Open Road Summer(48)

“For what?”

“Underage drinking. But I got charged as an adult because I was in my car.”

“Whoa.” Matt doesn’t even bother to hide his surprise and disappointment. I don’t blame him. Some criminal offenses are sort of funny or even impressive. A DUI is not, to anyone, ever. Least of all me. For all my delinquent behavior, I would never, ever drive drunk.

“It’s not what you think,” I explain quickly. “I’d had a few drinks, and I went to my car to get my lighter. I couldn’t find it, and it was freezing, so I turned the car on.”

“A cop caught you drunk, underage, in your car with the door closed and engine on?”

“Exactly. Fortunately, the judge believed me that I had no intention to drive anywhere—I really didn’t. But I still got community service and probation.” And therapy. But he doesn’t need to know that.

I can hear him exhale after holding his breath, relieved that I’m not a drunk driver.

“So the boyfriend,” he says. “What was he busted for?”

“Ex-boyfriend,” I correct him. “And possession. Marijuana.”

Matt’s expression falls again. “Ah. So you’re a pothead?”

I wrinkle my nose. “God, no. That stuff smells like dirty gym shirts.”

“Well, that’s not so bad, then,” he says. Another firework explodes in the sky, the lake reflecting its greenish glow. Matt raises an eyebrow challengingly. “What else ya got?”

“Ha,” I say with a snort. “You don’t even want to get me started on my family.”

A purple firework illuminates Matt’s expression and then fades away. He’s quiet, and I can make out the sound of crickets around us. There’s a peal of laughter in the distance, the echoing sounds of a few beers and freedom.

“Well, no one’s family is perfect, I guess,” he says finally. As a white firework crackles in the night sky, I see his sweet, sad expression and know he’s thinking of his mom. The cocky, joke-cracking, celebrity Matt Finch falls away, and he’s just this guy I know—a little broken and a little lost.

We’re in waist-deep water, and I take a step toward him. I’m near enough that I consider crossing my own line. I’m near enough to consider draping my once-broken arm around his neck.

“No way,” he says, stepping back. “Don’t pity kiss me.”

“What?” I scoff, laughing as if he’s misread the situation. “You wish.”

No—I wish. Thankfully my flush of embarrassment is hidden by the darkness.

“However,” Matt says, recovering his playful tone, “you could pity-dance with me.”

In reply, I groan. “Ugh, what a line. Does that work with the groupies?”

“You tell me.” He grins, and we’re too close now. But I won’t let myself. The real Matt—the one who is struggling through grief, the one I can’t take my eyes off of—has retreated. Without him, a situation that felt romantic a minute ago now feels cheesy and cheap.

“Groupie? In your dreams.”

“Indeed,” he says, winking.

In the water, I place my hand on my hip and, just to throw him off, I say, “Enough with the winking. Not gonna happen.”

Matt laughs, delighted with himself. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Friends?”

He extends his hand and, hesitantly, I shake it. “Friends.”

But he doesn’t release my hand; he grabs it tighter. Before I can tell what’s happening, he’s dunked himself underwater, pulling me with him.

“Matt!” I shriek, but it was too late. My entire head is submerged in the water for an instant before he pulls me up again. I should be mad, but Matt’s hair is dripping down his face and he’s laughing so hard. I can’t help it. Tilting my head back, I laugh, too—a real, uninhibited laugh, beneath the fireworks’ grand finale.

But it isn’t the pinnacle. It isn’t at the lake or even during the ride back to the hotel in the convertible, air rushing though our soaked clothes. Not as we walk into the lobby across the marble floors. And no, not as we ride the elevator together in silence.

When it rises to Matt’s floor with a cheerful beep, he turns back to me, stepping intentionally further into my personal space. My heart feels stuck in a gap between my ribs, thrashing like a caged bird.

Leaning in, he says, “Today was a good day. I . . . I needed one. Thanks.”


It draws me in again, this tiny confession that he’s not nearly as untroubled as he pretends to be. He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and there—at the feel of his hand on my waist, at his cheek against mine—I see flecks of blue and green like floaters in my eyes, zapping electricity in the air between us. As I watch him go, every blooming firework in the world explodes.





Chapter Thirteen

Mobile


In Alabama, Dee’s dressing room is painted navy, and there’s a lounge area filled with plush furniture. She’s ready early tonight, in full hair and makeup, to meet with two radio-contest winners. This happens pretty often before the shows, and Dee usually chats with them backstage. But since the dressing room is actually three full rooms, Dee has kicked out her hair and makeup team so the winners can hang out in her personal space.