s not over it. Not even close.

On the side of her tour bus, there’s a ten-foot-tall picture of Dee surrounded by a field of wildflowers. The shot captures her hand midstrum against a twelve-string guitar. Next to the picture, “Lilah Montgomery” is scrawled in a cursive font meant to mimic Dee’s handwriting. Fans wait in line for hours to get that same signature on posters and T-shirts. The newest album is called Middle of Nowhere, Tennessee, and the title song has been number one for two weeks already. It’s an upbeat song—a happy one, but it was written more than a year ago.

Middle of nowhere, Tennessee,

Exactly where I want to be.

Our initials carved in the old oak tree,

And every road takes me back home.

Middle of nowhere, Tennessee,

Dancing on the porch, you and me.

This is where I was born to be,

No matter how far I may roam.

The song, like so many others, was written for Jimmy.

I feel out of place here, in the expansive parking lot behind Muddy Water Records, outside Nashville. This is the starting point for Dee’s summer tour, and all three passenger buses are lined up, waiting to take us on our way. Dee wafts within the crowd, making cheerful introductions between the families of her band and crew, all here to say good-bye before the buses depart. I’m hanging back, waiting for her, when I sense someone in my peripheral vision. Someone who is not so subtly staring at my legs. There’s plenty to see, since my hemline is pushing the limits of public decency.

“Hey,” the guy says, eyeing me in an overeager way that makes me feel embarrassed for him. “Are you part of the backup band?”

“Sure.” This is a lie. I smirk, but it’s forced. I’m not in the mood, not after the month I’ve had. Besides, he’s not my type. Neatly trimmed hair, tucked-in polo shirt. One glance at him and I’m repressing a yawn.

“I’m Mark Tran,” he says. “I’m the assistant lighting director for the show.”

“Reagan O’Neill,” I reply. Then I launch the grenade. “I’m seventeen.”

It lands. Boom. My new friend Mark pinkens as he mutters something about it being nice to meet me. You can only have so many guys hit on you before it gets terribly, almost insultingly boring. My appearance and collection of tiny clothes are like flypaper, drawing in good boys and bad boys, boys younger than me and men old enough to be my father. Their reactions make it easier to tell the difference between the harmless guys and the ones who are venomous—the ones who will make it sting. But sometimes they fool me.

Dee greets her violinist’s mom with an enveloping hug. The woman looks startled, her eyes widening over Dee’s shoulder. My best friend is a hugger, with arms like an unhinged gate. At the mere thought of embracing strangers, I cross my arms, which triggers a splintering pain in my left wrist. I’m wearing my leather jacket despite the early June humidity, hoping that no one notices how tightly the left sleeve fits over my blue cast. The persistent ache feels like a reminder that I can’t keep making bad decisions without breaking more pieces of myself.

“Reagan,” Dee calls, waving me over. “You ready?”

I walk toward her, my tall shoes thudding against the asphalt. This sound is my touchstone, and it follows me anywhere I go. Unless I’m sneaking out of the house. In that case, I use my bare feet to dodge the creaky stairs. Today I chose my heeled motorcycle boots to go with a summer dress made of thin floral-print cotton. Contradiction suits me.

Dee signs a few more autographs for the family members of her band and crew as we try to move toward our tour bus. One girl looks eleven or twelve, and she’s trembling like she’s had espresso injected into her veins.

“I think you’re the prettiest person in the whole entire world,” the girl says as Dee signs a photograph of herself, “and I listen to your music, like, every single day.”

Though I’ve seen emotional fans with Dee before, my first thought is: This is so weird. Dee doesn’t think it’s weird. Without a moment of hesitation or a look of confusion, she squeals a thank-you and hugs the girl, who clutches on to her, stunned.

To her fans, Dee is the best friend they’ve never had, and I guess that part isn’t so weird. Dee’s the only real friend I’ve ever had—the one who comes running even though I’d never admit I need someone by my side. She jokes that she keeps bail money in her nightstand; I joke that she’d be my one phone call. Only I’m not joking. She would be.

Dee hooks her arm through mine as we walk toward her family. I already said good-bye to my dad, standing on the porch of our farmhouse before Dee’s mom picked me up. I didn’t want to do the drawn-out, forlorn farewell, because neither of us is forlorn. We both know we need a break. He needs a break from my causing trouble and bickering with my stepmom, and I need a break from . . . well, from my whole life, really.