Open Road Summer(55)

“Give us a second, will you?”

“Of course.” He ducks off the bus without another word.

“I’m going to keep riding with you,” I announce to Dee.

“Reagan.” Dee looks up from her computer. “I’m fine. I’ll do the conference call with Terry and Lissa, and we’ll figure something out. I knew it might happen after that night.”

“But . . .”

“Really,” she says. “I’ve got this.”

“You’ll text me if you need anything?” I don’t want to be that friend who abandons Dee to hang out with a guy. I won’t be that friend.

“Reagan, get off this bus right now,” she says, whipping a pillow at me. “It’s summer. At least one of us should be kissing a cute boy.”

“Okay, fine. See you in New York. Tell Lissa I send my love.”

On my way to Matt’s bus, I still feel conflicted. I came on tour to spend the summer with Dee, and I don’t want to run off with a guy every chance I get. Or maybe I’m just shaken by the fact that I do want to be with Matt every chance I get. I already feel myself getting hooked.

Heading toward his bus feels like the reverse Walk of Shame—only I’m not leaving someone’s bedroom. I’m heading straight toward it. Matt’s driver is pacing by the bus, finishing up a cigarette. He gives me a friendly nod, and I want to snatch the cigarette and smoke it as my own. Instead, my nose catches the trailing curls of smoke, and I inhale deeply.

I step onto the bus, and I’m barely off the last stair when Matt grabs me around the waist with one arm, using the other to push the lever that shuts the bus door. When his hands reach me, it’s like jumper cables touching either side of a battery, jolting every nerve ending to life. He’s kissing me before the door even latches, and I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down closer to my height. I could do this all the way to New York, but he pulls away seconds later.

“Sorry, had to get that out of the way,” he says, exhaling. He leans back, pretending to crack his knuckles as if he has performed some sort of laborious task. “This secret relationship is really starting to get to me.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “It hasn’t even been four days.”

“I know. Exhausting.”

“Isn’t it a little fun sneaking around?”

“No.” He touches his fingertips against the ends of my hair, then slides his hand around the back of my neck. “I’d rather everyone know we’re dating.”

“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Are we really dating, though? Doesn’t that involve going on dates?”

He narrows his eyes right back at me. “You enjoy toying with me, don’t you?”

I shrug. And just to mess with him further, I wriggle out of his arms and step past him. Behind me, he pulls the door latch back open so his driver won’t be locked out.

I’ve been on Matt’s bus before, but not since a few days after he joined the tour. Then, there was more clutter in the front area—a half-unpacked suitcase, a stack of DVDs, an electric guitar. Now the front two couches look barely lived in, which makes sense, I guess. It’s a big bus for only one person, and he probably stays in the back.

As I start toward the private area where his bed is, Matt says, “Um, sure. Make yourself at home. . . .”


I glance over my shoulder at him without saying anything. I don’t have to. My I’ll-do-whatever-I-want look is finely honed and impossible to misinterpret.

“Hey,” Matt says from behind me as his driver boards. I keep moving to the back of the bus, but I hear the driver start the engine as he says, “New York-bound! ETA, three hours.”

Matt’s bed is pristinely made, which is hilarious to me, and his guitar is resting on one side of the bed, as if waiting to be cuddled at night. The bed itself isn’t freestanding like the one on Dee’s bus. An L-shaped leather seating area covers the whole right side of the bus and half of the back. Matt’s bed, on the left side, looks like it pulls out of the side of the built-in sofas. I set my purse on the floor and start clearing a spot for myself on the sofa, perpendicular from his bed. I pick up a sweatshirt and a paperback, stacking them tidily. I place the pile on the floor next to two heavy-looking free weights.

Matt settles onto his bed, directly across from me. I stretch my legs out, mostly to keep myself from crawling onto the bed with him. In the space between us, there are a few photos stuck on the wall. The first one that catches my attention is a casual snapshot of Matt and a pretty, older woman. They’re sitting on a bench, outside somewhere, and Matt’s arm is wrapped around her as she leans against his shoulder. Other than her petite frame and pale pink cardigan, she looks a lot like him—same light brown hair, same gray-blue eyes. His mom. I feel a gut punch of sadness for him.

Next to that photo there’s one of Matt and his siblings. The oldest, Tyler Finch, is holding an infant, still wrapped tightly in a striped hospital blanket, and they all look exhausted and thrilled. The third photo is of Matt and the cute girl whose photo I saw online—the one he called his best friend, Corinne. They clearly took the picture themselves, squeezing close to fit both of them in the frame. Matt looks really happy, and she has a lot of freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She looks . . . wholesome. And friendly. Like a Muppet.