Open Road Summer(78)

“Reagan, he didn’t even kiss me back. He froze like he was too horrified to even move, and then you walked in.” I hate that she used my first name, as if she knows me. I hate that she’s covering for him. “It was actually really mortifying for me. And I understand if you hate me. But please don’t hate Matt.”

I grind my toe into our welcome mat, trying to rescind its message. I don’t want her relaying to Matt how upset I am, so I look at her head-on. “It would have ended anyway. You just pushed our expiration date up a week.”

A look of surprise registers on her face. “I didn’t realize that. Matt made it seem like . . .”

“I’m going to college next year. And I’m not the kind of girl who follows a guy around.”

The hit lands. She bites at her lips, which are still annoyingly full and a pouty. I hate her for pressing her pretty mouth against Matt’s. Right when I think I’ve had the last word, she blurts out, “He starts at Belmont this fall.”

“In Nashville?”

She nods. “He moves in two weeks from now. They have a music-business program. He decided to go before he even left on the tour.”

“Well,” I say with a sardonic laugh. “That goes to show you how disposable I was. He didn’t even tell me that.”

“I know he didn’t. He didn’t want to spook you.”

“Spook me?”

“He didn’t want you to think he was moving to Nashville for you. Too serious or too fast or something.”

Spook me. Like a wild horse, too wild to get close to without the risk of bucking or fleeing. Like my mother.

“Well, good for him. I’m sure there will be plenty of Nashville girls who fall for the charm. But not me—I see through it now.”

Corinne rubs her temples, closing her eyes. “Well, I had to try.”

“How’d you find my house, anyway?”

“There are only about a dozen O’Neills inside city limits. Your house was the fourth I knocked at.”

This impresses me, however begrudgingly, as she turns to go. She pauses at the base of the porch steps and turns back. “You should know . . . I haven’t seen him happy since . . . well. A while. His mom was so sick, and then she died, and he was in such a bad place. Like the real Matt was in a coma. When he started touring this summer, even his voice on the phone seemed alive again. Any time he talked about you, it sounded like he was . . . waking up.”

This comment feels like a hammer straight to my heart. But I can’t even process what she’s saying. I want her gone. “Too little, too late.”

She retreats, finally giving up, and I want to pick up one of Brenda’s clay flowerpots and heave it at her. As her car peels out of the dirt driveway, I rake my hands through my hair. What was that? Here at home, my life on tour feels surreal—like a summerlong dream I finally woke up from yesterday. Corinne’s presence proves that it was real, which only makes me miss Dee and the ever-changing cities more. But the person I thought Matt Finch was? I think I’ll miss him most of all.





Chapter Twenty

Nashville


The world is in grayscale today. The sky looks like mercury glass, translucent with silvery clouds. Even the trees look sullen, drooping under the weight of gloominess. I hate when the weather is indecisive. If it’s going to be anything less than sunny, it might as well thunderstorm. Don’t drizzle, kind of, some of the time.

My heels splash against shallow puddles, making empty thuds on the sidewalk. After Corinne’s little surprise visit, I’ve spent the past two days in bed watching reality TV. Those morons make me feel better about my life by comparison. But not today. Today is the day for action.

I’m getting a tattoo. I woke up this morning with a desperate itch for change. It made me restless all morning, too much energy for my body to contain. Most girls change their hair after a bad breakup—a different color, a shorter cut—but that’s not enough. So I drove to downtown Nashville to visit Archangel Ink.

From outside, I can see Gia perched on a stool, her feet propped up against the padded chair. Gia’s in college, and she runs in a circle that occasionally overlaps with Blake’s. I wouldn’t say that we’re friends, but we’re friendly. She looks a bit intimidating, with her long, tattooed arms, but she’s soft-spoken and genuinely passionate about art. Her tattoos themselves are like paintings—curling blue waves inspired by a Japanese artist, blooms of white flowers, black-ink branches peeking out from her black tank top.

“Hey, Gia.” I lean in without opening the door all the way.

She looks up. “Reagan. Hey. Come in.”

Gia wears even more eye makeup than me, with Cleopatra curls of black eyeliner. She stands as I get closer, leaning against the chair. “I haven’t seen you around.”

“Yeah. I’ve been gone this summer.”

“I, um,” she begins, toying with the ends of her waist-length hair. “I was sorry to hear what happened with Blake.”

“Thanks.”

Her smile is genuine behind heavy red lipstick. “Can I do something for you?”

“Yeah,” I say, and I’m surprised by how determined I sound. “A tattoo, actually.”

Her eyes light up. “You’re finally caving?”