Open Road Summer(75)

He opens his mouth to speak, but I hold up my hand. With a deep breath, I stand up a bit straighter, trying for the illusion of composure. “You know what? It doesn’t even matter—let’s be honest here, Matt. We were messing around for a summer. This would have ended a week from now anyway.”

“That’s not true.” His voice is quiet now. He’s not fighting back. He knows he’s done. “That is not true, not for me, and you know it. Reagan, I . . .”

“Don’t bother,” I snap. “Don’t bother with more words, Matt, because I know how good you are with them. But they’re just words. Your actions are loud and clear. I’m done.”

My eyes feel itchy, and I turn away, suddenly embarrassed. The door has a small, square window, and I stare out into the parking garage that awaits me. Then I pull the handle in a quick gesture of certainty. Of finality. The door swings closed behind me, landing with a heavy thud and a metallic click, and something inside me closes, too.

A few paces from the door, I stop myself, fighting the urge to turn around. When I was little, I used to go to church with Dee’s family, only because I spent the night most Saturdays. I vaguely remember a story about a woman who looked back while fleeing a broken city. She turned into a pillar of salt. A harsh fate, but I got the point. You can’t look back when you’re escaping disaster. You can’t hope that someone will come after you, either. I stopped expecting people to fight for me a long time ago, and I should know better. So I set my eyes straight on the course ahead of me, lengthening my strides. He’s only upset because he got caught. He’s nothing more than a bored, spoiled boy, and I’m Reagan O’Neill, the girl from the bathroom-stall graffiti. I’m not the cute little pastry of a girl you bring home to meet your family. I’m just a challenge to conquer, and he won. I lost.

As I blaze my way to the bus, my vision begins to blur, and I can’t tell if it’s fury or a precursor to tears. Hurt, regret, betrayal—I can’t tell them apart, either, but each one is filling my lungs with pressure, like a dam about to burst open. I need to get to Dee.

I’ve reached the line of buses, but I can barely remember how I got here—what I walked past, who saw me tearing away from the door. I board, legs shaky against the steps, and Dee looks up at me. The space behind my eyes is swimming, and I can’t even make out the expression on her face. She could be furious at me after our fight; she could kick me off the bus. I wouldn’t blame her. It’s been so long since I’ve cried that I barely remember how; I certainly don’t remember how to stop. She’s just a watery blur as a tear finally slips down my cheek.

“Oh my God, Reagan, I’m so sorry about what I said.” Her cool hands clutch mine. One of us is shaking, and I think it may be me. “Please don’t cry.”

“No, I’m sorry. But it’s not that. I have to go home.” This comes out as a kind of gasp, and my shoulders fall in, trembling. Through the beginnings of a sob, my voice cracks like dropped glass. “I have to go home tonight. Right now.”





The airport is more crowded than I expected. In O’Hare or LAX or LaGuardia, I would have expected chaos. But Nashville? I can’t think of any reason why people would be flying into Nashville at one in the morning on a Tuesday. Maybe they’re wondering the same thing about me—why would I be here? I bet they’d never guess I got cheated on by a former teen heartthrob and fled the scene. That I cried for the first time in almost ten years on a chilly tour bus, that my best friend called the airline, reciting her credit card number for a last-minute flight. That she stood at the base of the tour bus steps in the airport drop-off lane, hugging me so fiercely that I thought my ribs would break. They’d never guess that the single bag on my shoulder is full of essentials only, that a checked bag would have slowed me down more than I could bear, that my best friend promised to drop off everything else when her tour ends next week.

Crowds move past me on their way into the airport, and I don’t recognize a single person. This summer, I’ve gotten used to the same stream of faces: Dee’s band, the sound techs, the bus drivers. I miss life on tour already, but my heart just took a deathblow. It forced me into the Dorothy Gale School of Quitters: There’s no place like home. Now that I’m here, it has to hurt less. Doesn’t it?

I couldn’t sleep the entire flight back, despite feeling tired all the way to my bones. I stared out the window, pressing my cheek against the thick plastic. The clouds looked like a whole kingdom, and I felt as small as I ever have.

Through the automatic doors, my whole body is met with warm, Tennessee air. It has that hard-to-place smell of home—is it the faint scent of water from the river? The surrounding grass and crops mingling with thick, Southern-lady perfume? I don’t know, but it’s comforting in a way I didn’t expect. I could sink into the Nashville night like a plush lounge chair. Peering at the line of cars, I search for my dad’s truck. He’s at the end of the line, leaning against the bumper. No Brenda in sight, and I almost smile.

It’s been over two months since I’ve seen my dad, the longest I’ve ever been away from him. His face is the most familiar sight in my world, but he looks different somehow. His hair and mustache are neatly trimmed, and he’s wearing an old plaid shirt and work boots. For the first time, I can’t even remember what he looked like before he got sober. It’s like that part of him is so far gone I can’t even make it out in the distance.