Open Road Summer(49)

The winners are two girls who look twelve or thirteen, both cowering delightedly in Dee’s presence. One looks like she’s on the verge of tears, while the other almost faints when Matt hugs her. I confess a certain soft spot for how sweet he is with his young fans. Amused, I stay curled on a love seat as Matt and Dee greet them.

“So,” Dee says, settling back into a more casual posture, “what grade are you guys in?”

“Seventh,” they answer in unison.

Even Dee’s perpetual smile can’t get them to relax in her presence. “And how’s school going?”

One says “good” and the other says “okay.” They’re both sitting up incredibly straight, like everything their mothers ever taught them should be used in the presence of Lilah Montgomery.

“Really?” Dee cocks her head. “Huh. I kind of hated junior high. The girls were mean, and Reagan was my only friend.”

They glance over at me, and I give a wave.

One of the girls says hesitantly, “Well, like, there is this one girl who is really super mean to me, and I don’t know why.”

“There’s always one of those girls,” Dee says with a knowing nod.

The girl opens her mouth to say more, but instead she casts a sidelong glance at Matt. I get it. They don’t want to talk about these things in front of a boy. Maybe they don’t want to talk in front of me, either.

I sit up and nudge Matt. “Let’s go get some Cokes.”

He lags his head in my direction, with that impish grin. “Are you asking me on a date?”

This is a careless joke to make in front of young fans, but Dee laughs. “Easy, you two.”

Shooting him a glare, I decide not to bicker in front of these impressionable girls. I stand from my chair and gesture at him to come along. Matt follows me into the adjoining room’s kitchenette, and once we’re out of the way, I turn to him.

“I wanted to give them some privacy.”

“Or . . .” He gives me a suggestive look. “You wanted to give us some privacy.”

“Nope.” I’ve been on my best behavior since last week, resolutely dodging both physical and conversational contact. Matt has been on his worst behavior, lobbing subtext-filled comments my way for no other reason than to amuse himself. It’s exhausting.

I pull the refrigerator door open, perusing the selection provided by the venue. He leans against the wall across from the refrigerator, watching my every move. There’s a long pause, and he says, hesitantly, “Hey . . . you know I’m just messing with you, right? When I say stuff like that?”

“I know,” I say, grabbing a bottle of Coke. I glance back at him. “You want one?”

“Nah.” He runs his hands through his hair, and I can tell he’s dropped the flirty routine. These glimpses of him are rare and dangerous. I’m impervious to celebrity Matt Finch, but I’m a hopeless sucker for the sweet boy who got a tattoo for his mom. The boy who can barely talk about that tattoo without his voice breaking.

But looking down at me, his eyes filled with earnestness and the smirk gone from his face, he sounds almost defensive. “I’m a good guy, you know.”

“And modest.” Twisting the cap off my Coke, I rest my back against the nearest counter in an attempt to look casual.

“I really am.” He tilts his head a bit, examining me in his quiet way. “I just like ruffling your feathers.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You ruffle nothing.”

We stand across from each other, head-to-head, and I cross my arms. This is partly a reflex—defensiveness—and partly because the stance draws attention to my cleavage. What? He can ruffle my feathers, but I can’t ruffle his?

“I’m debuting a new song tonight. I think you’ll like it.”

“New song?” My eyes trace over him, and I feel almost betrayed that he hadn’t mentioned that writing was going well. I’m not sure why I feel I should be privy to this information, but I want to be. “That’s two now since you came on tour. Writer’s block cured?”

“It’s been more than two songs. So, yes.”

“Good for you.” I don’t mean this to sound disingenuous. I mean it: good for him. But, my voice’s default tone is sarcastic, so I sound like I’m being a smart-ass.

“Hey,” he says, defensive again, “songwriting is hard.”

“I know.” Great, now I feel bad. “I’ve watched Dee work through it.”

“She’s crazy talented,” he says. The jokey Matt is definitely taking a break from hitting on me, and we’re just friends who are hanging out. I can feel the shift in the mood, the change from bantering to really talking. “It’s incredible, the way she takes the pain from her breakup and makes it something beautiful . . . and so personal.”

My mind goes immediately to “Human,” the song I listened to before I even met him.

“You do it, too.” Oh God. I did not mean to say this out loud.

“Oh yeah?” He arches his eyebrow. I can’t have him knowing that I feel his music like a vibration through my body. I can’t have him knowing that it feels like heartstrings are a real thing inside me and that he plucks them.

“Yeah. I mean, I guess.” I take a long drink of my Coke, stalling because I don’t know what to say.