Open Road Summer(6)

I sneak back out the door I came in and make a beeline for the nearest group of hot guys. They’re standing in line for Lilah Montgomery merchandise, although one guy is already wearing Lilah apparel of his own—a homemade T-shirt that reads: MARRY ME, LILAH!

Making sure my press pass is front and center, I make my way toward him. The shirt will make Dee laugh, maybe even ease her nerves. His gaze bounces from my cleavage to my face, as if he noticed but won’t let himself look—a decent guy.

“Hey,” I say coolly. “Mind if I get a shot of your T-shirt?”

“Not at all.” He looks pleased. With his arm around one of the girls in his group, he puffs out his chest and gives me a big grin. He’s a clean-cut blond, medium height, with an easy smile. If Dee had a type other than Jimmy, this guy would probably be it.

“Thanks.” I rest my camera back around my neck. “She’ll like it.”

“You know her?” he asks. All his friends quiet down, watching my face. One of the girls glances at my tour pass. “Wait. Are you ‘riding top down with Reagan’ Reagan?”

I shrug, nodding.

Dee penned my name into the lyrics of her first single, “Open Road Summer.” She wrote it when we were freshmen, daydreaming about our summers once we turned sixteen. No offense to her dad’s old convertible and the back roads of our hometown, but the reality of our open road summer is better than Dee could have imagined. The song means a lot to me, even if it’s weird that thousands of people sing my name.

“What’s she like?” another guy asks.

I don’t know how to answer that, so I smirk and tell him, “She’s all right. Enjoy the show.”

They call after me as I walk away, asking if they can meet her. I ignore them and flag down a little girl dressed up as Dee, complete with a short blond wig and a plastic toy guitar. I’m not much for kids, but this one is cute. The little girl poses next to her mom, hand on her hip.

“I’m going to show her these pictures before she goes onstage,” I tell the girl after snapping a few shots.

She gasps, wide-eyed. “Will you tell her my name is Olivia?”

“Sure.”

Over Olivia’s head, her mother mouths, “Thank you.”

“No problem.” They both squeal as I walk away. If I’m being honest with myself, I’d probably wish for a mother like that—a mother who could have taken me to concerts, gotten excited about the things I was excited about. That would have been nice, though I’d settle for any mother who didn’t leave.

After a few more pictures of beaming fans, I make my way backstage. Everyone rushes around, pushing past one another in a frenetic blur. I find the greenroom door, where a woman with a panicked expression and a walkie-talkie nearly plows me over. Dee’s family is on their way out, and her youngest brother has a poster board tucked under his arm.

“Hey, sweetie,” Mrs. Montgomery says, swiping my cheek with a lipstick peck as she passes by. “How ya doin’?”

“I’m good. Is she okay so far?”

“She’s great. You gonna stand in the front row with us?”

“Yeah, but I’ll watch the first few songs from side stage for the camera angle,” I say, lifting the camera from my neck. “Let me get a picture before you go.”

Her brothers hold up the poster—WE LOVE YOU, SIS in big block letters—while her mom and dad wrap their arms around each of the boys. They beam as I capture the image, but one second later, Mrs. Montgomery dabs her knuckle at the corner of her eye, intercepting a tear.

“Sorry,” she says, laughing. “Allergies.”

Dee’s youngest brother chimes in. “She’s very emotional about this concert.”

“You, hush.” Mrs. Montgomery laughs. “He repeats everything he hears, I swear. See you out there, darlin’.”

Inside, Dee’s wrapped in a robe I bought her two Christmases ago, in full makeup, hair done. People buzz all around her at a speed that feels like fast-forward, but she sits still in a director’s chair, looking at her reflection. Her expression is quizzical, as if she’s searching for something in her own eyes and can’t quite find it.

I walk up behind the chair and touch her shoulder. She startles, glancing up at me.

“You okay?” I frown at her, unsettled by the expression I just saw.

She smiles, but her chest is rising and falling too fast. “I feel like I’m floating outside my body, like this isn’t really happening.”

Her hand is at her throat, twisting at her necklace. She’s not blinking enough, panic prying her eyelids open. Either that or she’s concentrating all her energy on holding up thick false lashes. “They’re all here to see me.”

Most of the time, Dee seems in awe of her own life, as if she’s tripped and fallen into it. But it isn’t randomness or luck that got her here, and I wish she knew that.

“Hey,” I say. “You’ve done this a hundred times.”

“Not as the headliner! I’m it!”

I have to stifle at laugh. “Do you think all those people were trying to buy tickets for a Kira King concert, but—oops—how did they wind up at this Lilah Montgomery concert?”

She rolls her eyes, but the absurdity of my comment must have resonated because the creases in her forehead relax.