Open Road Summer(35)

There’s loud sigh from behind us, and we both glance back. Lissa’s lips are pursed as she pointedly glances at her watch.

“I’d better get going,” Dee says. “Nice talking to you, Missy!”

As we turn away, I can hear Missy speaking to the camera again. “That was a few questions with Lilah Montgomery. She’s performing tonight. One of her . . .”

We’re out of earshot, passing more reporters who scream her name. She stops one more time to pose, gamely spinning as requested.

Once inside, Dee is whisked off to do some sort of backstage prep for her performance. I find my name on a seat in the third row and I slump down, happy to relax my posture in this fussy dress. Lissa will be sitting in the very back with the other publicity people. Glancing around at the seats near mine, I recognize a few names of country music stars. So far, there are only a few celebrities in the room. Most are milling around, talking with their dates and to one another.

“Hey,” Matt says, plopping down next to me. Whoever organized the event put Dee on the aisle, then Matt, then me. This arrangement allows the camera to get easy angles of the two of them sitting next to each other and honestly, it pisses me off. I’d much rather sit next to Dee. Matt glances over, taking in my dress. “Wow. Look at you.”

I dodge this. “How was the red carpet?”

“Loud. Did Dee do okay?”

“Perfect, as usual. Most reporters were pretty tactful, so it was good.”

“Not with me.” He shakes his head. “Some jerk asked if I was sleeping with Dee. Not dating. Sleeping with.”

My stomach clenches in anger. “What did you say to him?”

“Nothing. I walked away. What else could I do?”

“Say that you’re sleeping with that reporter’s daughter. Or wife.”

He laughs. “I’m sure that would have gone over great.”

In front of us, there’s a young guy in a well-fitting tuxedo and white cowboy hat approaching. He walks slowly, sauntering like a true cowboy.

“Matt Finch,” he says, widening his arms. “Long time, my friend.”

I busy myself with examining my nails while Matt hugs him and clasps him on the back, guy-style. “Chet Andrews. How the heck are you, man?”

“Things are great,” he says, nodding. In a quieter voice he adds, “You guys doin’ okay?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Matt replies. “Better. Tyler’s wife just had their first baby, so that’s been huge for all of us.”


“I heard that!” Chet says. “Congratulations, Uncle Matt. Glad to hear some good news for y’all. Is this your date?”

I look up from picking at my nails like an elegant lady.

“Actually, she’s Dee’s date.” Dee must know Chet or Matt would have called her Lilah. “Her best friend, Reagan.”

Three years since Dee’s first album dropped, and I’m getting more than a little sick of being introduced as “best friend Reagan.” I don’t begrudge her the fame—obviously. I just don’t want it to define me. But I take a note from my gracious best friend and offer him my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Chet lets out a low whistle as he shakes my hand. “Prettiest girl in the room, and this guy wasn’t even gonna introduce me? Some friend!”

Matt laughs, clapping him on the arm. “You comin’ to the after-party?”

“Better believe it,” he says. “I’ll catch up with you there.”

They hug again, and Matt says, “It’s so good to see you, man.”

After Chet has gone, I ask, “Old friend?”

“Yeah. We met when we were really young. Chet’s a good guy.”

As the night continues, I notice that the whole country music scene seems surprisingly close-knit. When Dee gets up to perform, the crowd goes crazy. Tonight, she sings “Middle of Nowhere, Tennessee,” the version with her full band. The back screen projects a field of wildflowers, and I’m wishing I had my camera. At the last chorus, Dee’s band cuts out, and she sings with just her acoustic guitar. Everyone joins in, the mingling of some of the world’s most famous voices.

“Old country home, you know it’s where I belong,” the crowd sings. “It’s the only place for me—middle of nowhere, Tennessee.”

After the last note hits, the stage goes black. The audience is on its feet, cheering like Dee is its collective five-year-old daughter who has just performed at her first dance recital. The lights come back up, and Dee waves to everyone. A light pops up on either side of the stage, counting down three minutes of commercial break.

From in front of us, a guy wearing a turquoise bolo tie turns around and says to Matt, “That little girl is goin’ places.”

Matt shakes his head solemnly. “Don’t I know it.”





There’s a reason why reporters aren’t allowed into award-show after-parties: the parties are wild. Country royalty, and other various celebs, make repeat visits to the bar while the dance floor nearly shakes from overuse. I’m washing my hands in the restroom and, here, in the quiet by myself, it feels bizarre—that outside the door is a crowd of people I usually see only on TV.

When I emerge from the restroom, I wander toward the last place I saw Dee and Matt. They’d been mingling with industry professionals in the lounge room, but they don’t seem to be here now. I head to the main room, where our reserved table sits near the edge of the dance floor.