Side Trip(39)

“Don’t stop throwing shade now, Dylan,” Joy snapped when Bonnie left. “You’re on a roll.” She angrily bit into a fry.

Dylan should stop. But he was feeling low and he wanted everyone around him to hang out in his cesspool. Misery loved company.

He set down his empty mug and caught the flash of her ring when she tore into her burger. “Do you like your ring?”

She tilted her hand to look at the sparkler. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s a bit . . . much, don’t you think?” He’d almost said gaudy.

Her expression darkened. The cheery light in her demeanor extinguished. She dropped her burger on her plate. “No, I don’t.”

“It isn’t you, Joy. It’s flashy and you’re not. Sorry, but I get the impression Mark doesn’t get you the way he should.”

“And you do?” she bristled.

“I’m an excellent judge of character,” he boasted.

“You judged incorrectly. You don’t know a thing about him. You don’t know me.” She stabbed her chest with her fingertips. Her eyes burned with fire.

“Because you haven’t told me anything.”

“You haven’t asked. Nicely. We’re done here.” She tossed down her napkin and flagged Bitchy Bonnie. “Check, please.”

“Would you like me to box this?” Bonnie asked of Joy’s half-eaten burger.

“No, thanks. I lost my appetite,” she said, glaring at Dylan.

Bonnie returned with the check, slapping the slip of paper on the table by Dylan’s elbow.

“Dinner’s on you, since you’re being a total jerk-off. I’m FOH.” Joy stood abruptly and left the building, getting the eff outta here as she’d announced.

Dylan stared at the empty chair across from him, then into his empty mug. He felt empty inside, and not from lack of sustenance.

That morning’s gig had put him in a foul mood, and knowing another gig sat on the evening horizon made him plain mean. It wasn’t Joy’s fault that he had to perform, yet he’d taken it out on her.

If Jack was still alive, Dylan would kill him. Because that’s what Dylan felt was happening to him, traveling from one gig to the next, being forced to perform onstage and sing in front of people he didn’t know. He was slowly dying inside. Joy had been the one bright spot on his trip that he’d discovered quite by accident and he’d just snuffed that light.

Dylan had instantly fallen asleep when Joy exited the Hotel Albuquerque parking lot, and fell directly into his past, right onto the middle of the stage during one of the Westfield Brothers’ concerts at Red Rocks. He’d been ten at the time and had written his first song. Jack was impressed and wanted Dylan to perform the song. Jack offered to accompany him. He had visions of a father-son duet, and grander visions of them recording an album.

But Dylan resisted. The stage spooked him. He’d be on display. The center of attention among thousands of screaming, crying, and singing fans. It was too much. He flat-out didn’t want to perform, so he peppered Jack with excuses. The song wasn’t ready. He needed more practice. Jack ignored his pleas, which wasn’t new. He dragged Dylan onstage in front of an amphitheater full of screaming fans. Jack started to play. Dylan froze . . . then he puked on Jack’s brand-new snakeskin boots.

A reporter had photographed the moment, and that was the picture that had landed on the front page of the local paper’s entertainment section: Jack’s horror-stricken face and Dylan’s green one. It was not the picture-perfect father-son duet Jack had dreamed of.

The memory of that day onstage morphed into a nightmare, him shackled to the stage, the audience jeering. Joy’s side trip announcement had ripped him from that nightmare, along with his demons. Rather than subduing them, Dylan had turned them on her.

He dropped his head into his hands. He owed her a massive apology.

Outside the window, he saw Joy get into her car. The brake lights flashed.

Shit.

She was going to ditch him.

Dylan threw down a fifty and ran after Joy. She sat in the car, motor running. He knocked on the window, winded. She eased it down, averting her gaze, but not before he glimpsed the moisture on her face.

He’d made her cry.

“I’m sorry, Joy.” He wanted to punch himself for the way he’d treated her.

She wiped her face, sniffled. “Mark’s a good guy. You’d like him if you got to know him. I love him, and I love the ring he gave me.”

“No, Joy, don’t.” He crouched until they were eye level. “You don’t have to defend him, or the ring. You’re right. I’m a jerk, and I’m sure he’s an awesome guy. He’d have to be if he’s with you. You’re amazing, and maybe I’m a little jealous that he knows you better than me.”

She sniffled again. She didn’t look at him but he saw the corner of her mouth twitch at his compliment.

He covered her hand where she tightly gripped the steering wheel. “Look at me. Please, Joy,” he begged when she didn’t at first. She turned her face to him and he grazed a thumb across her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’d understand if you didn’t want me to ride along with you anymore, but I’d like to, if you’ll let me. Am I still welcome?”

Joy chewed her lower lip. She unlocked the doors.