Side Trip(62)

Hey Joy. I’m in New York. Let’s meet up.

Hi Joy. I’ve been living in New York. Want to grab coffee and catch up?

Hey, you’ll never believe this. I wrote a song about you, hired another guy to sing it, and it won a fucking Grammy.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Dylan shoves away his laptop and leans back in his chair. But his index finger finds its way back to the keyboard and absently taps the J key. He’s a wordsmith. He writes Grammy-winning lyrics. He should be able to come up with something that doesn’t make him sound like a total jackass.

He needs to keep it real.

Hello, Joy. It’s Dylan.

I know what we promised at the airport, but I just can’t anymore. I can’t live another day missing you. I can’t go another day without seeing you. I can’t spend another day without telling you what I should have told you on that last day.

I love you.

I love the way you smile. I love the way your eyes sparkle when you look at me. I love the way the sun brightens your hair.

I love your deep belly laugh, which always made me laugh.

I love your vast knowledge of music and that you could bury me in a killer game of “name that song title.”

I love that I could talk to you about anything.

I just fucking love you.

I’m in New York. I’ve been living here for a while, and I’ve been wondering . . .

Can we forget what we promised? Can we forget the deals we made?

How about a game of Truth or Dare instead?

I pick dare.

If you’re happy and are living your best life, ignore this message. Forget I ever contacted you. But if not, I dare you to meet me at the fountain in Washington Square Park. This Friday, 10:00 p.m.

His finger hovers over the “Send” button. Just click it. She won’t reject him. He won’t screw them up. But he hesitates.

What if Mark reads the message? What ball will that set into motion?

Dylan could be that guy who ruins her marriage. Or, at the very least, his message could prompt Mark to question Joy’s loyalty. To cause a heated argument. To create a rift in the Pinterest-perfect marriage Joy likes to share on her Facebook profile.

He won’t be that guy.

Besides, if Joy felt anything close to what he does for her, she would have contacted him by now. Given how much Joy loves music, she’s heard Joyride. How could she not? The track received ample airplay. If he knows her well, and he did at one time, she would have purchased the album and seen his name in the credits.

If anything, Joyride is an open invitation for her to seek him out. Admittedly, he hoped she’d take it as an invite. He poured his heart and soul into those songs. He shared with the universe everything he feels for the woman Trace sings about. Joy would have known that it’s her. And she’s been radio-silent.

His phone pings with a message from Rhea.

You free tonight?

Reality drops like a hit on the Billboard charts. Joy’s happily married and has moved on from him, just as he asked her to.

He slams closed his laptop and texts Rhea back.

Meeting Chase and Dakota at Mr. Purple. Pick you up in 30?

Her reply is immediate.

Perfect. I’ll be ready.





CHAPTER 22





BEFORE


Dylan

Stroud, Oklahoma

Dylan sat across from Joy at the Rock Café. She nursed a tea and he poured coffee down his throat, reflecting on last night. Sleeping under the stars had been a great idea, in theory. Next time, not that he expected a next time, he’d pick a campground rather than an open field. The seats had been uncomfortable and the bugs huge and annoying. Around 4:00 a.m., Dylan grunted, “Fuck this,” and put up the top.

“Thank God,” Joy had said, then fallen back to sleep.

Lucky her. He’d hardly slept a wink. He kept drifting in and out, his mind taking him back to their conversation each time he surfaced and waved off a bug buzzing near his ear. This trip wasn’t what he’d expected either. He never imagined that he’d enjoy performing, even look forward to his gigs. And the crazier than shit thing about that? If his dad hadn’t sent him on this trip, Dylan never would have learned that the key to managing his stage anxiety was to focus on his performance, like be fucking present in the moment and not stuck in his head obsessing about how he’d be received. Oh, and to home in on a focal point like a pitcher eagle-eyeing a catcher’s mitt.

Thanks to Jack, the damn bastard, Dylan had found the most gorgeous focal point on Route 66.

Exhausted, he downed the dregs of his coffee. His back ached and his legs were stiff. He felt sticky from the bug spray and smelled. His face itched. Damn facial growth. He needed to shave. The air had been thick with humidity and he’d sweat most of the night. He’d also been all too aware of Joy sleeping beside him. He could hear her breaths and sweet sighs of sleep.

Now, she sat across the table from him, brooding. She’d called Mark as soon as they’d pulled into the café’s parking lot and it hadn’t gone well. Lots of apologizing on her part for not responding to his texts or returning his calls. Lots of complaining from his end. Dylan could hear Mark through the phone before he politely exited the car to give her some privacy.

“Fun fact,” Dylan said, trying for levity. Her mood was heavier than the air outside. “John Lasseter visited this restaurant, and rumor has it, after meeting the owner, he created Sally Carrera, that character in the movie Cars. Do you think Sally is modeled after the owner?”