Open Road Summer(89)

It’s hard to think straight when I feel his skin on mine. “I know that.”

“I would like to know you for a while,” he says. “And if that means we’re just friends, so you have some time to work things out . . . I can do that.”

“Hey. You’ve got a lot of baggage to sift through yourself. Maybe you need some time to figure things out.”

He smiles now, hesitantly. “We’ll just have to go easy on each other at first.”

You’ll just have to go easy on it at first. That’s what they told me at the doctor’s office, the day I was freed from my cast. Matt’s trying to remind me that I let him into my life for a while, and, when I did, he made himself at home. When I let him in, he belonged.

He still has a loose hold on my wrist, so careful not to hurt me. He’ll get into a screaming match with me and take off in a huff when I push him too far. But he’s gentle when it matters, when the difference between past and future is a few inches of Tennessee soil between us.

Despite the doubts that remain, despite a past covered with black marks and missteps, I slide my healed arm up so that my fingers lace between his. I know my mistakes like the back of my hand, but I can chart my future by the underside of my wrist. The henna constellation marks my skin, a reminder to guide me. After all, the night sky is a mess of stars—a million fireflies crammed into infinity. But the mess becomes a map once you know how to use it.

Hanging on to someone’s hand—it’s such a simple act, but it’s harder than it looks. I keep my eyes on his, not even blinking, and all I can think to say is, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he says, smiling, and this is our deal—a quiet understanding after a summer’s worth of slow learning. I know our days of bantering and struggling to get through to each other are far from over. Sometimes I’ll push him away and need him to pull me back in. Sometimes he’ll try to shut down, and I’ll climb in and hot-wire him if I have to. We’ll fight with each other—I know that, too—but we’ll also fight for each other. That’s the difference, the one that keeps me standing here with his hand in mine.

He adjusts the guitar against his back, and we start down the path back home. Matt pulls his hand away, but only to sling his arm around my shoulder. I wrap one arm around his waist so that we’re moving forward but hanging on at the same time.

“So when were you going to tell me about moving to Nashville?” I glance up at him.

“Oh, that.” He gives me that rascal of a grin, complete with dimples. “I wasn’t going to, not directly. I thought it would be more fun to write it into a song, then perform it in a concert.”

I roll my eyes, tugging my arm away to give his shoulder a push. He pulls me closer, sliding his hand around my neck so that his thumb is right on my pulse. We stand there for a few moments, just looking at each other. My eyes are puffy from nearly crying—I know they are—and my feet are bare and filthy. I’ve been arguing on the side of a dirt road with a petulant singer who’s wearing a guitar on his back. This entire scene is a mess, and maybe we’re a mess, too. But it’s still him and still me, and there’s still that feeling of possibility—the one that sparks like a Roman candle inside me as his lips touch mine. And it’s a start.





Acknowledgments


I’m grateful to my parents every day for giving me a childhood full of books, a college education, and their unwavering support. Please consider this a public apology for ages 14–16 and that one time with the cops and for a few other things you hopefully still don’t know about. Thanks also to my brother and entire family, including the Dudley clan, for being the kind of people I both love and like.

Thank you to my incredible friends; I could never write a cast of characters even half as warm, funny, supportive, and weird as you all, but you sure inspire me to try. To my fellow 2014 debutantes and fabulous kidlit publishing friends: I couldn’t ask for better company on this road.

My bottomless gratitude to Bethany Robison, dear friend and every-step-of-the-way critique partner, whose appearance and continued presence in my life are the reason why the word “godsend” exists.

So many thanks to my wonderful agent, Taylor Martindale, for handling my career with grit and my craziness with grace.

To Mary Kate Castellani, whose considerable skill and instinct shaped this story into a book, and the whole Walker/Bloomsbury team: thank you for your hard work and for being the kind of publishing house that actually feels like a publishing home.

And finally, thanks to J, for the thousands of small moments that make up the biggest love.