Open Road Summer(38)

We continue swaying, Matt holding me closer than he should. His cheeky grin falls away and so does any doubt that he thinks about me the way I think of him. Even though nothing can happen, it feels nice to have an excuse to be chest to chest, his hand clasping mine. I look straight into his eyes, imagining things that I shouldn’t be imagining. I’m glad I didn’t have any more champagne, because champagne makes me stupid. The champagne would want to undo his bow tie, unbutton his shirt enough to expose his bare throat, and that is just for starters. Soon, his nose is nearly touching mine, and we’re getting too close, too careless. People are watching him—Lilah Montgomery’s supposed boyfriend—moving slowly to the music with her best friend locked inside of his arms.

Using the willpower that is still so new to me, I take a step back, putting space between us. It feels like pulling two magnets apart.

“Good call,” Matt whispers, as if my distance has broken some sort of spell. “Sorry.”

I nod, unable to speak. Now, backed away from him, I can see his face better. We stay this way for the remainder of the song, at a modest distance and looking at each other head-on. The unbroken eye contact should feel awkward, without a word exchanged between us, but it doesn’t. We’re saying a lot within the silence: We can’t and I know and But I want to and Me too. The effort of restraint burns in my chest—a physical ache from holding back.

“Okay,” Matt says when the last chords of the song play. But he doesn’t move his arms.

“Okay,” I repeat.

We’re breathing in and out at the same fast pace, and I’m such a goner. When his hands drop from my body, it feels like withdrawal, like I could develop the shakes. But it’s worse than my usual addictions. I’d throw my emergency pack of cigarettes into the Pacific Ocean if it would make everyone in this room disappear. It was way too easy, forgetting Dee’s career and how precariously Matt Finch has glued her tabloid reputation back together. I may want him, but Dee needs him—or, at least, her media presence does.

And as someone who’s prone to addiction—genetically, behaviorally—I know there’s only way to handle Matt Finch. Quit him, cold turkey.





Chapter Ten

Los Angeles


We’re up preposterously early for a magazine photo shoot, the three of us crammed into the backseat of a town car. Matt and I have both been quiet this morning, each silently choosing to ignore last night. Dee’s nodding off between us, and it’s a relief that we’re separated. If I had sat right next to him, if my leg slid against his as we make a sharp turn, then the car would be pulsing with even more awkwardness than it already is.

The car pulls into the parking lot of a high school, where their photo shoot is taking place. Palm trees are staked across an impossibly green lawn—the exact way that you imagine a high school looking when you’ve seen too many movies.

“Holy crap,” I mumble, sitting up to peer out the window. “The ocean is, like, two streets away from this school.”

Matt nods. “It’d be hard to show up for class with the waves two blocks away.”

I snort. “It’s hard anywhere.”

A handler appears, poised to shuffle Dee and Matt toward wardrobe and makeup. Peach and Lissa are in another car, but they haven’t arrived yet. As usual, my mind flits from lack of supervision to the possibility of escape. I can’t stay here, with Matt and my wandering mind, and sightseeing sounds like the deep breath I need. I’m even wearing flats for once, thanks to stiletto blisters from last night, so I can stroll the streets of California with ease. At the prospect of scenic alone-time, I congratulate myself on having the foresight to bring my camera bag, stuffed full with my DSLR and new lens.

“Hey,” I say to Dee, nudging her arm.

She glances over at me, blinking heavily. If she doesn’t get a nap in somewhere, no makeup artist in the world would be able to cover her dark circles.

“I’m gonna go see the beach, okay?”

“Sure. You wanna take the driver?”

“Nah,” I said. “I’ll walk, and I won’t be gone long. I want to scope out the camera equipment they use for your shoot. Maybe steal some of it.”

Dee laughs, but then stops herself, like she’s debating whether I’m actually joking.

Matt wrinkles his nose at me. “I’m jealous.”

“Me too,” Dee says wistfully. “Have fun.”


The handler—a stylist’s assistant, a photographer’s intern, whatever she is—shifts impatiently, and Dee turns to go inside. Denying my urge to make eye contact with Matt, I move toward my freedom. The nearest street is lush, brimming with neatly trimmed trees, pops of red hibiscus, and spiky palm leaves. Rodeo Drive didn’t do it, a Hollywood red carpet event couldn’t do it, but this—the lushness, the quiet morning, the nearness of the ocean—this feels like a trip to California.

The air smells salty and fresh as I wind my way down the streets. As I pass by each sight, I snap pictures of the Spanish-style homes, the railings painted bright aqua, the leather-skinned man walking a hairless dog. Following no direction but my own wanderlust, I eventually come across a long pier. It extends into the ocean, waves slopping against its sturdy legs.

I walk the length of the pier, lifting my camera to the horizon. The ocean water hits the horizon line right beneath a bed of clouds, and I take a picture, even though I wish I could be here for sunset instead. It’d be the perfect vacation photo—a postcard image: Greetings from Manhattan Beach, California! On the back, I’d write: Dear Old Me, Wish you were here. It’d be a lot more fun if we were doing things your way. Love, New Reagan, who is still trying.