Open Road Summer(19)

I know that, of course. She tried to play quietly in the common room, but I could still hear. Not that I minded. Hearing Dee work through a new song reminds me of when we were younger, before she even started performing.

“You’ll get sick if you lose too much sleep,” I warn, affecting a deeper tone and thick Southern accent to imitate Peach’s voice.

She laughs again, but it’s punctuated by another yawn. “Okay. I’ll go lie down. Wake me when we’re near Savannah.”


“I will,” I tell her, turning back to my computer screen. I’m editing the images from her Raleigh concert last night. There’s one particularly good one of Dee with the mic in one hand and her other hand on her hip, sassy and midlyric. I drag it into the file I’ve created called Maybe Portfolio—the growing list of my favorite photos so far.

Dee moves toward her bunk, and Matt looks over at me.

“That was a hell of a Peach impression.” He gives me a respectful nod.

I shrug. “Practice.”

There are a few beats of silence, but I can feel his eyes on me. Finally he says, “You don’t really emote. Did you know that?”

I don’t like when people try to explain me. So I lift my shoulders into an exaggerated shrug. There—I’m expressing what I feel: apathy, with a side of annoyance.

Matt is undeterred. In fact, his grin widens. “See, right now, I’m not sure if you completely hate me or if you think I’m the hottest guy in the world.”

“Neither.” I do think he’s hot, but the hottest guy in the world? I’d have to meet more guys, globally, to be able to comment on that. “I just don’t really trust you.”

Matt raises his eyebrows, but I can tell he’s not offended. In fact, he looks almost impressed. “Well, you shoot from the hip—I’ll give you that.”

Crossing my arms, I glare in his direction. His presence is disconcerting, and I’ve wanted to address it for a few days now. This is my opportunity to do it without Dee overhearing me. “I think maybe you’re an opportunist. That maybe you were a little too eager to jump on the tour, cash in on the situation Dee is in right now.”

I pause to let this sink in and, sure enough, he crosses his arms, too—defensive. But he also looks amused, as if my direct approach is a little sideshow designed specifically for his entertainment. “You’ve been off the radar for a few years, and you’re on Dee’s record label. Maybe Lissa leaked that photo; maybe the two of you planned this whole thing to help restart your career.”

“Wow,” he says, running a hand through is hair. He’s still smiling, though, which confirms that he’s as impossibly smug as I suspected. “You shoot from the hip with a machine gun.”

I keep my arms crossed, and I won’t be the first one to blink.

“All right.” He leans over in his seat, resting his arms on his knees so that he’s eye level with me. Squaring his shoulders, he says, “Here we go—in no particular order. I got out of the music business on my own accord, and I’m not even sure I want back in. Also, I’ve had my heart pulverized and then splashed all over the tabloids, too, so I know what Dee’s going through. I genuinely care about her, and I’d never hurt her.”

I’m quiet for a moment, waiting for his expression to falter, for his body language to expose any degree of untruthfulness. His usual look of amusement is gone, replaced by a solemnity that I haven’t yet seen on him. “I like that you asked me.”

I look at him challengingly. “I don’t remember asking anything.”

“If the situation were reversed—if the press were dogging my sister the way they are Dee—I’d be asking the same questions.”

“I didn’t ask any questions.”

“You didn’t have to. You’re asking what I want from Dee. And the answer is nothing. I wanted to shake things up in my life, and the tour option presented itself. Complete serendipity. So here I am, and that’s it.”

I buy it. When someone is lying to me, I can usually sense it. Subconscious gestures and certain word choices flare up, the flickers of dishonesty. Not Matt. His whole presence is still—settled.

“Okay,” I tell him, a truce.

He nods. “Okay.”

We look at each other for a moment before I return my attention to photo editing.

“So . . . whatcha doin’?”

“Editing images.”

“From last night?”

I nod, keeping my eyes on the screen. Now that I feel like he’s as trustworthy as Dee seems to think, I can admit that there’s something about Matt Finch that I like. Maybe more than one thing. I like that he makes Dee feel at ease. I like his self-deprecating sense of humor and the arm muscles that flex when he strums his guitar. The more I find myself interested by him, the more I try to seem uninterested. It’s a necessary boundary that runs the perimeter of my whole being, and I’ve built it brick by brick. After all, my left hand is still bound by a heavy cast, resting inoperably at my side.

Matt moves from the couch and sits next to me, his leg touching mine. His sudden nearness startles me, and I turn the laptop screen away from him. Up close, he smells like plain white bar soap—the kind that you slide against your arms.

“I can’t see the pictures?” He seems to be withholding a smirk, like my protectiveness is cute to him.