Open Road Summer(15)

So forget the words and give me deeds;

My heart was yours to take.

In a rare moment of emotional clarity, I feel as if Matt Finch has somehow seen the events of my life and transcribed them into song. I know this feeling. I know it all too well—when the world is so callous to you that your mind screams: “I am human, I am bleeding, stop this!” His voice is beautiful but wrenched—like he’s experiencing the pain all over again as he sings.

I sense that I’m being watched. Dee is awake and staring at me.

“What are you listening to?” she asks when I remove my headphones. She narrows her eyes at me, and I feel as if I’ve been caught in a personal moment.

“Um.” I click out of the website as if to hide the evidence. Embarrassment clouds my brain, and I can’t think of a lie. “Matt Finch, actually. His solo album.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s . . . um . . .” I pause, picking my words carefully. “It’s good.”

“Yes, it is.” Dee’s eyes move away from me, like her thoughts are floating across the room. “I cried the first time I heard ‘Human.’” After a moment of quiet, she refocuses on me. “Anyway. You’ll really like him. Matt’s just nice, you know? Not like other show-business types.”

It’s an inadvertent insult to her own people, which makes me smile. Dee lies back down, closing her eyes again as she repeats, “He’ll know what to do.”





We arrive in Richmond, Virginia, five slow hours later. As instructed, we wait on the bus as roadies “secure the perimeter” and begin to unload. I stay next to Dee on her couch, waiting for Mack to come collect us. The hotel is calm as we enter through a side door, but I shudder, reliving the memory of those reporters outside the last hotel. Dee’s mouth remains in that plaintive line, and I don’t even notice that she’s searching something on her phone until it’s too late.

“Give me that.” I snatch the phone from her hands as the elevator opens. Turning to Mack, I say, “Thanks—we’re good from here.”

When the doors close us inside, Dee’s eyes are pressed closed, tears slipping out on either side of her face.

“It’s so bad,” she whimpers.

I glance down at the phone I took from her. She searched her own name and, sure enough, in just a few hours, the story has spiraled downward in the way that only salacious gossip can. The results are so ugly—LILAH MONTGOMERY SCANDAL: IS THERE A VIDEO?? and a story in which an “industry source” speculates on whether Dee’s tour sponsors will pull out of their deals. Stargazer Magazine’s website published a scathingly self-righteous op-ed about Dee, even though they featured a glowing interview with her earlier this week—what a bunch of fair-weather fans. This article reinforces how steadfast I need to be for Dee. The day after the disaster is the best friend big leagues, and I’m up.

I grasp her hand as the elevator doors open to our floor because I understand now. The picture is not just embarrassing, and it’s not just an invasion of privacy. Dee’s professional world could implode. For two years, her rising popularity has seemed untouchable. She doesn’t have a backup plan. This career is all she’s ever wanted or worked for. Her sponsorship, her fan base, her future: it’s all hanging in the balance between rabid reporters and judgmental mothers who will refuse to buy concert tickets for their daughters.

Peach isn’t in the room yet, but our suitcases have been delivered on a gilded luggage cart. Dee darts to the nearest couch and curls into a tight circle, like a cat.

“I wish there was something I could do.” I hover near her, as if my physical presence could shield her.

“You’re doing it,” she says. “You’re here.”

I sit down on the couch, and she stretches her legs over my knees.

“Imagine if I were here alone right now,” she mumbles. “That would be awful.”

“Was it so bad being on tour last year, with Peach?”

She shrugs. “It was a little lonely sometimes.”

“We should have tried to pack me in your suitcase like we joked about.” I move my knee, bouncing her legs. “Remember?”


Her head pivots toward me, her mouth almost smiling. There’s a twinkle of interest in her eyes, the same spark that accompanies a new song idea, and it flickers between me and the huge suitcase by the door. I know what she’s thinking, and while I normally wouldn’t go along with it, I’m half past desperate to cheer her up.

“Oh, c’mon,” she begs.

“Fine,” I say with a wave of my hand.

She returns a moment later, rolling the suitcase behind her. It lands with a thud on the ground, and Dee unzips it hurriedly. We both lift, angling the suitcase until all her casual wear—old jeans and yoga pants and underwear—falls into a pile on the hotel carpet.

Though I feel completely ridiculous, I plop myself into the empty suitcase, trying to tuck my legs inside. Dee starts giggling as she tugs off my sandals, trying to make me fit. This spurs me on because Dee’s real-life laughter is hilarious in itself. In interviews, her laugh is musical, a trilling sound that is completely under her control. But her true laugh is the nerdiest sound in the world. When she gasps for air, she sounds like a goose honking.