Open Road Summer(76)

“Hi, Dad.” I put my bag down by his feet.

“Hi, darlin’,” he says, and I wrap my arms around his neck. At the sound of the low rumble of his voice, I feel like I could cry again—out of comfort or relief or persistent, sticky sadness.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, pulling back from his embrace.

“Everything okay with you and Dee?” He’s appraising my face, looking for hints of what hurt me enough to come home in the middle of the night.

I nod again. “We’re fine. I was just ready to come home.”

He scoops up my bag and puts it in the truck bed. “Good. Bren’s awfully excited about the concert next week.”

Less than one minute, and Brenda’s a part of the conversation. I don’t know what to say. We open our doors and climb in, quiet but for the planes roaring overhead.

“We sure missed you at home,” my dad says, turning the key in the ignition.

I settle into the passenger’s seat. “We?”

He smiles. “It was too quiet.”

“Ha.”

By the time we hit the highway, I’ve closed my eyes. I settle into the truck’s worn upholstery, soft and musty, the faint hint of tobacco from before Brenda made my dad quit smoking. My eyelids fall, and the last thing I’m aware of is the low murmur of the truck, humming as it carries me home.





Chapter Nineteen

Nashville


I fish another photo out of the developing solution. With a firm hold on the tongs, I give it a gentle shake and hang it up. It’s a photo of the dry landscape in New Mexico, our first stop after LA—two days after the awards-show after-party where Matt and I danced, pressed up against each other and holding back. No. No, don’t think about that part. Think about the part where he cheated, where you walked in on him last night. The thought splinters down my chest, threatening to crack my sternum and rib bones, and even a slow inhale aches. I dare myself to go five more minutes without resorting to a cigarette.

It was past noon by the time I woke up today. My first instinct was to unpack my bag, getting rid of any evidence of my life on tour. In keeping with that theme, I then decided to develop the rolls of film I took this summer. That way, I can dispose of the ones of Matt immediately—the proverbial, quick-ripped Band-Aid. Maybe I’ll set them on fire; maybe I’ll rip them to tiny pieces. Maybe I’ll cut his face out of every picture and throw a handful of paper Matt heads into the trash or into the air—decapitated confetti. I pull the next photo out of the developing solution, and something about the photo catches my eye. Holding it up against the nearest red lightbulb, I examine the shot.

It’s from just last week, on that Maryland hillside. The picture is a close-up of Matt’s face, grinning with blue sky stretched wide in the background. In his sunglasses, I can make out my own reflection. Half of my face is obscured by the camera pointed at him, but below that, a smile—a wide, midlaugh smile.

In the bathroom mirror, my reflection is washed in the glow of the red light. My face looks too angular, and I look older than the girl I am in that picture. I hardly believe I existed as this girl, content and nearly carefree. Yet there she is, reflected back in Matt’s eyes. Stop documenting the moment for a second, he told me. Just be in it.

I’m out of space to dry photos in the bathroom-turned-darkroom, so I stand on my bed, taping strings to my ceiling fan. When I’m done, I hop off the bed to grab some clothespins, pausing at my laptop to blast my favorite angry music so loud that I can’t hear my phone. Matt has called me a dozen times in as many hours, and I’ve ignored them all, deleted every voice mail. He’s texted me, too. I tried not to read them as I deleted them, but a few words stood out—I’m so sorry and call me and misunderstanding and talk about it. Maybe I’ll eventually respond: don’t care and no and yeah right and no.

Dee called not long after I woke up, wondering if I was okay. My crying freaked her out, I think. Freaked me out. I told her I was fine and happy to be home. Then she got quiet and said, “Listen, Reag. I talked to Matt. . . . He really—”

“Don’t you dare take his side,” I said darkly. “He has no right to put you in the middle.”

She cleared her throat, which she does when she’s trying to regain composure. “You’re right. Sorry. I just hate that you’re hurting.”

“I’m fine,” I lied.

I spend the next hour developing photos and clipping them onto my fan. Obviously, no pictures of Matt are allowed in my presence, and I leave them to dry in the bathroom, awaiting their assuredly violent fate. When I’m done, I turn the fan on low and lie down on my bed. The pictures circle above me, looping images of my summer: Dee on our tour bus, Poet’s Walk in Central Park, the southwestern architecture in Santa Fe and Dallas, pictures of the crew backstage. It’s what my summer would have looked like without Matt. Still good, I remind myself. Still so good.

A little after five o’clock, there’s a rap on my door.

“Can I come in?” Brenda’s soft drawl asks through the door. At least she’s learning not to come in without permission.

“Sure.”

Brenda was asleep when we returned from the airport last night and has been at work all day. The door opens to her predictable form—a dowdy skirt and soft brown hair, grays sneaking in around her part. She smiles hesitantly. “It’s good to have you back. How are you?”