Open Road Summer(14)

“That’s assault!” he howls from the concrete. “Assault!”

Dee climbs onto the bus, and Mack stands in front of the door. “No. You laying a hand on Ms. Montgomery is assault, under Section Four, Article B, of your state law.”

“What are you, big boy—a lawyer?” The guy pulls himself to his feet and looks at Mack with his beady, weasel eyes. I sense his attempt to get a rise out of Mack, something for the cameras.

Mack’s a solid foot taller as he looks him square in the eye. “Yep.”

With relish, I laugh in the guy’s face, and he sneers at me. “The public has the right to know that Lilah Montgomery is not a good role model for their children. She’s just a promiscuous kid who—”

Before he can finish, I lunge toward him, claws out, but Mack catches me by my casted arm. His grip should hurt, but I don’t feel a thing.

“Get on the bus, Reag,” Mack says evenly. “Don’t give them a show.”

With a deep exhale, I take a step onto the bus, but I turn back, tempted. The reporter opens his mouth to say something, but I hold up my hand to stop him. Or slap him. I glance around at the rest of them—these overeager grown men and women, desperate to prey on an innocent girl—and my Southern upbringing rears like a stallion. “Shame on you. You’re a grown man. You even being here is skeevy and pathetic.”

“Reagan, enough,” Mack says.

I launch myself onto the bus before I can get angrier, and the driver shuts the door behind me. Inside, Dee has crumpled to her knees on the floor, cradling her face in her hands. I drop to her side, sitting on the floor with my back up against the couch, and she slumps against me. She inhales sharply, breathing too fast, as if crying and gasping for air all at once.

I let her cry, thinking of how many times she’s picked me up from the places I’ve fallen. She practically scraped me off the pavement after Jen McNally’s Christmas party last year, drunk as I was. She’s picked me up from seedy bars and bad situations, with Jimmy carrying me to the truck more times than I care to admit. Dee would drive into hell to pull me out of it with her bare hands. She may be a girlie-girl, but when it matters, she’s all fight. I know she can pick herself up, even now, but she deserves to let it out for a while.

She’s hiccup-crying like a little kid, but this is worse than the scraped knees of our younger days. This pain feels distinctly adult, like Dee’s mom or at least Peach should be here to fix this. It’s not okay, but I whisper it anyway. “It’s okay. It’s all right.”

Dee cries against my shoulder, her tears soaking warm through my shirt.

“You’ve seen what’s happened to those other girls,” she mumbles, and I know her mind is flipping through tabloid pages. “It starts with a few ugly rumors, and then the media turns on them, and their careers are over, and they wind up in rehab, and—”

“Hey. That’s never going to be you.”

“You don’t know that.” Dee shakes her head, her hair still holding its curl from the concert last night. Even with most of her makeup cried off, she looks like a star.

“I do know that,” I say, but she seems unconvinced.

She sits up, wiping under her eyes. “Matt will already be there when we get to Virginia, right?”

“I think so.”

Dee nods, taking a deep inhale. “You know, he’s been in the spotlight forever.”

“Yeah. He has.”

She leans against the couch, limbs melting into the soft leather. “He’ll know what to do.”


Somehow, this thought calms Dee as we roll toward Virginia. She falls asleep on the floor beside me, head propped up on a wildflower pillow. It’s an understandable impulse, to be on the floor when everything is falling apart, like you just want to feel the solid ground beneath you. When you’re on the floor, there’s nowhere farther to fall.

I pull out my laptop to hunt for information on Matt Finch. Dee likes him, but Dee likes everyone. I, on the other hand, don’t like him—or, at least, I don’t like that he stands to benefit from a situation that has my best friend falling asleep with puffy eyes.

My online search is fruitful. Matt Finch has been off the radar for about a year, no tour dates listed on his website. Apparently he had a fairly public breakup two years ago, when he was seventeen. The girl he was dating wasn’t famous until she went to the tabloids about their split.

When I’m done stalking his personal life, my investigation turns to his solo music. I survey the song clips on his website and select the first one—“Human,” a title that intrigues me. Clicking Play, I adjust my headphones in my ears.

Piano chords rise above the faint drumming and then give way to Matt Finch’s voice—deeper, of course, than when he was in the Finch Four. I shut my eyes to listen closer. He isn’t oversinging or trying too hard. His voice slides from one note to the next with ease, like he’s coming up with the lyrics just a heartbeat before singing them.

I listen closely, trying to string the lyrics together for their full meaning. Dee says that phrases in songs are like beads in a necklace—they should stand on their own, but they make the most sense together.

Oh, you know I’m only human;

I bend and fall and break.

You cut me and I bleed;

I’m a mess for you to make.