Open Road Summer(24)

I want it to be about me. No, I don’t. He’s singing a few bars of la-la-las while my mind races. Of course I don’t want it to be about me. A celebrity who’s in a fake relationship with my best friend? I mean, he’s hot, but so what? I could go home with any hot guy in this bar if I wanted to—which, as New Reagan, I do not. Besides, Matt Finch, classifiable good boy, would never go for a girl like me. Of course he wouldn’t.

“Wow,” Dee says after he finishes the last chorus. “That song would get all kinds of radio time.”

I’m relieved that Dee didn’t suggest that it might be about me. Because it’s not.

Matt announces his last song, and he plays another selection from his solo album. The crowd is still totally into him, all the girls looking at him with the same hypnotized stares.

He disappears offstage to raucous hoots and whistles, and the crowd starts to mill around again as standard bar music takes over the speakers. Across the table, Dee’s face still radiates excitement. I find myself grateful for Matt, who gave her this much-needed night out.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him ducking back into the bar, trying to make his way toward us. A group of doting bimbos sidelines him immediately, asking for pictures with cell phones and crappy point-and-shoot cameras. He smiles gamely as the flashes go off, girls wrapping their arms around him, and my gag reflex trills in my throat. Glancing around to make sure no one’s watching, I lean over toward the table, subtly adjusting my push-up bra.

“Hey, guys.” He looks relieved, his whole body relaxing once he’s in our presence. Up close, his shirt looks damp with sweat, and, on anyone else, this would be disgusting. Instead, on Matt, I find it inexplicably sexy, and I force my eyes away.

“You were wonderful,” Dee says, and my brain races to find a compliment. I mean, what am I supposed to say? That song makes me feel like I already know you completely, like we existed together in a former life. Like you get me, without even knowing me. Like maybe I need to get you alone to find out how many other ways you can make me feel.

“It was good.” I flash him the hint of a smile. The more I see girls fawning over him, the less I want to be one of them.

If he knows I’m holding back, he doesn’t let on. His smile is polite, as transient as my own. “Thanks.”

“That new one,” Dee says, grasping his arm, “was great.”

“Thanks.” Matt’s eyes linger on me for a moment so brief that I wonder if I imagined it. I take a sip of my drink, just for something to do. The water feels colder in my mouth than it did before, further proving that I’ve heated up since I got here. “I should get going before anyone sees us together.”

Dee nods and steps back from him. As if on cue, a girl walks up to Matt, touching him lightly on the small of his back. She’s pretty—long, dark hair and hardly any makeup. She drawls in a sweet voice, “Hi . . . sorry to bother you. Could you take a picture with me and my friends?”

I don’t like any girl who bites her lip in an attempt to look cute and innocent.

“Sure,” Matt replies.

Before I’m forced to witness this, I announce, “I need some fresh air.”


And by “fresh air” I, of course, mean “a cigarette.” I wind my way through the maze of bodies until I find the front door. There are a few other people milling around outside, pooled into groups, talking and smoking. I head across the street to a sketchy little bodega, where I stand in line between a pimply guy holding an extra-large soda and a bag of Cheetos and a woman buying five lottery tickets. My hands sweat a little as I hand over my fake Tennessee license that says I’m twenty-one, but the cashier doesn’t even blink. I walk away triumphant, cigarettes and lighter in hand.

When I cross the street, I move one block down from the bar, where I can hear myself think. I lean my back against a building wall and flick the lighter, hard metal spinning beneath my thumb. The cigarette ignites, and I watch it smolder for a moment. I press one high heel against the wall behind me, holding the smoke in my lungs and then releasing it. Time slows down as I savor each inhale, the way the heat blooms inside my chest. It feels disgusting and guilt-ridden and wonderful.

“You’re a smoker?” a voice near me asks.

I turn to see Matt walking toward me, holding a cell phone in his hand. He’s wearing a baseball cap now, pulled low to obscure his famous face.

“Nope.” The smoke curls out of my mouth like steam rising from a cup of tea.

He steps closer, mere centimeters away. I freeze, my whole body paralyzed by his unexpected nearness. Leaning toward me, he closes his lips over the cigarette between my fingers. I expect him to take a drag—that long, forbidden inhale of a professional singer. Instead, he tugs the cigarette from my hand with his teeth and lets it drop to the ground. He stamps it with his shoe and bravado, his arms out like a matador who has conquered the bull.

My jaw slackens. I snap it shut, but it falls open again. “What. Did you. Just. Do.”

Matt’s close to me again, his pointer finger pushing the brim of his ball cap up so I can see his face. His self-satisfied grin makes his cheeks look dimply and smackable. I consider it, too, my right hand stiffening. But it didn’t go great the last time I hit someone, thus the cast on my left arm.

“Cigarettes are terrible for you,” he says. His eyes are as gray as smoke. That is how badly I want another cigarette: Matt’s body is a mirage, a giant cigarette with smoky eyes.