Open Road Summer(28)

“What’s up?” Matt says, glancing at me. His voice is almost dismissive, like he’s trying to brush me off.

“Dee wants the notebook back if you’re done with it.” I try not to linger on the plaid boxers peeking out above his jeans. He selects a blue T-shirt and shakes it out.

“Sure.” He stands up, pulling the shirt over his head, and I notice a large tattoo on his left side. It’s script—several lines of it—in black ink, which I didn’t expect. Matt Finch doesn’t strike me as the tattoo type.

He hands me the notebook, and I can’t help but ask. Not only am I curious, but I’m also trying to get his attention. I can’t seem to stop myself. “Tattoo, huh? Can I see it?”

Maybe this is a brazen thing to ask, but hey—he’s the one who had his shirt off in the first place.

He tugs his shirt up and turns to the side. I lean closer, peering at the carefully inked letters. Clearing his throat, he says, “It’s from the second verse of—”

“ ‘Forever Young.’ Bob Dylan,” I finish. Matt’s tattoo is lyrics from a song I love, written by a singer I love. And I do not use the word “love” lightly or often. He nods. “You’re a fan?”

“Yeah,” he says. “My mom always sang his songs to us when we were little.”

The seven lines of text on his skin are followed by a date, from February of this year. “What’s the date?”

Matt pulls his shirt down and answers without meeting my eyes. “The day my mom died. My brothers and sister all got a block of the lyrics tattooed. Between us, we have the whole song. My dad got a lyric from a different Dylan song.”

Though I’m not the crying type, my throat constricts. Suddenly, I forget about trying to attract his attention. I forget about trying at all. His mom died just a few months back. That’s it. That’s the sadness I feel emanating off his skin like sonar. His lopsided grin can’t shield it—not from someone like me, someone who knows.

“Which one?” I ask, almost whispering. “Do you mind if I ask? Which song your dad got?”

I’m close enough to see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows. “The last line from ‘You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.’”

My dad listened to that song on repeat—that and a few other painful songs, in the months after my mom left. But I don’t have a negative association with that song. I love it in a way that feels sewn into the fabric of who I am.

“That’s really beautiful.” My voice is quiet. There it is: my accidental, Dee-like attempt at earnestness.

Matt gives a sad smile, his cheeks barely creasing into dimples. “Thanks.”

“And I’m sorry you lost your mom. It’s the worst.” I say this because I think it might be nice to hear someone sympathizing with your pain. No one ever told me they were sorry about my mom or suggested that they understood how hard it was to have her leave. It’s too awkward for people to broach, so they say nothing. At least, not to your face.

“Yeah, it is,” he says after a moment, staring down at his feet. Then he looks back up. “Wait. Did you lose your mom, too?”

“Yeah. Literally.” I shove my hands in my pockets. I don’t normally volunteer this information—in fact, sometimes I lie about it. But I want Matt to know that I understand this part of him, at least a little bit. “She ran off when I was in third grade. Haven’t seen her since.”

“Oh my God.” He looks horror-struck. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have pried.”

“No big deal.”

Now his eyes clutch mine. We stay like that, staring at each other with a weird kind of intensity, until my throat beckons words on my behalf.

“So, um,” I stutter. “I’ll see—”

“See you in Arkansas, yeah,” Matt says quickly, breaking the gaze.

I flee, still clasping the notebook in my hand. Dear God, how I wish that the notebook were a giant pack of cigarettes. Walking back to the bus, I practice what my therapist calls “self-talk.” She meant it to be used when I’m on the brink of a bad decision, and pacing beside the highway, I’m certainly on the brink.

The self-talk concept is simple enough: no matter the noise around you—in my case, usually laughter and thumping music at parties or bars—find a quiet place in your mind and address yourself directly. For example: Reagan, do you really think it’s a good idea to shimmy your bra off so you can put it on the guy who passed out drunk on the couch? Next, mentally answer your own question. Sort of, yeah. Have you thought about the consequences? Yes. This guy will wake up on someone else’s couch, wearing a bra. I’m doing it.

Needless to say, it doesn’t always work. But it’s worth a shot. I close my eyes, internalizing my thoughts away from the rush of cars on the highway and the chatter of roadies on their smoke break. Reagan, do you actually like this guy or do you just want him because you can’t have him? I don’t know. Maybe both. Have you thought about the consequences? Dee could feel betrayed, the press could find out that the whole thing was a sham, her reputation and integrity could be skewered yet again.

By the time I reenter our bus, my resolve is solid: nothing can happen with Matt, ever. It’s the one indelible line I have, the only one I’d never cross: Dee’s trust.