Open Road Summer(22)

Matt texted us these names on our way to the bar, and Dee cackled at such obvious pseudonyms. I have no idea how he came up with “Samantha,” but I get that “Alabama” replaced “Montgomery.” As for my name, “Reagan” to “Ronald” to “Ronnie.”

The bouncer gives us wristbands and says, “Y’all have a good night.”

Dee claps, grinning as if we’re entering Disneyland instead of a dive bar, though I have to admit—it’s nicer than I expected. It seems clean enough, with shiny oak bar tops, and the patrons are mostly college students. If I didn’t know any better, we’d fit right in.

“I’m going to get us drinks.”

Dee’s grin falls. “Reag, I thought you weren’t—”

“I’m not. I meant water.”

“Oh.” Her face relaxes. “I’ll come, too. Then we can scope out seats.”

We stand at the bar, and Dee glances around, taking it all in. Her eyes widen as she notices a couple engaged in a full-body make-out session, and my instinct is to cover her eyes. In this place, I feel like the devil, escorting a newly fallen angel through the underworld.

I put two fingers up and mouth “water” to the bartender. He nods, giving me the “hold on” motion. I’m not used to ordering water, but I know the bartenders take their sweet time getting it, in favor of paying customers.

Dee props her elbow on the bar, and I sit on one of the stools. The bartender hands a beer to the girl nearest us. She’s pretty, but her face is flushed, her hair is nearing disarray, and she has that sleepy-eyed, I-love-everyone-in-this-bar look. Her eyes slide over to Dee’s face and stay there, suspicious.

“This is so super weird,” the girl says, her posture sloppy as she leans toward Dee. “But has anyone ever told you that you kinda look like Lilah Montgomery?”

“Once or twice.” Dee flips her fake brown hair.

“I don’t see it.” Glancing at Dee, I add, “No offense.”

“None taken.” Dee smiles, and the girl continues to examine her. I start to plan our quick escape from the bar, but Dee looks totally calm.

“It’s your face shape,” the girl decides. To my relief, she laughs, sloshing a bit of beer onto the floor. “People tell me I look like Kira King, and I’m like, ew. No. That girl is a tramp, and she can’t even sing.”

Kira is a singer-actress-whatever, a few years older than us. Dee’s friendly with Kira, but she doesn’t especially like her. Dee shakes her head. “You’re much cuter than Kira King.”

The girl gestures at herself. “I know!”

“Brianna!” a voice calls in our direction. “Come on!”

“Gotta go,” the girl says, turning back to us. “Don’t wanna miss Matt Finch! Yum.”

As she walks away, I sneer at her. Idiot. Matt’s a human being, not an apple pie.

The bartender finally hands us our waters, and Dee’s beaming. “This is so fun.”

“Bar small talk with drunk girls?”

She shrugs. “It’s just fun to have conversations that don’t revolve around my work.”

For a moment, I feel a twinge of sympathy. The rest of the world sees the money, the glamour, the flawless hair and wardrobe. Without seeing the inside view, they’d never realize that Dee is caged. The fame is like a dream house—it’s picture-perfect from the outside, and it’s something Dee built herself. But now that she lives here, a tall fence runs around the border of her life, keeping others out and barricading her in.

We settle in at a bar table facing the stage, which is nothing more than a single platform with a microphone and an amp. Behind it is a deep blue velvet curtain with a few strings of white lights draped across it. I’m not sure if Dee has ever played a venue so small and unassuming, and she cranes her head to people-watch in every direction.

I lift the glass of water to my mouth with my noncasted hand, tucking my left arm under the table. Now that we’re here, I wish I had worn a jacket to cover up the cast. But it’s Charleston in June, and even the inside of this air-conditioned bar is muggy. There’s a group of girls already camped out in front of the small stage space, and more girls are gravitating toward it by the minute. They all look like they’ve tried extra hard tonight, like they’re desperate to get with Matt Finch for One Night Only. Best of luck, bitches.

As I’m sizing up the newest pack of groupies, a tubby guy in his midtwenties jumps up on the stage, tilting the microphone toward him.

“Hey everyone, thanks for comin’ out tonight,” he says. “Although our stage is normally used for your karaoke stylings, tonight we have a last-minute and mostly unpublicized treat for you. Ladies and guys pretending to be gentlemen to get these ladies to go home with you, please welcome Matt Finch!”

The squeals rise up while girls push to find a spot near the stage. They’re clapping as best they can with drinks in hand, and Matt ducks onstage from behind the thick navy curtain. Dee lets out an impressive wolf whistle, which sets off the whole crowd even louder. I wish all these skanks would just sit down so I could see. Repositioning my chair, I nearly strain my back trying to see past a tall blond in unnecessarily high heels.

Matt’s guitar is strapped over his chest, covering most of his button-down shirt. After spending a few days with him, it’s strange to see him onstage. This is the first time I’ve seen Matt Finch: Performer. In the white light of the small barroom stage, he looks less cocky than tour-bus Matt, but he’s still quietly confident, with a smile that draws you in.