Side Trip(6)

“The McGuire who?” Dylan had never heard of them, and he knew a lot of bands, more than the average music aficionado.

“Sisters. They were big in the fifties. Judy liked them.”

“Your sister?”

Joy nodded, her free hand slowly moving to check her seat belt latch. Dylan wondered if she was aware of what she did. Doubtful. Her attention was on the iPod in her other hand. Her thumb traced a circle on the face of the device. Albums scrolled down the screen. She had a lot of tunes on that thing. Dylan would love to get his hands on her playlists. He could tell a lot about people from the type of music they listened to, and Joy’s interest in some obscure-to-him sister group as old as his grandparents told him quite a bit about her and her relationship with her sister. She idolized Judy.

“Is that why you’re dressed like that? Because Judy did?”

She looked up from the iPod, her mouth slightly parted in surprise. “You’re direct.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. He liked that she called him out.

Joy stopped scrolling. “Here, you might know this one.” She started a track and it took only two notes for Dylan to recognize the tune. He sang along with a verse of “Your Cheating Heart,” surprising himself. He normally didn’t burst into song like that in front of people. But an audience of one inside a car was far less intimidating than a stadium full of raucous fans.

“Wow. You’re good,” she exclaimed with a tentative smile.

“Anyone knows Patsy Cline.”

“No, I meant your voice. You can sing.”

Warmth radiated through his body. Head turned down, he shoveled the hair off his forehead and his lips curved into a closed smile. He liked that she liked his voice. He kind of liked her, as a friend, of course, he thought, eyeing the engagement ring. He’d noticed her the moment his car died during his attempt to park it at Rob’s. Damn thing had to up and choke on him before he could fully pull into the space, leaving the car’s tail sticking out like a big, fat ass.

Dylan had been pissed—at the car, his dad’s attorney, and his dad—then he’d looked up and seen Joy in the window, eating alone, all prim and stuffy with her ponytail and starched outfit that looked like she’d raided the costume room of West Side Story. Who was this woman? What was her story? There had to be a song there, and Dylan wanted to write it. Even if he hadn’t needed to borrow her phone, he would have found a way to meet her. He would have found a way to get to know her.

In the meantime, he had made sure she noticed him.

He might have flexed his deltoids more than necessary while he worked on his car. He might have tugged his jeans a little lower on his hips than was decent. If it hadn’t made his posing more obvious, he would have removed his shirt, because it was hotter than a mother today. But what he had done worked. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. To his amazement, and absolute luck, she’d agreed to give him a ride. Now he had her all to himself for the next five hours, and he intended to use those hours to learn all he could about her. She was his new song, and by the end of the night, he hoped the first verse would be pinging through his brain.

But first he had to have her backstory.

“How did Judy die?” Dylan asked at the same time Joy shifted the car into reverse. She put it back into park.

“Car accident. Eight years ago,” she answered with a slight edge.

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

She watched him for a short bit, her thumbnail flicking against her index fingernail when she eventually sighed. “We were four and a half years apart. She died the summer I turned fourteen. I was thirteen at the time.” Joy squeezed the gearshift.

“What was she like?”

She inhaled sharply. “You’re going to need to find another ride to Flagstaff if you keep asking questions about my sister.”

Dylan didn’t want to do that. He’d lost enough time today.

Joy sat still, waiting for him to figure out what he’d do. Dylan noticed her tight grip on the steering wheel, the firm set of her jaw and rigid posture. Interesting. She dressed like her sister, listened to her sister’s favorite music, and had her sister’s bucket list in her purse. Yet she didn’t want to talk about her.

Maybe she didn’t want to talk about her with him. He wasn’t a friend . . . yet. He’d have to work on that. He held up a finger. “One more question. Do you know how to drive?”

She looked at him from under her mile-long lashes. “Seriously?”

“It’s a valid question. My life is in your hands.”

Her face paled. “I’ve been driving since I was eight.”

His expression turned to one of fascination. “I don’t know if I should be scared, jealous, or impressed.”

“All of the above,” she said soberly. “I spent a lot of time on my grandfather’s farm driving tractors and his old truck. Any other questions?”

Dylan made a show of zipping his lips and tossing the key.

“All right, then.” She exited the parking lot and merged onto the highway, heading east toward Flagstaff.

“Sorry about earlier,” she apologized about a quarter mile up the highway. “It’s just . . .” She shrugged. “I don’t like talking about her.”

“Hey, I get it. We just met. You don’t owe me anything, especially an apology.”