Open Road Summer(30)

“Ugh, I feel so bad I can’t go with you,” Dee says, tapping her finger on my cast.

“Dee, seriously.” I roll my eyes. “Not a big deal.”

Peach ducks into the room. “Ready?”


Dee nods, climbing off the bed. She glances back at me. “You sure you’re okay going by yourself? Maybe Peach could go with you. . . .”

“Nope,” I insist. “I’m fine.”

Peach chimes in. “Reagan, one of the drivers is scheduled to meet you in the lobby at nine. He has the address of the doctor’s office that I booked, and your dad faxed the consent form, so you should be all set.”

“Sounds good,” I say, but Dee is still making a pouty face. “I’m fine. I am.”

“Okay, okay.” She smiles on her way out the door. “See you at the stadium!”

When I move into the suite area for coffee, there’s a small, square package wrapped in sparkly paper. A card shows my name in Dee’s handwriting. I open the card and read her message—Happy cast-off day! Cheers to focusing on the positive. Below that, in place of closing, there’s a hand-drawn infinity symbol and a simple “D.”

I slide my thumb under the wrapping paper. When it falls away, the box shows a picture of one of the nicest camera lenses that money can buy. She shouldn’t have. I love her for it, but she shouldn’t have. Of course she left it here instead of giving it to me in person. She knew I’d try to refuse it. Now that it’s in my greedy, snap-happy hands, there’s no way I’ll let it go.

I fumble for my camera bag, eager to try the new lens. I brought three cameras: a point-and-shoot, a Diana for film, and my DSLR—a Canon Rebel. The Rebel is my inner photographer’s spirit animal. I bought it with the employee discount from my on-and-off job at the local Supermart. I man the photo-processing station, but sometimes I quit or simply don’t show up. They also occasionally fire me for not showing up . . . or for showing up but failing to be “customer service-orientated.” I’m perfectly nice to the nonidiots. I teach the grandparents how to work their digital cameras; I show the harried moms how to edit slightly blurry pictures of their kids. A lot of the time I actually like it, so I always come back. And I’m so good at working with other people’s photos that they always take me back.

An hour later, I’ve completely forgone showering. I meant to get ready, but I couldn’t stop playing with the new lens. I snapped photos of the hotel bed and curtains, just to admire the quality of texture it can pick up. I can’t wait to do this again with both hands bare, to lift the camera with my left arm unbound by plaster. That’s the thought I’ll cling to when nervousness becomes nausea in the doctor’s office.

I need to be in the lobby in less than five minutes, so I glance in the mirror. Not too bad. My hair still looks decent, and a few quick swipes of eyeliner and mascara are enough to make me look human. I exchange my pajama shirt for a low-cut tank top and tiny shorts—the kind of outfit that says, “Look at my body, not my unwashed face.” On my way out, I grab a pair of tall wedges and wrangle them on once I’m in the elevator. In the reflection of the mirrored doors, I stare at my forearm wrapped in blue plaster one last time.

The doors open to the lobby, and I see the chauffeur standing next to the concierge desk. Beside him stands Matt Finch. I walk up to them, heels smacking against the marble floors, and the driver says, “Good morning, Miss O’Neill. I’ll go get the car.”

He leaves me alone with Matt, who I look up and down at. “What’s up?”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.” The dimples form, and I hate him for being so cute. “Dee called me.”

I hate her, too. “I’m a big girl.”

“Actually, you’re very little.” His grin widens. If he keeps this up, I’m going to give the cast one last hurrah against his arm.

“I’m fine by myself.”

“I believe you. But I don’t want to let my girlfriend, Dee, down, so you’re stuck with me.”

Without moving my eyes from him, I say, “Fine. Whatever.”

I can’t resist another eye roll as I follow him to the sedan. We both slide into the backseat, and I use my good arm to buckle my seat belt.

“So,” Matt says once the car pulls onto the main road, “since I’m going with you, I should probably know how you broke your arm.”

“I fell in my high heels.” This is my stock answer and exactly as much as I’m willing to reveal. I don’t like to think about it, much less talk about it with someone who’s barely more than a stranger. Matt Finch doesn’t get a backstage pass to my life—only Dee does.

We’re quiet on the way to the doctor’s office, which turns out to be located in a building so generic that it’s creepy. This office complex looks like somewhere I’d imagine a call center—not medical care. I’d prefer a doctor’s office that looks established, like a hospital.

Matt opens the door for me, as if trying to prove his presence is helpful, which it is not.

“Okay, really,” he says, trailing behind me down the hallway. I can tell he’s grinning impishly without even looking at him. In the limited time I’ve known him, Matt Finch has never looked more delighted than when he is intentionally pushing my buttons. “You tripped in high heels?”