Open Road Summer(80)

I park on the dirt driveway that has turned into a mud driveway and cut the engine. Raindrops drum down above me, and I can’t help but admire how beautiful the farmhouse is, even distorted by panels of rain. The wide front porch is half wet, and Brenda’s potted plants look shiny and slick. The field of lavender makes a hazy purple backdrop, a blur of color in the distance. I stare up at the house, watching the weather vane rooster dance. The storm seems to slow, however slightly, and I make a run for it. I tuck my left wrist under my shirt, protecting the henna tattoo from harm. The mud clings to my shoes, trying to slow me down, but I pull my legs up fast enough to get to the porch.

Once upstairs, I remove my damp clothes and wrap myself in a robe. I flop onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling fan. The pictures spin above me—no starting point, no ending point, my summer circling around infinity. As if on cue, my phone beeps. I brace myself for another text from Matt, but they’ve tapered off considerably in the past two days. The text is from Dee, with a video attached.

Look what I did! Wasn’t the same without you.

I sigh. She called last night to see if I’m coming to her final show in Nashville tomorrow, and of course I’m not. I don’t want to be in the same room with Matt, even if that room is an auditorium. The whole situation is unfair to Dee and to me. We started the summer together; we should end it together.

I click the attached YouTube video, which is titled “Lilah Montgomery MY OWN Live!” She did it, performed a song that is finally starting to be true. The video starts with only Dee onstage, the camera pointed up at her from a few rows back. She’s in a blue dress that she wears at the end of the show, with her guitar strapped over her chest. Sure enough, she nails it—the grit and grace in every lyric—and she means them all. On her own, she’s doing pretty damn well.

When the song ends, I want to text her back right away, but I feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I had an entire summer away to get control of my life, to be a better version of me, on my own. Instead, I got tangled up in guy drama. I let myself get cheated on twice in a four-month window. I’m so disappointed in myself, for knowing better but doing it anyway.

Desperate for fresh air, I shove my bedroom window open. Outside, the rain has slowed to pattering, but I can’t tell if the worst of the storm is yet to come. The dark clouds are shifting overhead, wrestling against the patches of blue sky in the distance. It’s the improbable halfway point between two places—gray and blue clashing, and there’s no way to tell which will yield.





Chapter Twenty-One

Nashville


I’m driving well over the speed limit, foot tense against the gas pedal.

The text I got said: Can you come down to Ryman Auditorium? Something’s going on with Dee. Thanks-Lissa St. James.

Two things shocked me about this message. First, Lissa said “Dee” and not “Lilah.” She’s never called her that in my presence—because she represents Lilah Montgomery: country star, not Dee Montgomery: normal, human girl. Second, if Dee is upset and hasn’t called me, then she must be mad at me. I’ve tried calling her six times since, but she won’t answer. As I pulled off the exit for Ryman Auditorium, I caved and called Lissa.

“Look, I didn’t know what else to do, okay?” she snapped, as if I had demanded an explanation by returning her call. “Dee’s upset about something, and she won’t snap out of it. She’s quiet, withdrawn, and I need her to get it together for the press conference in half an hour. Can you come down and try to fix her?”

I hope I can. My tires squeal as I pull into a parking spot outside the auditorium. I rush to the door Lissa told me to meet her at, and sure enough, she’s standing there in a skirt suit.

“Thanks for coming.” She gestures for me to follow her inside.

“Yeah, well,” I say. “I didn’t come for you.”

We’re at the bottom of an unadorned set of stairs—all concrete and unpolished metal rails, clearly a service entrance. I start to follow Lissa up the stairs, but she turns when she hears my footsteps stop. It’s my one chance to know for sure. “Did you leak that photo?”

“I certainly did not.”

“Then who did?”

“It was a girl in your grade at school. She sold it to the tabloids.”

I blink. I meant that question to be rhetorical. I didn’t think Lissa actually knew. My fingers bend into claws. “Who? Tell me her name.”

“The girl’s father lost his job months ago. Their house was getting foreclosed on.”

It takes me a moment to process this. Would I sell someone out to save our home? To save my dad’s pride and the life that I know? I might. I hate to say it, but I really might. Not Dee, of course, but . . . someone else? Maybe. “How do you know?”

“I wrestled it out of one of my tabloid contacts.”

“Why didn’t you tell Dee?”


She sighs. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

I consider this as we reach the second floor. Lissa gestures toward a room with Dee’s name on it. For some reason, even in the fluorescent hallway light, Lissa’s face doesn’t look so pinched.

The door is open a sliver, and it doesn’t creak as I slip inside. Dee is in full hair and makeup, laying faceup on the couch with no expression whatsoever. Her posture is stiff, like a mummy or a nervous patient in a therapy session. I shut the door behind me, and she sits up, startled. “Dee, you should have told me you were upset.”