Open Road Summer(77)

I shrug, sitting up against the pillows. “Okay, but tired.”

“Is there anything in particular you’d like for dinner?”

After two months of room service, hotel bar food, and gas station snacks, my mouth waters at the idea of homemade food. “I’ll eat anything.”

She nods, backing out of the room a bit. “I’ll give you a holler when it’s ready. Should be about the time your daddy gets home.”

“Thanks, Brenda.” I roll over to my side. Even though it was an exchange of a few simple sentences—not affectionate or deep—it’s the most benign interaction I’ve had with Brenda since before my arrest. She didn’t prod me to get out of bed or ask if I’m upset and why. I didn’t push her buttons in retaliation. It’s a small victory for both of us.

I stay there in my quiet room, and my thoughts jerk toward Matt. I force them away, thinking about new photography projects, of how to structure my portfolio for college applications. I huddle my thoughts under college—my fresh start, a year away—until I hear Brenda call from downstairs.

By the time I hit the base of the staircase, I smell maple syrup. Heavy, savory bacon and fresh pancakes. I follow the scent into the kitchen, where Brenda’s standing over a skillet.

“Breakfast for dinner.” I survey the spread. “My dad used to make this every Friday night.”

Brenda smiles. “He mentioned that.”

Before Brenda came along, breakfast-dinner was a ritual. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, and anything else we could think of. My dad always said that meal was a celebration that the weekend was here, and it was years before I realized that he didn’t know how to cook much else back then. Even as we both learned how to make other meals, breakfast-dinner stayed. When Brenda moved in, she took over all the cooking. My dad was grateful, and I guess I mostly was, too. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until now.

The garage door opens, followed by my dad’s grinning face. “Smells great in here.”

He kicks off his boots, and I take a seat at the kitchen table. My dad kisses Brenda on the cheek as he moves toward the sink. “So good to have both my girls home.”

I don’t know if I like being lumped into a category with Brenda, as if we matter equally to my dad. He’s only known her for four years. Still, Matt Finch’s stupid voice sneaks into my mind—And she makes your dad happy? Yes. She does. When I look up at Brenda, she’s shuffling pancakes onto my plate. I waste no time smearing butter on each layer of the stack. My dad and Brenda join me at the table, and she closes her eyes to say a prayer. I stare at the table’s centerpiece, counting the stalks of lavender until she’s done.

I press the side of my fork into the tower of pancakes, sliding off a big, fluffy bite. It tastes like my old life—the one after my dad sobered up and before Brenda barged in. It reminds me of a time before I was sneaking out and pissing everyone off and compiling a police record. It tastes like being a kid, and I could cry again. I really could. But I won’t.

I stay quiet while Brenda and my dad chat about their work days. Not once do they ask about the summer or why I came home early, and I eat my whole dinner in peace. Of course they know something happened, but they also know I won’t tell them unless I want to. It’s a relief to feel privacy in my own life.

“Well,” my dad says finally, putting down his fork. “That hit the spot.”

I nod. “It was really good, Brenda. Thanks.”


Her smile is tentative, like she’s waiting for a sarcastic comment. I don’t have one, so I clear my plate from the table without another word. From the front of the house, the doorbell rings, and my dad rises to answer it. After a moment, he calls into the kitchen, “Reagan, darlin’, you got company.”

My first thought is Matt. Maybe he’s ditching the Indianapolis concert tonight; maybe he drove all this way to apologize. I’m going to slam the door in his face a million times. But when I step into the foyer, it’s clear that the person at the door is a girl. My fury must be obvious because my dad looks confused. I step past him and close the front door behind me.

Corinne is on my front porch. This has got to be a joke.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

Her face looks remorseful, but her mouth can’t seem to find the apology. Finally, she bursts out, “Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

She says this like I’m holding a knife to her throat and making her apologize in exchange for her life. I don’t need her apology. I cross my arms, leaning back against the storm door. My glare must be bearing into her because she looks down at her feet. “I just got dumped, and I’m . . . I’m used to being the girl in Matt’s life. I got jealous.”

“Well, I hope you two will be happy together.” I spit the words out like venom. “Get off my property.”

“It’s not like that. He doesn’t have feelings for me anymore.”

I confess: this was more believable coming from Corinne than it was from Matt. But it’s still a seconhand lie, passed from him to her to me.

“Poor you.”

“Look.” Her voice is firm. “I only kissed him to try to get his attention, and it was petty and mean, and I’m sorry.”

She really does look remorseful, her eyes turned down at the sides. If I were in a more forgiving mood, maybe I could admit that I know the feeling of a best friend slipping away. Or how easy it is to grasp for validation after someone has rejected you. But alas. I’m a cold, hard bitch, and so is she.