Open Road Summer(51)

“Well, that’s nice of you, I guess.” Also: incorrect. Lissa would care. Lissa would snap my neck like the deranged robot she is. “But I’m not interested.”

Dee frowns, looking almost offended. “Why not, though? I mean, what’s not to like? He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s cute. . . .”

“I know.” Believe me, I know. “But think, Dee—really think about the guys I’ve dated and how I’ve treated them.”


She’s quiet, her mind surely racing from Vance Kelly, my first real boyfriend, who I unceremoniously dumped before high school began, to Ethan Wilder, who I cheated on for weeks before setting him loose. Only recently have I developed any regret for how I treated Ethan. In fact, I apologized to him on the last day of school before leaving on tour. I pulled him aside, almost chickening out. But then I looked down at the cast on my wrist, which compelled me to swallow the little pride I had left. He was receptive to the apology—sweet, even—but it didn’t make me feel better. I’ll always wish I could take back how I treated him.

“Yeah,” Dee admits. “I see your point. I guess I thought . . .”

She trails off, but I know what she was going to say: she thought it might be different because I’m different. In the past three months, I’ve started thinking about how my actions affect other people. I used to only think about the people I love—Dee, my dad, Dee’s family—and sometimes not even them. These days, I can’t seem to help second-guessing my choices, considering them from everyone else’s viewpoints.

“I know,” I say, sighing. “But after what happened . . .”

Dee rests her hand on my leg, blue eyes studying me. “Not all guys are like Blake. You have to know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know that.” Why the hell does everyone think I’m so obtuse? I may be severely handicapped in “making good life choices,” but I’m not a moron.

Dee’s expression softens into a look I know. She’s circumscribing my pain, trying to figure out what is hurting me. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. Really. Most of the time.” In a rare moment of transparency, I confess the full, therapy-case truth. “But I have fresh wounds, Dee. Literally. I can’t run back into battle while I’m still bleeding.”

Dee has scars of her own. Or, at least, one scar. Sometimes I imagine there’s a tiny hole in her heart, in the shape of a horseshoe, where only Jimmy could ever fit. She must understand why I’m keeping my distance from Matt, why it feels like my own heart is stuck together with a few pieces of flimsy masking tape. It wouldn’t take much to break it all over again—a mere flick, a tap, and I’d crumble all over again. I’d be back on the ground, reevaluating my entire life.

I slept at Dee’s house for a week after Blake hit me. I felt like I wanted to cry, but the tears never came. Instead, I felt hardened. Before, I thought I had it all figured out. I could do well in school while partying, like I thought you were supposed to in high school. Getting knocked out of that life—literally—revealed that I have pathetically few things that I care about: one parent, one friend, one hobby. So I clung to them, to Dee, to my dad, to my photography. I’ll have to fill in the rest of the gaps when I get home in August. But, as for now, I need to hold fast.

Dee smiles, brushing her fingertip over her necklace. “You know what? I think it’s the bravest thing in the world . . . to run straight at love, even knowing how badly you could get hurt.”

“Whoa,” I say, holding up my hand. “Who said love?”

With a laugh, Dee says, “I’m a songwriter. I always say love.”

It’s part of Dee’s charm, that every spark is love to her, every first kiss, every tingle of anticipation. Each moment has big possibilities for Dee.

“A part of me wants to,” I admit finally. “But I can’t.”

And there it is: I can’t. I can’t put Dee’s career on the line, I can’t lower my walls, I can’t whatever-metaphor-you-want-to-use-for-being-completely-screwed-up.

“All right,” she says, standing up. “I understand. I’ll let it go.”

“Thank you.” I stand up, too.

“You wanna go catch the rest of Matt’s set with me?”

“That’s your idea of letting it go?”

She links her arm through mine, tugging me forward. “I always watch his set. You know that. You watch it, too. Stop being so sensitive.”

A laugh erupts in my chest. Me, sensitive. That’s a first. We wind around the dark backstage area. Some of the crew members move aside for Dee, and we find a place in the wings. Dee leans against the wall, watching Matt. I like seeing him like this, fronting the band and moving all over the stage. It’s the one time when I can keep my eyes on him without being obvious. He’s so confident up there, never once second-guessing himself, and he loves every moment. It’s contagious.

There are a few girls in the front with shirts cut so low that they make my neckline look modest. Like, honestly—if Matt so much as glanced down, he could probably see all the way to their belly buttons. Some girls have no self-respect, and even though they can’t see me, I make a face of disgust. Case in point: if Matt and I were together, I’d have to put those girls in their places. And I really can’t afford another misdemeanor.