Open Road Summer(82)

“You need to talk to him,” I say. “I know you guys haven’t seen each other since you broke up, but it doesn’t have to be like that. You can be friends. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”

“That’s funny, coming from you,” she says, smirking at me, and I smile back. “But you’re right. We don’t need a plan.”

“Exactly.”

She nods, letting out a sigh, and she clutches her hand over mine. “I think I knew that, deep down. I just needed to hear it from someone else.”

There’s a gentle knock at the door, and the blood halts within my veins. If it’s Matt, I’ll shoot through the ceiling, a rocket fueled by scorn. But it’s not him. The makeup artist peers in. “Lissa said you may need a touch-up.”

Dee gives a bitter laugh. “She’s correct. Come in.”

“I should go,” I say. “You’re okay, right?”

She hugs me tightly. “I will be.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner at your parents’ house. Break a leg tonight.”

Dee gives me the eyes. “You could come to the concert. . . .”

I flash a grim smile. “Not if he’s here.”

“Yeah, I know.” She sighs. “You should get going, then. He’ll be done with his sound check any minute. Don’t want you to have an awkward run-in in the hallway.”

With one last squeeze, I duck out the door. I don’t want to see Matt in the hallway, and I certainly don’t want to see him onstage—at least, not without a basketful of rotten tomatoes in tow. I’d really love to peg him right in the face with one, to watch the thin red juice splatter across his skin. Or maybe tomatoes aren’t the best choice. Maybe I’d prefer a cooked red potato because no other vegetable looks more like a human heart. The soft, starchy insides would break apart on impact. I bet Matt would know it was from me, too—a broken heart smashing into him.

Still, I’m nothing if not a masochist—a willing victim to the things that might hurt me later. My feet steer me toward the auditorium, even though my heart tries to back up. I’m weighing regrets—which will hurt more? The pain of seeing him one last time or the pain of denying myself the chance?

I enter through the farthest-back door. Matt stands alone on the historic stage, faced by hundreds of empty, wooden seats in a semicircle. When Matt and I talked about this concert earlier in the summer, he said he didn’t deserve to perform here. Dee feels the same way—hesitant to believe that her feet belong on the hardwood stage, on top of Patsy Cline’s footprints.

But here he is. I don’t want to throw tomatoes at him, as it turns out. I’m not sure why.

“That was good, Matt,” a voice calls from the sound booth. “We’ll keep that bass lower for tonight.”

“Thanks,” Matt calls, shielding his eyes. “Can we close out with the new song one more time?”

“Sure thing. Ready when you are.”

He’s wearing a baseball hat, jeans, and a white T-shirt. He looks like the Matt I thought I knew. But he’s not. I have to remember this because he’s moving toward the baby grand piano onstage, sliding onto the bench. His fingers move in slow, sad chords as his foot pumps the pedal.

Like a wounded soldier

Trudging the old road home,

But I ain’t the old me,

And I walk this path alone.

I’m battle-worn, I’m battle-torn

With these scars inside my chest,

Kept up that happy face for you,

To hide that I’m a mess.

But I gave you every ounce of fight in me,

And I have no regrets.

If I was going to lose you,

At least I lost you to my best.

But it felt so wrong,

So tangled up in blue,

Like that old Dylan song,

Like I don’t know who I am,

Now that you’re gone.

I try to swallow, but I can’t. Raw honesty finds you right where you are, even at the back of an auditorium, and it takes you by the throat. It asks you if you can be honest, too. I never want to be asked, because the answer is no. He finally did it, wrote the song about his mom, and on the piano, no less.

During the second verse, the tears overflow my lower eyelid. My face doesn’t crumple—I don’t fall apart—but the tears dribble downward nonetheless. I don’t wipe them away.

But I lived through the pain.

Now I see the other side.

Now I know that life’s too short

To shut myself down and hide.

I’m battle-torn, but I’m battle-born.

These scars are part of me.

I got nothing left but what I’ve learned,

And I’ll use that, and you’ll see,

I can still give every ounce of fight in me,

Till I have no regrets,

Because if I’m going to lose someone,

I’m gonna lose her to my best.

And I’ll be strong,

When a hard rain’s a-gonna fall,

Like that old Dylan song,

You’re the reason I stand tall,

And that will never be gone.

When his new song fades out, Matt stands from the piano and grabs his guitar. He breaks into a slow, acoustic version of “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.” The guitar chords are stripped-down and simple, and the soft rasp in his voice wrecks me. It wrecks me right there in the drafty back seats of the former Grand Ole Opry. How many people have shed tears in this place, backlit by stained glass and the amber glow of generations gone by? Now I’m among them, drops of holy water on the church floor.