Open Road Summer(18)

He holds up the bag for my examination, and I smile. “Nothing is low-fat when you eat a pound of it.”

“Are you saying I need to watch my figure?”

He really does not, but if he’s fishing for a compliment, he won’t find it here. So I shrug, going back to my own considerations. Finally, I choose the candy that combines my dual cravings for fruit and chocolate: Raisinets. Matt moves past me to the refrigerators, reaching in to extract a beverage. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that his choice is a pink bottle.

“Strawberry milk,” I say, eyeing him as we head toward the counter. “Really.”

He turns to me. “Do you have something to say about my snack selections?”

“Nope.” I fall into line behind him. “I just didn’t realize you were a middle-school girl going to a slumber party.”

“And I,” he says, plunking his strawberry-fest down on the counter, “didn’t realize you were a soccer mom justifying her chocolate craving with the fact that raisins are a fruit.”

Matt Finch hits back. I like it.

“Her stuff, too,” he tells the cashier.

“No,” I say hotly, even though the guy behind the counter is already punching extra buttons. “Seriously, do you people think that noncelebrities can’t afford gas station candy?”

“I’m sure you can.” He slaps down enough money for all of it. “But see, if I pay for this now, you’ll feel bad for giving me such a hard time.”

I really will not. As we walk toward the exit, I smirk at him. “You obviously don’t know me at all.”

“Maybe not,” he says, propping open the door for me. “Yet.”

Beyond the gas station’s overhang, the sky spans wide, an unreal blue with cotton blossom clouds. I assume we’re somewhere in South Carolina, but there’s no way to know based on geographical sights alone. A long stretch of highway, the blinding summer sun—it’s all the same between one place and the next. The band and crew are messing around outside our line of tour buses, stretching their legs and smoking. I spot Peach in the crowd, leaning against the band’s bus and chatting with her boyfriend. Dee’s drummer, whose name I can never remember, glances up and gives me a long once-over, from head to open-toe heels.

From beside me, Matt says, “I think I’ve got your number.”

“I wouldn’t give you my number.”

He smiles. “No, I mean . . . I think I’ve got you figured out.”

“I knew what you meant.”

“He just looked at you like he’s stranded in the desert and you’re a tall glass of water. That must get old.”

Of course it does. “Not really.”

He’s grinning enough to create slight dimples—surprising on such a chiseled face. “I get it. You’re like a porcupine. You’ve evolved spikes to keep the creeps away.”

“They’re called quills. And don’t act like you know me.”

I mean this to be my parting line, the last word before I turn away. I mean to leave him in the dust, giving my hips an extra sway for his viewing pleasure. Instead, Matt keeps pace with me, past his own bus and toward Dee’s.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Asking Dee a question.”

I walk up the steps to our bus with Matt on my heels and toss the bag of trail mix to Dee. It lands next to her on the couch, and she scoops it up eagerly.

“Thank you!” Seeing Matt behind me, she sits up straighter. “Hey!”

“Hey,” Matt says. “Can I hang with you guys for the next stretch? Reagan invited me.”

“No, she didn’t,” I reply flatly.

“Well.” He flashes that wily smile. “Not in words. She invited me with her eyes.”

I shake my head at Dee, but she looks delighted at the prospect of company. “Awesome! We can write together like we talked about!”

Matt breaks open his bag of Twizzlers. “Let’s do it.”





Hours later, I’m still editing photos while Matt and Dee work on their joint songwriting. They’ve already talked about concepts and possible main chords, with Matt plucking on one of Dee’s spare guitars. Now he lays reclined on one of the couches, arms stretched behind his head. Dee sits cross-legged, glancing up at Matt as she scribbles possible lyrics into a notebook.

“Okay.” Matt runs his hands through his hair. “I have a song idea. We could call it ‘Dee Montgomery Is a Songwriting Machine and Matt Finch Is a Hack.’ ”

“Oh, stop.” She swats his leg. “Your new stuff is beautiful.”

“My new stuff,” he says, using air quotes, “is well over a year old. I’m so far past writer’s block. It’s writer’s . . . barricade. Writer’s vault door.”

“We’ll come up with something good,” Dee promises. Her smile warps into a drawn-out yawn, and she opens her eyes wide, as if forcing them to stay open by brute force.

“Did you sleep at all?” I ask. She got out of bed a few times last night, creeping out into the common room after we got home from her concert.

“Only a little,” she admits. “I was in such a writing mood. I kept thinking of things, and I wanted to get them down before I forgot.”