Open Road Summer(46)

“Well,” I say, following Matt to a nearby bench. The wood feels smooth, almost waxy, like it has been sat upon so many times that its ridges have worn down. “Maybe she’ll meet another guy named Matt. Maybe it’ll be a conversation starter when they meet, and they’ll wind up together. Because of you.”

He glances up at me from his food. “You believe in stuff like that?”

“Ha. No,” I say. His eyes travel to a place on my cheek.

“You have . . . ,” he says, reaching toward me. My impulse is to swat him away, defensive, but my arms stay at my sides. “Powdered sugar. Right here.”

With that, he brushes his thumb over a spot on my cheek. It catches me off guard, and I take a moment to react. Not that it’s a graceful reaction. “Uh. Thanks.”

“No problem. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking that you were sweet or anything,” he says, and then, in a display of barefaced arrogance, he winks at me.

I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s cute that you think you know me.”

He gives me that smug laugh, leaning his arm behind the bench. Somewhere in the distance, a familiar melody catches my ear—familiar enough to momentarily forget how annoying Matt is being.

“Hey, hey,” I whisper. “Do you hear that?”

Matt pauses, ducking his head until his eyes light up. “Let’s record it for her.”

Trashing our empty plates, we race toward a big white tent and the sounds of a full-band cover of “Middle of Nowhere, Tennessee.” The dance floor is packed with fair-goers—middle-aged couples reliving the summers they met, groups of girls my age with deep tans, a man with a white mustache and a broad cowboy hat, holding his granddaughter as they spin and spin. I sing along, completely caught up in the heavy summer air, the plucky country bass, the way small towns feel familiar even when they’re brand-new to you. Matt points his phone at me, and I make a smooch face and wave to Dee. After he sends the video, he holds up her response to me: OMG I LOVE IT!

The band picks up in a twangy cover of Tom Petty’s “American Girl.” The sugar and adrenaline rush through my veins, and I can’t play it cool. “Oh my God, I love this song.”

Matt turns to me and holds out his hand. I take it, and we join the Southern folks on the dance floor, shimmying to the classic-rock-gone-country. I put my arms up, eyes shut in a moment of total freedom. Matt dances in this un-selfconscious way, complete with air guitar and lip-synching.

The band is winding down when a girl zeroes in on us—or, more specifically, Matt. She’s compact and curvy, topped with round curls that must have taken some serious hot rollers. Her hair dye is probably called Goldenrod or Honeysuckle, but it’s actually the color of Aging Butter or Dry Cornbread.

“Oh my Lawd,” she drawls, eyeing Matt head to toe. “Aren’t you Matt Finch?”

“Nope!” Matt says quickly, grabbing my arm. We hurry off the dance floor, still giggling. I feel tipsy, despite having nothing but fried food and sugar in my stomach. When we get closer to the food trucks, Matt slows down his stride. “We should probably go before someone sees us.”


I nod, biting my lip. We should have been more careful. One phone picture of Matt and me, and his “relationship” with Dee is blown. She’d careen through tabloid hell all over again. This has been careless, this whole night, but I want to stay here with him.

“I’m not ready to go back to the hotel,” Matt decides. “Let’s walk somewhere.”

I feel a smile spread across my face. “Okay.”

We follow other groups of people until we find the docks. Boats fan out on either side of the lake, flanking the long pier. Each boat is crammed full of people, laughing and drinking and waiting for the fireworks to start. Something about the scene makes me vaguely homesick, for the familiar dirt road to my house. If I were a sappier person, this might look like the perfect summer night—the smell of fresh-cut grass, the boats rocking on the water, the boy by my side.

“Okay,” Matt says, surveying the expanse of the lake. “Let’s just follow the lakeside around until we find a spot where no one else can see us.”

As I walk next to Matt, I feel a flutter beneath my rib cage that hasn’t been there in months. I’m nervous. Worse than that. I actually find myself wondering if he’ll reach over and grab my hand. Such a simple gesture—one I normally don’t even think about. I’ve done much more scandalous things with guys who I know and like less than Matt. And yet, I haven’t cared about, or even noticed, those little things with other guys. The anticipation is actually kind of great, in its own achy, heart-pounding way.

Somewhere in the distance, a radio is blasting Springsteen. We’re near another pier, and there’s enough light to see that we’re right at the edge of the lake. I can hear laughing from the boats and in the distance, the whirring of the festival’s rides. I’m not sure if I’m sweating from the muggy air or Matt’s closeness.

When I glance at him, a sly smile creeps onto his face. “Have you ever been skinny-dipping?”

“I live in Tennessee. Of course I have.”

“Let’s do it.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

I shake my head firmly. No, no, no. Danger—flashing-red-light, tempting danger.