Side Trip(57)
She looked down at the engagement ring that still felt foreign. “I have a lot to think about.”
“I know, but not tonight. It’s late, and there’s plenty of time to figure things out tomorrow.” Dylan tugged her blanket up to her chin. “This trip might not be what you expected, but I’m glad we met.”
“Me too,” Joy agreed. She wasn’t sure what tomorrow held for her and Mark, but there was one thing she was sure about: she was falling hard for Dylan.
Dylan reached across the seat and, this time, touched her hair. She sighed. It felt good, his hand on her. His fingers brushed gently across her cheek and her eyes closed. Then his hand sought hers and his thumb absently caressed the skin between her thumb and index finger.
“Good night, Joy,” he whispered, still holding her hand. He then hummed the tune he’d played on the guitar and the notes seared their mark on her heart. She’d never forget that song, she thought, surrendering to sleep. She’d never forget Dylan either.
CHAPTER 20
AFTER
Joy
Settling onto the couch in the front parlor of their Chelsea neighborhood town house in Manhattan, Joy rips out a page from the monthly singles review in the most recent Rolling Stone. The magazine has been a guilty pleasure since Judy gifted a subscription on her twelfth birthday. It’s the one thing she kept when she gave up everything else: skateboarding, surfing, and the belief that her likes, such as lazy summer afternoons chilling with the guy she’d been crushing on and soaking up the sun with friends, didn’t matter. Not yet.
Instead, she worked summers because that’s what Judy would have done. She also put aside her own aspiration of launching a line of natural beauty products. She once dreamed pop stars and indie artists would endorse her lotions and balms. But Judy wanted to create her own line of vintage-hued lipsticks, and if all goes well, Judy’s Lip Rouge will launch in a few months. Joy and her small team of chemists have been working hard at perfecting the colors. She even got marketing’s buy-in on the product’s name and packaging. Judy’s Lip Rouge will come in brass tubes etched with Vintage Chic’s scrolled logo.
Mark’s proud of her achievement. Her parents are pleased with her recent series of promotions.
Too bad she hates her career.
Joy folds the torn page in quarters and tucks it into the pocket of her ratty pink terrycloth robe. She’ll sneak it into Judy’s hatbox later, where she’s stashed other articles and magazine clippings, along with the Polaroids of her and Dylan.
The song spotlight that caught her attention on the page she just tore out is the single of the month released by Catharsis. She’s heard the rock band’s music. It’s good, and their most recent released single is on their fourth album, which dropped several months back.
But it wasn’t the song or the band that was of interest to her. It was the mention of the album’s producer. Dylan Westfield.
His name leapt off the page and her heart slammed against the backside of her sternum. Bam, bam. That happened every time she came across any mention of Dylan and his label, Westfield Records. Every. Single. Time. And it always took her a moment to regulate her heart rate, or to cool the blush heating her skin as it crept up her neck. Sometimes she broke out in a sweat. Would Mark notice her reaction and remark on it? She can’t risk that, so she makes sure that she doesn’t read the magazine, or watch the Grammys, or listen to any of the label’s artists when Mark is nearby.
Joy closes the magazine and drops it on the coffee table, thinking of Dylan.
He’s doing exactly what he told her he wanted to do. He’s living his best life. Good for him.
She’s doing exactly what she told him she planned to do. Too bad she didn’t realize then it would be hard to put what she wanted on hold. Too bad she didn’t foresee how unhappy she’d be.
Does Dylan think about their time together as often as she does? Does he think about her as often as she thinks of him? He promised that he wouldn’t. It’s why she didn’t want him to know her last name. He wouldn’t think of her or seek her out. She wishes that she could do the same, the not thinking part, that is.
She does wonder if he’s ever tried looking her up. He’s not on social media, but that hasn’t stopped her from posting photos on her Facebook profile with the privacy settings set to public. Just in case he’s curious about what she’s been up to. She’s tried to stop, but she can’t let go of him and those ten days.
Joy looks out the front window of the townhome she and Mark have lived in since they married. Mark’s parents bought the place several decades ago and leased it to them. A wedding present, even though it’s their names on the deed. It’s a beautiful home, with its loftlike openness and perfectly scaled bedrooms. Four bedrooms, to be precise. Three of them waiting to be filled.
A perfectly sized home in a perfect neighborhood that’s perfect for families.
No pressure to have one. None at all.
Joy sighs.
She does love the home and the street they live on. One day, she’ll join the moms’ club and walk her child to school just like the other moms that she watches through the window do. But that won’t be today, or any day soon.
Outside, the sky is a baby blanket blue, the air muggy and temperature hot. Inside, Joy sits on the couch in their front parlor with the AC blasting. Out of habit, her hand finds its way to her lower abdomen. Her empty lower abdomen.