Open Road Summer(62)

“I think I’m gonna go home for the day tomorrow,” Dee announces once we recover. “Book a flight out of Baltimore as soon as we get in, even if it means I’m only in Nashville for twelve hours.”

“You should. I bet Terry will let you, after what happened today.”

She sighs, blowing a hair out of her face. “Matt’s really something else, you know.”


“Yeah.” And he really is—the impromptu talk-show appearance, the ice cream, the automatic understanding that Dee and I needed time for just the two of us. He went into crisis mode so naturally, perhaps because he’s been through crisis himself. I turn to face Dee. “Hey, did you, uh . . . did you know about Matt’s mom?”

She nods slowly. “Not until after, though—he never told me while she was sick. He was in Nashville after his nephew was born, and we went out for coffee. I told him about the tour and that you were coming because I couldn’t do it without you. I laughed about that and called myself pathetic. He said it wasn’t pathetic, that his mom had died a few months back, but his best friend was still flying home at least one weekend a month to be with him.”

“Corinne?”

“Yeah. I felt like such a jerk because he had a real reason to be upset.” She shakes her head. “But it made me feel better knowing that he leaned on his best friend, too—that they ate junk food and watched movies and sometimes even laughed. The way we did.”

“The way we do,” I amend.

She smiles. “The way we do.”





Chapter Sixteen

Baltimore


I’m still not totally sure how I ended up in a park so far away that Baltimore faded, turning into rural Maryland with each passing mile it took to get here. From our hillside perch, the view is encompassing—patches of crops, barns and silos, fresh produce stands lining the roads. Maybe it’s the slightly heightened altitude; maybe my lungs are used to recycled tour-bus air, but I swear I haven’t breathed so clearly in weeks. It feels so far from our daily lives—far from the stage’s electronics and the hotel’s modern amenities. Those things have no place here.

“It kind of looks like Tennessee, doesn’t it?” Matt asks, looking over at me. He’s lying on his stomach on the blanket, swaying his hands over the blades of grass.

I nod, crossing one leg over the other.

“It’s nice, isn’t?” He’s baiting me, looking for a confession.

“It is.”

“So you take back what you said?”

Smiling, I say, “No. It’s just also nice.”

“Whatever.” He shakes his head, smiling. “You love it.”

I called it “cheesy” when Matt showed up at the hotel room door with a picnic basket. I think I groaned, too, which seemed to delight him all the more. I knew we’d be hanging out while Dee’s in Nashville for the day, but I didn’t think it would be so . . . structured. I didn’t think he’d plan something that involved a day trip. He announced that he was taking me on an official date, and therefore we are dating. I smiled, even as I shook my head.

I lie back all the way and reach for my film camera, which I haven’t used nearly enough this summer. Holding the camera up, I can see sky filling most of the lens. At the very bottom of the shot, the topmost leaves of a tree line sneak into view. I press my finger decisively, capturing the space between land and sky.

Then I turn to Matt. He’s still on his stomach, eyes closed and resting his head against his arms. The food is gone now, but it’s nice to linger here. With a wicker picnic basket and the red-and-white checked blanket, I know I should be wearing a white cotton dress or a flouncy skirt. I should have long, glossy, cheerleader hair that swings when I make peppy movements—an innocent girl on a romantic date.

I don’t fit with the idyllic setting or the 1950s date, but I think I fit with Matt just fine. The hem of his T-shirt is pulled up a bit by the blanket, and I can see two lines of his tattoo. I reach over, smoothing my fingers over the letters. His skin is warm beneath my hand, and he smiles at my touch. I turn so that I’m lying on my side, facing him.

“What’s your middle name?”

“Carter—my mom’s maiden name.” His eyes move across mine. “Why?”

“Just curious. What kind of car do you drive?”

“Oh God.” He buries his face in the picnic blanket. “Not that question.”

I grin, thrilled that I’ve stumbled onto something interesting. Tugging at his shirtsleeve, I insist, “Yeah, c’mon. Tell me.”

One eye peeks out at me. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I think these are things I would know about you if we were dating in real life.”

“Real life?”

“Yeah. Like, not in various locations across the US . . . mostly in a tour bus . . . while you were supposedly dating my best friend.”

“Point taken.” He sighs, rolling onto his side. “I drive a ridiculous-looking Porsche. That’s what happens when you turn fifteen and a half and already have money.”

I snicker at him, tipping my head back. “Why don’t you just trade it in?”

“Haven’t gotten around to it yet. What do you drive?”