Open Road Summer(58)

With that, Lissa turns her tablet toward us.

LILAH MONTGOMERY: PREGNANT? The full-page picture is from yesterday—Dee emerging from the Disney Store, where she’d bought presents for her brothers. The curve of her stomach is slight—easily caused by our huge lunch at the Russian Tea Room, followed by frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity. Hell, it could have been caused by a deep breath. I reach over, and her hand is clammy, gripping mine hard.

Worse still, the sidebar speculates three possible fathers of this supposed baby. Number One? Matt Finch, accompanied by another photo from yesterday. Number Two is “Mystery Man” with a photo of Dee hugging a good-looking guy in the audience of a show. It’s her cousin Dan, who attended the Knoxville show three nights ago—her cousin.

Bachelor Number Three is Jimmy. It’s hard to tell where the photo was taken, but he’s standing next to a blond girl, and he looks pissed. I’d be pissed, too, if I was caught standing next to Alexis Henderson, who is a cheerleader but also a goody-goody. I can’t bear to look at Dee. The caption reads: Jimmy Collier, Lilah’s former boyfriend from June’s photo scandal, is pictured here with a new blond. But perhaps reconciliation occurred between the high school lovebirds earlier this summer?

Dee’s mouth barely moves. “They’re still following Jimmy?”

“Not consistently. It’s likely that they sent a photog to Nashville specifically for an updated picture.” Dee turns the tablet away. She’s seen enough. “After you film the segment in a few minutes, we’ll need to get on a conference call with Terry and at least one of your parents, all right? We’ll figure this out as fast as possible.”

Dee nods once, her expression unreadable.

Lissa sighs. “Obviously, I’ve been a proponent of allowing the public to believe that you two are in a relationship. At this point, I’m comfortable with anything you want to do with that.”

This means: Dee, if people think you’re pregnant with Matt’s baby or even sleeping with him . . . well, the parents who buy concert tickets for their tweens will not be happy. The publicity stunt has taken a turn.

I feel Matt glance over at Dee. “I’m going to come on the show with you, okay?”

“Yes,” Dee says. “Thank you.”

Dee seems so numbed-over that even Lissa sounds concerned. “Lilah, are you alright?”

“Yes. Could you please give me a minute?”

“Of course. Matt, let’s get you to hair and wardrobe quickly,” Lissa says, standing. Matt follows, but not before ducking down to Dee on the couch. “We can handle this.”

Dee nods mechanically, still grasping my hand like a falcon clutching its prey. When Lissa and Matt are gone, it’s eerily quiet. She releases my hand and wanders across the room, toward the mirror.

“Honestly, Dee, it’s the stupidest rumor. No one’s going to believe—”

“Don’t.” Dee squeezes her eyes shut. I clamp my lips together. Her shoulders rise and fall, deep breaths to calm herself. It’s not working. Her face is rose-colored, practically pulsing. Without warning, she swipes her arm across the makeup table, products clattering to the floor. A bottle of aerosol hair spray hits the floor with a metallic clang, then rolls under the table.

“It’s so unfair!” Her voice is so shrill that my ears ring. She whirls around, pushing the director’s chair onto the floor, where it lands with an echoing thud. I have never, ever seen Dee like this. It shakes me. My instinct is to move toward her, to reach out, but it’s like trying to comfort a growing hurricane. “I do everything right. Everything.”

Without warning, she strips off her jacket, then unzips her skirt.

“What are you . . . ?”

“I’m changing into something skintight so people can tell I’m not pregnant.” She balls her shirt up and throws it onto the floor. As she riffles through her rack of dresses, the metal hangers clash against each other. Dee examines a coral lace dress. She looks so vulnerable, standing there in a nude-colored bra and spandex underwear.

“Dee,” I say, taking a hesitant step. “You don’t have to go out there. You don’t have to do the show.”

“Of course I do, Reagan,” she snaps. My eyes widen, startled by the tone she’s using with me, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “You have no idea—you have no idea—what the stakes are. What I look like, what I say, how I react, whether or not I go out there . . . it all matters. There are people whose jobs literally depend on me not screwing up.”

I reach out, touching her arm, but she jerks away. “Dee, I know, I just—”

“You don’t know!” she cries. The coral dress flies in her hand as she makes wide gestures. “No one does! I’m tired constantly; I’m not allowed to have an off day. Everything I do is scrutinized. No, you don’t know. You get to go around doing whatever you want, making out with your new boyfriend, and I have to find out that Jimmy is dating someone by reading a magazine. That is not normal.”

There it is: the real problem. She doesn’t care about the pregnancy rumor. Of course she doesn’t—it’s ludicrous. The pain stems from Jimmy, like always. When it comes to songwriting, he’s Dee’s superpower. But when it comes to real life, Jimmy is Dee’s Achilles’ heel. He’s the only one who can dismantle her professionalism, who can break her down. I watch as she tugs the coral dress on with a few angry movements.