Side Trip(32)

BEFORE


Joy

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Joy had woken early with her body still buzzing from last night’s rush. The bridge. Soaring. Falling. Dylan. Talking music. Sharing milkshakes. She practically burst at the seams to go over the day again with Dylan when her phone rang. Mark’s face lit up the screen and her pulse spiked.

“Hey you,” she answered.

“Morning, babe. You didn’t call last night. Everything all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Sorry to worry you.” She flushed, feeling a pang of guilt. She’d texted from the road around midnight that she’d checked in and was too exhausted to talk. Then she’d silenced her phone and crashed in the car while Dylan drove them to Albuquerque. She felt bad about not calling but knew she’d do so first thing in the morning. Only Mark had called her first, catching her off guard.

She took a deep breath and pulled herself together. “The Grand Canyon was exceptionally crowded, but I’m glad I saw it.”

“How was the drive to Albuquerque?”

“Long and dull. There wasn’t much to see.” She plucked at the pearl button on her shirt, nervous he’d pick up on her lie.

“It wouldn’t be dull if I was there. I can fly in tonight.”

“No!” she said sharply and too quickly, sitting upright. “I mean . . . no, that’s not necessary.” She settled back into the chair. “I am having fun, honest. I’m just tired from all the driving.”

Mark’s end of the line was silent, and Joy worried she’d upset him. Movement outside lured her to the window. Hot air balloons drifted along the horizon, colorful orbs in the sky. Her breath caught.

“What’s going on?”

“Hot air balloons. Outside. They’re beautiful.”

“Text me a picture,” he asked.

She did. “Did you ask your mom about the date for bridal shopping?”

“August nineteenth.”

Twelve days from now. “Perfect. I’ll let my mom and Taryn know.”

“They can stay with my parents. Our apartment is a bit tight.”

“Our apartment. I like the sound of that.”

“Do you?” he asked, sounding unconvinced.

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“I do. But sometimes—” He cut out. Muffled voices come over the line. “My eleven o’clock is here. I have to go. Call me tonight.”

“I will,” she agreed, curious what he was about to say. Sometimes, what? Did he think she didn’t want to move in with him since she hadn’t invited him on her road trip?

Mark ended the call abruptly, leaving Joy to stare at a blank screen. He hadn’t given her the chance to tell him she loved him.

She’d upset him and hurt his feelings. She’d also lied. Still, she didn’t regret a moment of yesterday.

Dylan knocked loudly on the door. Joy glanced at the bedside clock. Nine o’clock a.m. If anything, Dylan was prompt. She let him in, and golly gee willikers, Judy would have griped, he was in a foul mood.

Joy got the hint. She didn’t need to be told twice to “go do your thing.” She grabbed her belongings and bailed from the room. Obviously yesterday’s stunt on the bridge wasn’t as monumental to him as it was to her.

What an asshole, Joy thought as she made her way to Old Town. She drifted from one shop to another, looking at crafts and jewelry, but nothing caught her interest. Did she really want to drive across country with Dylan when he was acting like such a jerk?

Ummm . . . no.

That was a no-brainer.

Didn’t he realize that she was doing him a favor? Why should she drive him if he couldn’t be polite, or treat her with respect? Hopefully he’d apologize soon; otherwise she’d drive him no farther than Amarillo, their next stop. She didn’t want to spend time with someone who treated her rudely.

Joy meandered through a store filled with local arts and handcrafted jewelry. She treated herself to a reasonably priced silver and turquoise bangle, something Judy would have passed over. Perfect, though, for Joy. And it felt good to wear it. She loved the shine, and the single stone had a unique design she knew she’d never tire looking at.

After lunch at a patio café, Joy leisurely walked through the plaza before heading back to the hotel. Music and a lone singer’s voice reached her and her ears pricked at the sound. It was Dylan, his voice immediately recognizable to her. He sang an acoustical version of the nineties punk band Face to Face’s “Disconnected.” He’d sung it the other night at the Blue Room, but it sounded different out here in the open. Sad, almost devastatingly so.

She spun around, looking for him.

Where was he? There must be an outdoor restaurant or bar nearby. She quickly crossed the plaza and stopped short across the street from the church.

Dylan stood on the corner with his guitar. A few people loitered around him, but for the most part he appeared disconnected from them or anything around him. Face down, expression tight, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and cap pulled low over his brow, Dylan sang.

Joy glanced around. This couldn’t be his gig. What was he doing?

Performing in public, and absolutely hating it, judging by his demeanor.

Why?

Joy’s heart went out to him. Was this why he’d been in a foul mood earlier? Was there a reason he had to do this? He obviously wasn’t acting like he had a choice about playing his guitar on a corner.