Open Road Summer(86)

“Hey,” I say. “Thanks for doing this. My friend will pick it up shortly. I’ll let him know where your lot is. He’ll pay you, of course.”

“Great,” Beau says, still smiling as he turns to rig up Matt’s car. “It’s good to see you. You look good.”

“Thanks.”

“Nice car.” Beau nods toward the Porsche.

I smile. “It’s actually a piece of shit.”

I have to strain to hear Matt’s guitar-playing over the tow truck’s rumbling engine. Last I could hear, he was playing a dramatic Johnny Cash duet, complete with June Carter’s parts in a campy falsetto. There’s no particular theme to his selections, from what I can tell.

I wave to Beau as he pulls out of the driveway in his tow truck, with Matt’s ludicrous car dragging behind it. As he turns onto the main road, he honks in good-bye, and I curse under my breath. Matt probably heard that, but it’s too late now. His car is gone.

Sure enough, the guitar-playing has stopped and, next thing I know, Matt’s running up from the side of the house. He has his guitar spun around, so it hangs behind him like a backpack. I cross my arms, ready for a fight. It’s been less than a week since the last time I kissed him, but the memory of him feels farther away than that. He doesn’t belong in the front yard of my house. Here, he looks like an old memory come to life, a ghost of the person I thought he was.

“Damn it, Reagan! Are you kidding me?!” A shudder runs down my back at the sound of his voice saying my name. But he knows that I mean business now, which was exactly my point when I called the tow truck.

“It was either the tow truck or the cops,” I say, glancing down at my nails impassively, just to piss him off more. It works.

“You had my car towed,” he repeats, like saying it out loud will change it.

“Well,” I say thoughtfully. “Pretend like, instead of your car, it’s all of your trust being hauled away unexpectedly. Then maybe you’ll feel a fraction of how mad I am at you.”


I figure this—a reminder of what kind of hurt he caused me—will make him start apologizing. But I’m wrong. In fact, he looks mad, his brows creased and mouth in a hard line.

“I’ve gotta tell you,” he begins. His voice is a growl, fully pissed off. Good. “It feels like you’ve had a telephoto lens on me from the first time I looked at you. You’ve been waiting for me to screw up, and I found myself in a bad situation. But that doesn’t prove that I’m a bad guy. It proves that people make mistakes. I’m a good guy, and I’m good for you.”

He points his finger at me, directing his words like an accusation. I feel my cheeks flush, and I wish Brenda would go back inside.

Before I can drum up a comeback, he continues, calmer now. “What happened last week was messed up, but I didn’t initiate it, and I think you know that somewhere deep down. That’s the confusing part. It’s like you’re relieved to have an excuse to push me away.”

Brenda is still gardening somewhere in the periphery of Matt’s tirade, and I am so mortified that I want to sink into the ground. Matt’s so close to me that I could physically push him away, and I consider it. “And when I come here, you get my car towed, trying to piss me off and push me away more. But I’m not biting, Reagan. Maybe it worked on other guys, but not me.”

My arms stay crossed, and my mouth stays closed. I have nothing to say to him.

He looks defeated, shaking his head at me. “Forget it. You’re too mad to even see me.”

He’s right. I’m so mad that it stands like a shield between us. I can’t remember Matt before Matt-and-Corinne. The feeling of betrayal frames his face in my mind. So maybe he didn’t initiate it—big deal. He did something worse: he reminded me how much I stand to lose, how easy it is for someone to hurt you once you let them in.

“If you could see me, you’d see that I’m sorry,” he says simply. “And that I’m right.”

With those smart-ass final words, he heads toward the front gate of our house. The guitar bounces against his back, and he looks like a sad, vagabond minstrel.

“Matt,” I call. “Wait.”

He glances back at me, willing to turn around if I have something worth saying. I sigh. “At least let me give you a ride to the tow lot.”

Matt looks surprised for a moment, like he thought I’d say something else. He shakes his head. “No way. I need to walk this one off anyway. Cool down before I start saying things I’m gonna regret.”

“Fine!” I shout. I tried to be the bigger person, and he turned it down. “See if I care. Have a great life!”

At the sound of me yelling again, his pace toward the main road becomes quicker, with heavy, angry footsteps. Then he pauses, turning around to call to me, “This isn’t over!”

“Not over my ass!” I yell back. “It was over last week and still is!”

He spins back around, flinging his arms in frustration. Fine. If he’s going to storm off, then I am, too. My cheeks are burning with anger, my whole body flushed with pent-up everything. I turn on my heels, thundering back toward the house, where I intend to slam every door in the whole place. Brenda glances up at me from the patch of garden nearest the porch steps. I know what she’s thinking. I went away for the summer and still brought a huge mess home with me. Same old Reagan, wreaking havoc on everything she touches.