Open Road Summer(85)

What an *. The mesh screen and two floors between us don’t seem like enough to protect him from my anger.

“Nice apology,” I call down to him.

“I’ve apologized thirteen times,” he yells back, “and so far you haven’t called me back.”

I open my mouth to say it doesn’t matter, but he’s already redirecting the song.

“Now I’m gonna stand here until you forgive me,” he sings loudly, “or at least until you hear me out, la-la, oh-la-la. I drove seven hours overnight, and I won’t leave until you come out here.”

He had a flight home to Chicago right after the final show last night. He drove straight back here?

“This is private property!” My throat feels coarse from how loudly I’m yelling. “And that doesn’t even rhyme!”

The guitar chord continues as he sings, “Then call the cops, call the cops, call the cops. . . .”

I storm downstairs, my feet pounding against the staircase. When I turn the corner, my dad looks almost amused from his seat in the recliner. Noticing my expression, he stares back at his newspaper, as if I won’t notice him.

“Can you get him to leave?” I demand, pointing toward the back of the house.

“Oh no.” He moves the paper so that it obstructs my view of his face. “I am not getting involved in this.”


“Dad, come on.” There’s begging in my voice. “He’s disturbing the peace. It’s a noise violation! And trespassing!”

He shrugs, and I turn back toward the stairs in a huff. But then something occurs to me. I spin slowly on one heel, my eyes searing through the newspaper like a magnifying glass in the sun. “Dad. How did Matt know which window was mine?”

“Well . . .” He peeks over the sports section. “I reckon I told him.”

“You talked to him?” My voice is no longer a voice. It’s a shriek. “God, Dad!”

He juts out his chin, defensive. “How was I supposed to know you had some sort of drama with him? He shows up, lookin’ to serenade my daughter. Thought it seemed innocent enough. Sweet, even. Old-fashioned.”

“It’s not any of those things! I hate him!”

At that moment, Brenda opens the front door, balancing two paper bags of groceries. My dad jumps up to help her, and she sets her keys on the entryway table.

Pausing to look at me, she says, “It seems like someone or another is here every time I get home. Who owns that fancy car?”

The flashy Porsche that he told me about is in my driveway. My summer life is infiltrating my real life again, and it’s too strange to handle. I roll my eyes, tilting my head up toward the ceiling. My dad answers for me. “Matt Finch.”

“The boy who played in Dee’s concert last night?”

“The very same.”

“Well, that’s fun. He seemed like such a nice young man. And that voice!” Brenda looks delighted, glancing around. “Where is he?”

“He’s in our backyard, singing up at Reagan’s window.”

Brenda looks amused, too, and I pound my feet against the hardwood floors of the dining room, which is right below my bedroom. When I yank the window up, I’m almost eye level with Matt through the screen. It feels weird to see him so close, from inside the house I grew up in. I’m suddenly self-conscious of my makeup-less face and wild hair.

“I am seriously thinking about calling the cops.”

He continues to play and sing. “I hope you do, yes, I hope you do. Because maybe the sight of police officers will remind you that you’ve made mistakes, too, you’ve made mistakes, too. . . .”

With a screech of anger, I slam the window down, and it rattles Brenda’s china hutch. How dare he turn this on me; how dare he use my past to make a point. I whirl around, and my dad has clamped his lips together, trying not to laugh. Thanks for the backup, Dad.

Once up the stairs, I grab my phone. I need a plan of action. I’m not exactly on friendly terms with local law enforcement, so I can’t actually call the cops to get rid of Matt. If I took a baseball bat to his Porsche, I’d probably get a misdemeanor, so that’s out, too. I have one last idea, so I dial Beau Morgan. He’s a few years older than me and a rare combination of both nice and seriously hot. The latter is why I made out with him a few times during my freshman year. I only kept his number for convenience—because he works at his dad’s car-repair shop.

“Hey, Beau.” I struggle to maintain the calm in my voice. “Reagan O’Neill. Listen, I need a favor. One of my friends parked his car here last night, and it won’t start. It’s in the driveway, and we really need a tow.”





By the time Beau arrives, I’ve put on a cute outfit—a summer dress and heels—plus a full face of makeup. If I’m going to confront Matt, I need all my armor. The tow truck rattles into our driveway, and I wave at Beau from my seat on the porch. Brenda is off toward the left of the house, wearing a wide-brimmed sun hat and weeding her precious geraniums. Matt’s still standing at the back of the house, singing below my window, and I doubt he can see Beau backing the tow truck up to his shiny Porsche.

Beau waves, shooting me a smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Brenda sit back on her legs and stare at Beau confusedly. I ignore her, walking toward the tow truck.