Open Road Summer(56)

As if he can sense the hate rays that I’m shooting at his friend, Matt kicks his foot against mine.

“So,” he says, “you wear high heels a lot. What’s that about?”

“They make my ass look good.”

I can’t get over the dimples that spring to his cheeks when I make him grin like that. “You always wear them?”

I nod. There’s something about wearing heeled shoes that makes me feel more powerful. More in charge. As I strut the hallways of school, that distinctive clack turns heads, announcing my arrivals and departures. Matt’s still looking at me, as if it’s my turn to say something. “I prefer to be closer to eye level with people.”

“Aha.” It’s like something in his mind has clicked, like he finally understands me. I’m sure he doesn’t. “Leveling the playing field.”

“Something like that.”

“But if you’re always wearing the heels, then you’re always expecting a fight.”

I tap the nearest photo with my finger, in an effort to change the subject. “Who’s this?”

“My nephew, Noah.” Matt’s face is so proud that you’d think he contributed to the child’s birth. “Born April twenty-first of this year.”

Glancing back at the picture, I study Noah’s tiny red face. I don’t especially like babies. I don’t coo over the gurgling noises they make, and I don’t want to hold them, because there’s too much to think about—supporting their wobbly little heads and praying that they don’t spit up on you. This is possibly the only thing I have in common with my stepmother. When a baby starts screaming in public, most women jut out their lower lips and say, “Aww, somebody’s sad.” Brenda squeezes her eyes shut, as if imagining a Zen place where the world is quiet and babyless. And I am right there with her.

Still, I say, “He’s cute.”

Matt looks amused by my obvious impassiveness. “He is cute, but in that picture he looks like any other newborn baby. Here.”

He leans forward, touching the screen of his phone. When he turns it to me, there’s a close-up picture of a baby with fat cheeks and a big, gummy smile. I have to admit, the baby’s sheer delight is enough to make me smile back. “Must be hard to be on tour when he’s so brand-new.”

“Way harder than I thought,” Matt says, leaning back on the bed. “My brother and sister-in-law send a lot of pictures, but it’s the worst when my other brother, Joe, sends one. He’s definitely one-upping me in the uncle department.”

“Is your family coming to any of these shows?”

“Yeah. The Nashville show and maybe a few others. My dad will be at the Chicago one, maybe Joe and his wife, too, and Corinne. Carrie’s spending the summer in the UK, so probably not.”

“Does your dad live in Chicago?”

He nods. “We grew up there. Tyler and Joe married girls they met while we lived in Nashville, so they stayed. Carrie has a place in New York but stays with my dad a lot, in Chicago.”

“I was born in Chicago. Lived there till I was eight.”

“Really?” He seems puzzled, as if he is trying to place me in his world—conjuring a mental image of me in a Cubs shirt, eating Chicago-style pizza while standing in front of the Hancock building. “I knew you didn’t have that born-and-bred Tennessee vibe going.”

Of course not. I don’t have the Southern drawl, and I sure as hell don’t have the manners. “Where did you guys live when you were doing the Finch Four?”

“In Chicago, when we could. But we had an apartment in LA and one in Nashville. I lived in the Nashville one until . . .” He stops himself midsentence, like he almost forgot that I already know. “I lived in the Nashville one for a few months until I moved home to help my mom.”


His eyes glaze over for a moment, like a memory is overpowering him. I imagine him making the long, sad drive home, where he would spend the next few months saying good-bye slowly. The thought of it makes me want to slide onto the bed next to him, to gather him up in my arms. Nurturing is not in my nature, but his sadness is so raw, like burns on his skin.

“Okay,” he says. “My turn.”

“Your turn?”

“My turn to ask you a question.”

“Is this a game? I thought it was a conversation.”

“Well, with you, I feel like it’s both.”

Fair enough.

“How’d you meet Dee?”

The image of eight-year-old Dee pops into my mind—wild-haired and smiling shyly with full cheeks. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t remember the exact moment or day. We were in the same class in third grade. I was new, and she took me in.”

He smiles. “Huh. She tells it the opposite way.”

“How?” I run my left hand over the sweatshirt I placed on the floor. It’s soft and worn-in, and I bet it would smell like soap, like him. I want to slip it on, to curl up inside and let the oversize sleeves swallow me up.

“She says you took her in. That you were the cool new girl, and no one else in the class really talked to her before you.”

For some reason, I’m startled at the reminder that Matt was friends with Dee long before he met me. “What else did you know before you met me?”