Open Road Summer(72)

I can barely register that she’s disagreeing with me. “But Corinne . . .”

“Had her heart crushed by her longtime boyfriend this week?”

My eyes bear into Dee, even though she’s riffling through her purse and not looking at me. Her face is flushed, like it always is when she gets within spitting distance of a confrontation. She identifies with Corinne, having recently had her heart broken—I know she does. But that is no excuse for not taking my side. I always take hers. “I know you think you understand heartbreak, Dee, but you have no idea what it’s like to have your trust repeatedly broken—to have everyone in your life eventually leave you.”

Now she stands up straight, her brows furrowed. “Hey. I’ve never left you.”

“Dee, you literally left midway through high school.” My mouth snaps shut, like my own body is embarrassed that I’d give Dee such a horrible guilt trip. I didn’t mean to say it—I mean, yes, I do feel sorry for myself sometimes, that my only friend left me to fend for myself. But I don’t hold it against her.

Her lower lip trembles, but her eyes are unblinking. “I can’t believe you would throw that in my face.”

I try to make words come out—any words—but they refuse. My tongue is stuck against the back of my throat, and I have that shaky, feverish feeling that I get only in two instances: when I have the flu and when I’m a bitch to Dee.

“What was I supposed to do? Forget my music and stay in high school to babysit you?”

“Babysit me?” My chest fills with the heat of anger, pulsing so that I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I hear my voice, but I can’t control my mouth. “You can take your charmed life and shove it. Dee. Boo-hoo, everything is so hard, with your happy family and your dreams coming true and your piles of money.”

“My life is not that simple, and you know it.” Her face is nearly incandescent.

“Well, your life is much simpler when I’m around to make gas stations runs for you and act like your assistant.”

We stand there, facing each other and shaking, like we’re both shocked that we’d say these things. I can’t do this; I need this to stop. I need to retreat. “Well, have a great show. I’ll be riding to Indianapolis on Matt’s bus.”

“Of course you will,” Dee shoots back. “I’m so glad you could use my tour to find a new boyfriend and parade him around everywhere.”

My back is already turned, so Dee doesn’t see my jaw drop. I have no idea where her backbone came from—her ability to have the last word instead of backing down and apologizing. How dare she? I’ve listened to months of her mourning Jimmy like he died. She can’t be my friend the one time I vent about a guy I’m dating?

The door clicks shut behind me, and I want to run across the hall to Matt’s room, bury my face in his shoulder, and sob because even my best friend thinks I’m a terrible person. My chest is rising and falling too fast, and I’m breathing through my nose like I’m asthmatic. I don’t want Matt and Corinne to know I fought with Dee, and I especially don’t want them to know what we fought about.

Instead, I pace around the arena for over an hour before the show, getting lost in the swarms of Lilah Montgomery fans. My phone stays in my hand the whole time, while I alternate between expecting an apology from Dee and deciding I need to say I’m sorry first. It’s hard to say which I feel worse about: what I said to her or what she said to me. We’ve never torn into each other like that before, never intentionally tried to hurt each other.

I debate hiding out for the rest of the night, but I make the last-minute decision to show up backstage. Maybe we can work it out and be done with it.

“There you are,” Matt says, sliding his hand around my waist. Dee’s nowhere around.

“Here I am,” I repeat weakly.

“Matt, two minutes!” a production assistant yells from behind him.

“All right,” Matt says. He smiles down at me, kissing me on the forehead before he turns away.

Corrine has been standing here the whole time, but I almost forgot about her. She tells Matt to break a leg, and they hug for what feels like too long.

It was inevitable that I’d have to be alone with Corinne at some point. Any patience I might have had for her is long gone after my argument with Dee. For most of Matt’s set, we exchange the smallest possible small talk. Standing on the side stage, I’m glad I didn’t bring my camera to document tonight’s show. I don’t want to remember how adoringly Corinne looks at Matt onstage or her catcalls after each song.

There’s a pause in between songs as he switches guitars, and I feel Corinne glance over at me. “I’m glad he had someone to keep him company this summer.”

Past tense—“he had.” As if that time is over because she’s here now. And “keep him company,” like that’s all I am—a standin presence to keep him from feeling alone. Subtle undermining. Clever girl. Fortunately, I speak Passive-Aggressive Bitch as a second language.

“It’s been my pleasure.” There. Let her think about that. She’s known Matt much longer, but I’m the one who knows the feeling of his lips, his hands, his bare skin against mine.

“You’re really pretty.” She says this with the blunt charm of a child, but I know what she’s doing. Corinne is adorable; she’s not intimidated by me. She’s trying to ingratiate herself so I’ll trust her. Unlikely.