Open Road Summer(45)

“You’re right. We’ll hang here.”

“No, no,” she insists, waving her hands. “You guys should still go. I need some quiet time anyway.”

I glance at Matt, whose eyes are unwavering on mine. It becomes a game of chicken, both refusing to back down.

Matt shrugs. “I’m game if you’re game.”

This is our own little poker table, hedging bets. And if he’s calling, I’m raising. “Oh, I’m game.”





And so, somehow, I find myself standing next to Matt Finch outside the hotel, staring at a shiny red convertible. We could have called a cab to take us—the festival is only a few miles away, but Matt insisted on renting a car. The front desk of the hotel booked it for us and had it delivered within an hour.

“Well, well,” I say, surveying the convertible as Matt swings the keys around his finger. “Aren’t you just a fancy celebrity.”

He grins, hopping over into the driver’s seat instead of opening the door. “I miss driving, that’s all.”

I do, too. I climb in the car and buckle up, and Matt revs the engine. Show-off.

“Besides,” he says as he slides the car into drive, “it’s part of the experience.”

He’s right. My hair whips around me, and I tilt my head back to watch so that all I can see is the limitless blue sky and the way we’re outrunning every cloud. I wish Dee were here because this reminds me of her song “Open Road Summer.” It’s an open road, all right, and we’re getting more of it than we ever bargained for. I pull my camera out of my bag, turning to Matt. His hair and shirt are fluttering against the wind, and his sunglasses reflect the white dashes on the road that we’re passing now and now and now.

Right before we pull into a gravel parking lot, the festival crests into full view. The Ferris wheel stands tallest, spinning like the queen of a twinkling kingdom. I can already smell the food—the dense, sticky scent of summer.

Matt wastes no time. Pulling his baseball cap low to avoid recognition, he pulls me toward the first of many rides. In the Gravity Scrambler, my stomach rises to my throat until my whole being feels jumbled. I clutch my purse the whole time, protecting my camera. When we exit the ride, I struggle to walk in a straight line, and Matt almost topples over, laughing riotously. On the swings, I hold my arms out and close my eyes, pretending like I’m flying. When I glance over at Matt, he’s doing the same thing. He even insists that we ride one of the kiddie rides, so we spend a few minutes sitting on plastic elephants, which move in slow circles.

The sun is setting as we climb onto the Ferris wheel. It’s relaxing compared with the rest of the rides, easing us up toward its apex. A Lemon Shake-Up perspires in my hand, occasionally dripping water onto my bare leg. The taste is achingly sweet, and my mouth moves to the straw like a hummingbird to nectar.

“So, is the tour what you hoped it would be?” I ask. I’m not proud of it, but I purse my lips around the drink’s straw, trying to look cute in case Matt notices.

“Yes,” he says, nodding, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Is it for you?”

I nod, too. “Yeah. I can’t believe it’s July already.”

What I mean is: I’m in complete denial that I have to face reality at the end of next month. Our car stops at the top, and we stare down at the festival below us. I can hear the low pulse of a local band playing cover songs, the rustle of water in the lake nearby, and the carrying laughter of kids our age—eating cotton candy and flirting with summer loves. The sun has melted down to the horizon line, leaving trails of orange and pink in its wake. In the distance, our hotel’s roof peeks over the tree line.

“These rides are the best,” I say stupidly. I can’t think of anything else. Matt jumbles me worse than any carnival ride, and I struggle to maintain a facade of only mild interest in him. “They’re so much scarier than roller coasters.”

“Absolutely,” Matt agrees, taking a long drink of his lemonade. “They were set up earlier today by someone who was probably drunk at the time.”

We both pause to peer over the car’s edge, looking for the carny who’s operating the ride. He’s smoking some sort of cigar and scratching his belly.

“Sexy,” I say, and Matt laughs. Hunger gurgles inside me, and I place my hand over my stomach.

“You okay?” Matt asks. “The rides getting to you?”

“No. I just need food in my stomach after this lemonade.”

“Now you’re talking.”

As we disembark from the Ferris wheel and stand in line for funnel cakes, Matt regales me with his best psycho-groupie stories.

“She’d come to, like, every show that was within ten hours of where she lived,” he says. “I was polite and everything—took pictures once or twice like I would with any fan who waited around. And then she shows up with a tattoo of my first name on her foot.”

“No way,” I whisper. The vendor hands me a greasy paper plate, piled with fried dough and powdered sugar. I resist the urge to lift it right to my mouth and eat it like a sandwich.

“Yes way,” Matt says. “I was only fourteen. Seeing ‘Matt’ tattooed on someone was more than a little overwhelming.”

He pays the funnel cake guy, and I let him, no argument. I’m not sure why. The first bite is hot, but not too hot, sweet and melty in my mouth.