Open Road Summer(47)

“Oh, c’mon.”

“You’re fake-dating my best friend.”

“The keyword being ‘fake.’ ”

He’s hard to resist, and I’m rapidly losing my resolve. It’s the best day I’ve had in a long time—the most carefree I’ve felt since April.

“Okay,” he says, bargaining. “Then at least swim with your dress on.”

With that, he tosses off his hat. At first I assume that he’s bluffing, but he tugs his T-shirt over his head. I have to admit: this is a persuasive move.

“You’re serious.”

“Yep,” he says, going for his belt buckle. “Avert your eyes if you want. I wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

There are no delicate sensibilities to be found, but for some reason, I cover my eyes as the metal of his belt buckle hits the ground. I feel almost guilty, like I’m doing something behind Dee’s back. But I still peek through my fingers in time to see him wading into the water, boxers only.

“Water feels great,” he calls to me. “You’re missing out.”

I uncover my face, and I can see his grin in the moonlight. He waves me in, but I stay still, weighing the possible regrets. The scale tips quickly in my mind, and the play-it-safe side hits the ground with a plunk. Before I can overthink, I kick off my heels, make a run for the water, and squeal as it hits me. It’s exactly the rush I remember, wild and rebellious but somehow oddly innocent. The water closes around me, and my dress becomes heavy with its weight.

I tread water, nearing Matt slowly—up to my bare shoulders and grinning like an idiot. I tug at my strapless dress, willing it to stay up against the water’s movement.

Matt’s smile slides off his face, replaced with a thoughtful expression.

“What?” I ask, smoothing my arms against the water’s surface.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you smile like that before.”

“Like what?”

“Like, smiling all the way. Grinning, even.”

I shrug. “I’m a hard sell.”

“I know. Gotta make people earn it.”

“Something like that.”

We’re both moving slowly in the water, circling each other with a perfectly appropriate amount of space between our bodies. Somewhere in the distance, the first firework pops in the sky. Red sparkles drip down the night sky as the sizzling noise fades. I can just barely make out Matt’s face, which seems paused in serious contemplation.

“What?” I ask.

He looks startled out of his thoughts. “What do you mean what?”

“I mean, just then,” I say, “that look on your face. What were you thinking about?”

“I was thinking . . . that if I were going to kiss you, now would be a good time. Fireworks and all. Typical songwriter, always looking for poetic parallels.”

It takes me a moment to react to his unabashed honesty. Every interaction up until now has been an undertone, a flirtation that I could be making into more than it is. I struggle to remain in control of the situation. I roll my eyes, even though my heart is racing fast enough to cause ripples in the water. “Pick a groupie, Finch.”

He shakes his head, still grinning. “Nope.”

My foot moves forward in the water, but I don’t place it down. I won’t let myself make a step toward him, into him, melting together in that desperate, hungry way that only happens when you’re kissing someone you shouldn’t be kissing. Self-talk takes over: I know it would be so fun now, but what will it be tomorrow, Reagan? Awkwardness as we pass on our way to the tour buses. Uncomfortable silences that Dee will start to notice. Disappointment in myself for falling into the same old routine.

Faced with my silence, he elaborates. “I think you like me more than you let on.”


“I think you like me because you can’t have me,” I counter. Maybe he thought he’d throw me off with honesty, but he won’t. I’ve never stood down in the face of candor.

“Well, only one way to find out.”

I almost smile back, but I’m deep in thought, busy concocting a way to catch him off guard, to match his straightforwardness. So I say, flat out, “Look, I’m not Dee. I’m not some good girl. Believe me, you don’t want my mess.”

“Oh, but I do.”

I shake my head, the tips of my hair swaying in the water by my shoulders. I’m not risking Dee’s reputation over a fleeting attraction, especially when one of two things will happen: I’ll get bored with him and back out or, worse, he’ll hurt me. Guys like Matt—guys who have girls falling at their feet—they float to each destination like unchartered boats, no set course. I can’t sink if I never climb aboard.

“Try me,” he says, still keeping two feet between us. “I’m no saint, either.”

“I know that.” I catch myself smiling because I do know that. Even this—swimming in a lake in a city we’ve never been to on the Fourth of July—is not what I’d expect from Matt Finch. Besides, he’d run like hell if he knew what a mess Old Reagan made of everything. But maybe that’s the way to end this temptation, to shock him away from his sly smiles and innuendos. “I met my last boyfriend during court-mandated community service.”