Open Road Summer(53)

“No shit!” His voice rises into a frustrated laugh. “That’s why I want you to stop being like this and just go out with me!”

“ ‘Go out with me’?” I repeat angrily, gesturing to the closed door. “Where is ‘out’ to you? We can’t go out in public, since you’re supposed to be with Dee. We can go to your bus or your hotel room. That’s it.”

“If you insist,” he says, trying to make light of the situation. Bad move, Finch.

“I’m serious. We’re on a tour bus for another month, and then what?” I ask. I can feel myself getting more worked up, the blood whooshing through my veins. “I’m an easy lay for the summer, and we go our separate ways?”

“Whoa,” he says, stepping back as if I’ve gone too far. “That’s not fair.”

“And you know what else? I don’t even like this version of Matt Finch!” I shake my open hands in his direction, as if that explains my point.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t like the arrogant celebrity who winks at me and writes these cute little songs as a cheap way of flirting with me.” I’m raving like a lunatic, voice raised and hands flailing. “You know who I do like? My friend Matt, who is so good to Dee and who has a lot more going on beneath all the charm. I don’t want the showmanship, Matt. I don’t want it. My life is screwed up already, and I want . . . realness.”

I didn’t know how true it was until I said it aloud. I’m a taped-together girl, but I can carry my own baggage. What I can’t do is pretend I’m weightless, unburdened. Dee never hides her heartache from me, and that makes it okay to feel whatever I feel alongside her—no censoring, no embarrassment. I can’t surround myself with people who are hiding their pain beneath swagger and a grin.

“Okay,” he says, quiet now. His eyes are searching my face, processing all this. “I don’t know what to say.”

My chest is rising and falling, my breath ragged in the quiet room. “Say one real thing to me. Or don’t say anything. And don’t write songs about me, either.”


He takes a deep breath in, preparing to hand my outburst right back to me. “Okay. Fine. You want honesty? I’m nineteen years old, and I’ve already seen a successful career come and go. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with myself. The band broke up, I wrote some songs for an ultimately half-assed solo record, I finished high school and found out my mom had cancer. How’s that?”

The room throbs with silence. My speechlessness only spurs him on. He throws his arms out in exasperation. “She died eight months after her diagnosis, and I devoted every waking second of that time to making her feel joy instead of fear or sadness. I took her to chemo, I made her laugh, I sang for her. I gave her everything I had, and then she was gone, and I was empty, okay? For the past couple of months, I’ve just been living with my dad and hanging out with my baby nephew and watching a lot of bad TV. My brothers and sister have their own lives, and I have no idea what I’m doing. So excuse me for trying to put on a brave face instead of bringing everyone down with a sob story.”

I open my mouth, but he’s revving up again. He steps toward me, voice loud and determined. “And one more thing. You can call them cute little songs, but that doesn’t mean they’re not honest. Those cute little songs are my way of dealing with everything you won’t let me say to you. I have to be around you every single day, but I can’t do anything about it. If I didn’t channel it into somewhere, I’d be going crazy, alone on my tour bus thinking about you. And another thing . . .”

Before he can finish and before I can stop myself, I throw my arms around his neck and press my mouth against his. He reacts like he knew I’d do this, his hands already at my waist. Light-headedness is winning me over, and only clinging to his neck keeps me upright. I shouldn’t be, I shouldn’t be, I have to. He moves us until my back presses against the cinder block wall, and I slide both my hands beneath his collar, just to grab him closer. I can feel each muscle in his back as he tightens his hold on me. Every feeling coursing through me is a bad country-song cliché, but I can’t help it. My thoughts are all sparks and honey and how a kiss like this can make you believe that you’ve actually invented kissing right here and now, the first two people to discover the feeling of your lips against each other’s.

We’re both breathing hard when he pulls away from me. He keeps his face close to mine, and I know I shouldn’t, but I let him kiss me again. This time is slower, his hand against the back of my neck. As one final defense mechanism, I attempt to talk myself out of him one last time: Reagan, is this really a good idea? But, with his lips against mine, I can’t answer my own question or ask a new one or even think straight. The only response is simple and true: Reagan, you are in trouble.

There’s a tornado siren going off in my head, and I press my hands against his chest—in part to feel close to him and in part to push him away. I’m not sure which feeling prevails.

He must sense my inner conflict because he asks, “What?”

I shake my head, his lips still almost touching mine. “This is still a terrible idea.”

Matt grins, raising his eyebrows in complete confidence. His hands are warm on either side of my face, lingering so I have to look him in his storm-cloud eyes. “This is gonna be so good. You’ll see.”