Open Road Summer(17)

Summer Love? the online clip posed. Beside it, the picture captured Dee laughing, with her hand on Matt’s arm. He’d been asking me about my camera and explaining how he really isn’t photogenic. Then he regaled us with his repertoire of awkward camera faces while, apparently, a photographer crouched in the bushes of the park across the street. None of us had noticed, but I’m sure Lissa tipped him off.

Matt proceeded to show us his entire stock of camera expressions: Surprise Mugshot, Blinky McStupid, and Double Chin for the Win. Peach wiped tears of laughter from her eyes, and I pressed my lips together to keep from spitting out my iced tea. But Peach and I were conveniently cropped out of the photo, which included a suggestive caption. SPOTTED: Lilah Montgomery sharing a very friendly dinner with Matt Finch. It is rumored that Finch has joined Montgomery’s tour as an opener . . . and maybe more.

While those pictures sparked gossip about Dee and Matt, a radio clip from Wednesday ignited it. Dee had a call-in interview with a local radio station, so she didn’t have to go to the studio. We were all sitting around in the hotel as she answered the DJ’s questions. The clip featured a particularly leading moment.

“So, Lilah,” the DJ said through the speakerphone, “I’ve been hearing some pretty loud rumors about you and Matt Finch. Care to settle a bet?”

“We’re just friends,” Dee said automatically. She loves that she doesn’t have to lie. Sure, she and Matt are misleading everyone a little, but they aren’t outright lying.

“No comment!” Matt yelled from beside her. He’d plopped down on the couch, leaning his mouth near the phone.

Dee giggled and hissed, “Shhh!”

“Was that Matt just now?” the DJ prodded, not even bothering to conceal his excitement.

“No comment!” she chirped.

From a media standpoint, the clip is totally incriminating, more than enough to prove that they’re together. He watched from the wings with me during Dee’s Tuesday show in Richmond, but he stood in the VIP section for last night’s Raleigh show, in full view of concert-goers. I’m sure those pictures are online by now, too. The public doesn’t need more than that to confirm the news of young love. These stories are all fluff, of course, but Dee’s been in a better mood since Matt showed up.

“Matt’s been with us for three days, and there are hardly any mentions of the nude photo,” Dee muses as we roll farther south down the coast. There’s a bitterness in her voice when she references the photo now—but at least no tears. She’s perusing the forums of her website, which have exploded with comments in a blur of abbreviations and symbols and exclamation points: OMG Finchgomery!!! So cute together!! True <3 4 LM, finally!!!!

The positive response to Matt and Dee as a couple is overwhelming, with entertainment news sites updating several times daily with any pictures or details they can find. But it doesn’t change how badly Dee’s been shaken. The photo showed us just how delicate her popularity is, how quickly fans could turn on her, and how many ugly words could be thrown at her from behind computer screens. She stayed up till 2 a.m. writing a post for her website explaining how much she loves being a role model for young girls, even though she knew her management team would never let her post it. Instead, she’ll work it into a live interview soon, when Lissa isn’t there to stop her.

“Hey, Reagan?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think I should text Jimmy and tell him that I’m not really going out with Matt?”

She doesn’t owe him anything. But it does feel, even to me, like lying by omission. Besides, Jimmy can keep a secret. “What’s your gut feeling?”

“Text him,” she decides. Then she nods firmly, glancing out the window as the bus veers toward the off-ramp for a fuel-up.

“I can run inside the gas station if you want something.”

She perks up. “Really?”

It makes more sense for me to do snack runs alone. If Dee went, too, we’d hold up the tour caravan while she signed autographs for truck drivers and vans full of families on vacation. “Of course. I was going to run in anyway.”

“Awesome.” She looks relieved. “I’m dying for some trail mix.”

“No problem.” I reach for my purse and slide the strap over my head. It’s the kind of bag that sits on my hip, with a strap that goes diagonally across my chest and settles into my cleavage. Dee says these purses are called satchels, and I say she’s lived in Tennessee too long.

“Wait!” she calls, holding out some cash toward me.

“Dee,” I say sternly. “Stop.”

She recognizes the hard edge in my voice, the tone I take when there’s no reasoning with me. I don’t use that tone with her often, but when I do, it’s always about who’s paying.

After finding a bag of trail mix for Dee, I scan the shelves for my own snack food. Eating junk food in front of Dee is cruel, but it’s never stopped me. She eats healthy most of the time—as much for her energy levels as for her weight. I’m debating between Swedish Fish and M&M’S when Matt Finch turns the corner, a family-size bag of Twizzlers tucked under his arm.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “Are those all for you or do you have a family on your bus?”

“Twizzlers are a low-fat candy,” he says, indignant. “It says so on the bag.”