Open Road Summer(27)

Charleston to Little Rock


“Oh God, make it stop,” Dee moans from a fetal position on her bus couch.

We left Charleston at 5 a.m. with Dee nursing her first hangover. We told Peach it was a migraine, which excused the three aspirins and the vat of coffee I administered to her. She’s been sleeping it off for almost three hours. I’ve been awake the whole time, watching the valleys fill with morning fog so low that it could be snatched out of the air.

Matt hopped onto our bus right before the caravan left the hotel. He handed Dee the phone he’d confiscated the night before, and she groaned in response. Our eyes met, and he smiled wanly before ducking off the bus. It was a weird moment, and I wasn’t sure why it happened—like, neither of us knew what to say.

In the three hours since then, my mind has replayed last night again and again, rewinding over Matt’s new song and his sly grin after murdering my cigarette and the quiet smile we shared at the end of the night. If I stood totally still, I bet my body would just slide toward him, carrying me like a moving sidewalk. It feels like I have to plant my feet firmly to resist the pull.

I’ve always gotten a thrill from being places I’m not supposed to be. As soon as I was old enough to read, I gravitated right to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door in the back of the grocery store. Even now, I frequent over-twenty-one clubs and sneak into the janitor’s closet to make out with whoever interests me at that moment. Matt Finch, my best friend’s faux boyfriend and reputation-saver, might as well have caution tape around him—of course he’s where I want to be.

“Okay,” Dee says, finally sitting up. “I think I could eat something.”

“Start small.” I toss her a granola bar from my purse. “And keep up with the water.”

Dee chews deliberately, as if concentration alone can keep her from nausea.

“Why do people drink?” she whispers to me. “Seriously.”

“Well, most people are better at it than you are.”

She sighs. “You know, if someone got a picture of me last night, I might be back to square one with the media.”

After all she’s been through, I expect Dee to panic over the prospect of more bad press. But, earlier this week, her publicity team convinced a website to post the original, unedited photo. The innocent version didn’t make huge headlines the way the “nude” photo did, but real Lilah Montgomery fans knew the truth, and Dee has felt better about it since.

Dee chimes in again before I can try to placate her. “Actually, I’m glad it happened. The whole experience sparked a new idea for a song.”

My face must have registered alarm because she quickly explains, “I’m not saying I’d replicate the evening just for song ideas, but it’s the silver lining. Made me think of how often we make decisions that we know will hurt us later, just because they feel good at that moment.”

I know nothing about that.

Dee reaches for her guitar, her eyes already distant. I love this part, watching Dee summon a song out of thin air. It’s always the same. She hunches over her guitar, barely touching her fingers against the strings. Then she closes her eyes, trying to feel for the right chords. When she finds them, she strums a little louder, making sure they sound right in full tone. Next come the humming, wordless notes that will soon be accompanied by lyrics. She’ll pause, scribbling a possible first line into her notebook, and then try again, using the words this time. This can go on for hours or even days, editing and fine-tuning each piece.

By the time we pull into the next rest stop, she’s still getting started—no humming yet.

“Hey.” She looks up at me. “Can you run over to Matt’s bus for me?”

I look up at her from my copy of Rolling Stone. After last night, I don’t know how to be around him. There’s a growing attraction that needs to be snuffed out, and being alone with him in an enclosed space is not the way to do that.

Dee gives me her best pretty-please face. “We’re trying to write that song together, and he has the notebook I was using yesterday. I’d get it myself, but . . .”

But gas-station-goers will see her and cause a riot. I know this.

“All right.” I put my magazine facedown to save the page. “He’ll know what you mean?”

“Yeah. The notebook. He’ll know.”

I step out into the summer sun and make my way to Matt’s bus, but not before fluffing my hair a bit. His driver is taking a smoke break, so I bang on the bus door. I can’t see through the tinted windows, but it takes only a moment for the door to snap open. Then I’m looking head-on at Matt, who’s wearing nothing but blue jeans.

His phone is pressed to his ear. “Corinne? Let me call you back in a minute.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, almost cringing with awkwardness. Thanks a lot, Dee.

“No problem. Come on in.” His hair is wet, and he pushes it back from his forehead. “Close it behind you.”

I step onto the bus and push the handle to shut the door. It’s just the two of us on an empty bus, and one of us has his shirt off. Matt crouches in front of a suitcase, back muscles shifting as he riffles through a pile of neatly folded shirts, and I still haven’t found words. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower, and the whole bus smells clean—but not like “mountain rain” body wash or mall cologne. Soap-clean, simple and familiar.