Open Road Summer(34)

“Uh-huh,” she says flatly, glancing up from her phone.

I lean over toward Dee, and we both put on our trying-to-look-pretty smiles. Lissa presses the button dispassionately, proclaiming the picture “cute” in a dull voice before handing the camera back to me.

Dee claps as I pack the camera up and slide it under the seat. “It’s like prom.”

We attended a dress fitting at an exclusive LA boutique last night. It was after hours, with the curtains pulled over the windows, and the designer himself had crouched on the ground to examine the hem on Dee’s bajillion-dollar loaner dress. You know—just like prom.

Laughing at her, I say, “Something like that.”

Mack opens the door, and before Dee even has both legs out of the car, the entire mass of people roars in excitement. She smiles graciously, giving a quick wave to the crowd. After the photographers have a few moments to take shots of her getting out of the car, Lissa climbs out, ready for action.

With a deep breath, I place my glittery heels on the carpet. I feel a flash of self-consciousness as I stand to my full height. Previously, I’d planned to wear a castoff dress of Dee’s—a black satin number that was a bit too small for her. Instead, at Dee’s fitting last night, the stylist team insisted on putting me in a green chiffon dress. It’s a bolder color than I’m used to, a deep emerald with a silver belt at the waistband. The sweetheart neckline shows off my shoulders and chest, and the tight fit pinches my waist into nothing. It’s elegant and subtle, which is new for me.

Lissa ushers Dee to the first group of reporters and photographers. I stand off to the side with Lissa, admiring the cameras they’re using to snap pictures of Dee. She places her hand on her hip, turning toward several angles to allow them different shots.

We continue down the row, with Dee answering a question or two as we go. They’re mostly straightforward: “Who are you wearing?” “What song are you performing tonight?” “How’s the tour going?” A few questions are leading—ones about Matt or, more abstractly, Jimmy. Dee shuts them down with grace.

Most reporters haven’t realized that Dee doles out face time based on respectfulness. If a reporter is especially nice to her, with thoughtful questions, she always remembers.

“That’s Missy up there,” Dee tells Lissa. Missy Jameson is a young entertainment-channel reporter who’s always been kind to Dee. “I’m going to stop for her.”

“Fine, but be quick,” Lissa says. “You’re expected inside shortly.”

“I’m Missy Jameson, live with Lilah Montgomery.” She speaks clearly into the camera lens while still managing to keep her mouth in the form of a bright smile. “Who, I might say, is looking just gorgeous.”

“So are you!” Dee says, gesturing at Missy’s tasteful black gown.

“Oh, stop,” Missy replies, but she looks nearly giddy at the compliment. “So tell me. You’re in the midst of your summer tour, which sold out every concert. How’s it going so far?”

She tilts the microphone to Dee. “You know, it’s the best experience of my professional life. Getting to headline with my songs, to plan the stage and the sets and meet fans every night. It’s perfect.”

“Matt Finch is now opening for you, an addition to the tour that came a few shows late in the game. Can you explain what led to his participation in the tour?”

“Sure.” Dee wouldn’t have explained this for another reporter, and she knows she’s giving Missy a scoop here. “Matt and I share the same record label, and we’ve been friends for a while. He became available for the summer, and I begged him to come on tour. He’s an incredible talent and an all-around nice guy. We’re lucky to have him.”

Missy beams, surely aware that she’s logged her sound clip. “Are you here with a date?”

“Yes.” Dee gestures in my direction, motioning for me to come into the camera’s shot. “My best friend, Reagan.”

I keep my stilettos planted firmly on the carpet, avoiding her gaze by toying with the bracelet on my wrist.

“Reagan is the friend mentioned in your song ‘Open Road Summer’?”

“That’s right,” Dee says. I can feel her eyes burning into me.

Missy waves me in. Her teeth sparkle like five-carat diamonds—a gaudy tiara of a smile—but her eyes say, This is live television. Obey me or else.

I roll my eyes at Dee but stand in line with the camera anyway. Dee links her arm through mine, and I try not to think of the people watching from our hometown. And by “watching” I mean “judging.” I know what they’re thinking—that I don’t belong here, Reagan O’Neill with her police record and trashy ex-boyfriend.

“Hi, Reagan. What’s it like being best friends with one of music’s rising stars?”

I look over at Dee, who is smiling at me encouragingly. Why she trusts me to say something appropriate is beyond me, but I decide to do her proud. “She’s the best friend I could ask for, but it actually has nothing to do with her being a rising star.”

“I paid her to say that,” Dee quips, and I want to laugh, but I stop myself. I don’t want to have a sort of laugh-face-double-chin on national TV. It’s hard to believe that Dee has to think about that kind of thing all the time.