Open Road Summer(36)

I’m only a few steps in when I spot Matt on the dance floor, swinging around some leggy brunette in a thigh-grazing black dress. I survey her appearance, which is so obvious—long hair in full curls, skintight dress, and stacked heels. This look is amateur, the one I’d resort to if I was feeling lazy. I thought Matt had better taste than that.

I can’t find Dee, and the awkwardness of standing around alone overpowers me, so I turn toward the bar. The glasses of champagne are huddled together on trays at the end of the bar, waiting to be grabbed up by tuxedoed servers. I lift a glass to my lips, but I pause at the sight of my own reflection. The back wall of the bar is a mirror, peeking out between the hundreds of liquor bottles on display. So I raise my champagne glass just barely—a toast to myself and to the broken girls past, present, and future. To all of us who can’t outrun our messes. Or stop making them.

The champagne is sweet, fizz tickling my tongue, and it tastes like abandon. Like recklessness. Old Reagan would drain it and grab for another, but New Reagan decides to savor it. One, and only one. A few more sips and my whole body loosens like corset strings, tension unlacing and giving way to a deep sigh.

When I return to the main room, Matt’s mingling with Dee and the grown-ups again, so I head straight for our table. It’s near the dance floor, a perfect view for people-watching. But when I get close to the table, I see it’s already occupied by one person—a guy in a cowboy hat. He stands up when I get to the edge of the table.

“Well, hello again.” It’s Chet Andrews, Matt’s friend from before. He tips his hat at me.

I look him up and down, debating whether the hat-tip thing is cheesy or cute. He gives a lopsided smile from beneath the hat. Cute. “Hey.”

“What happened to your compadres?” he asks, pulling out a chair for me. I sit down and glance back up at him. He almost reminds me of Jimmy, a sweet, small-town boy with a little bit of swagger. “I was gonna sit here and wait for them, but they’re takin’ forever. I was gettin’ lonely.”

“They’re hobnobbing,” I tell him, recalling the exact word that Lissa used earlier. He sits down next to me, settling back into his seat. “That’s a country thing, right?”

Chet’s grin widens. “Mind if I hang here with you for a while?”

I quickly assess the situation. If Matt is to be believed, Chet is a nice guy, but I’m not really into nice. Nice, in my experience, equals boring. New Reagan will give it a shot, though. “Sure.”

I hope Matt comes back in time to see my proximity to Chet. And I hope he likes it as much as I liked seeing him on the dance floor with that random, overdone girl.

“Champagne?” Chet asks, reaching toward an open bottle at the center of the table.

I wrinkle my nose, already disappointed by my answer. “I shouldn’t.”

“Not a drinker?” He pours himself a glass.

“On probation, actually,” I tell him, smiling as I relish the shock value. “For drinking.”

“Get outta town.” He’s grinning again. “Nice girl like you?”


I laugh because he’s obviously shocked behind his easygoing smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

“So, Miss Reagan.” Chet leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving me. For being in a room full of people, he’s good at remaining undistracted. It feels nice to have someone’s full attention. “What’s your story? All I know is that you’re best friends with Dee.”

“I am.” I nod, tracing my finger against the tablecloth. Blinking flirtatiously, I glance up at him. I’d rather be in control of this conversation. “You always wear that hat?”

“Not always. Why?”

“I feel like I can’t see you.” I duck down, moving my face a bit closer to his, almost under the brim of his hat.

“Okay.” Chet grins. “Fair enough.”

He removes the hat, revealing sandy-blond hair in an unexpectedly short cut. He ruffles it with his hand, giving it a cute-messy look. In an act of overfamiliarity, I reach up and smooth down a piece on the side. This isn’t something I’d normally do, but I’m hoping that Matt comes back any moment now.

“See, now it’s like talking to a real person,” I say. “Instead of some guy on the cover of a country album.”

“You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?” He shakes his head. “Are you Dee’s age?”

I nod. “Going into senior year.”

“Planning on college next year?”

“Definitely.”

“For?”

“Photojournalism.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He stretches his arm over the back of my chair, a matching gesture of familiarity that doesn’t feel out of place. In fact, I adjust in my chair so we’re sitting a bit closer. “How’d you get into photography?”

“I took a class my freshman year.”

He nods, and I take the pause as an opportunity to turn the questions on him.

“So,” I say, leaning in. “Is Chet Andrews your real name?”

“Oh boy.” Tipping back his head, he lets out a surprised laugh. “What a question.”

My smile widens, encouraging him.

“Okay,” he says, tilting his head toward me conspiratorially. “Get this.”