Side Trip(66)

Joy drove them back to the motel after midnight, and Dylan walked her to her room. He gently touched her cheek. “You haven’t stopped smiling all day. Looks good on you, Joy.”

Her smile broadened. It felt good on her.

They stood there looking at each other. Dylan seemed reluctant to leave, and she didn’t want to turn around and go into her room alone. But Mark’s ring was still on her finger.

“Thank you for today,” she whispered.

His fingers found her cheek, a butterfly caress, then his lips followed. “Good night, Joy.” He turned around and retreated to his room, and all Joy could think was how much she wanted to follow him.



The following morning, bloated clouds drifted overhead like ghosts in a cemetery. Lightning cut across the gray sky, charging the air. Joy’s cross-country trip was more than halfway over. Six days in. Three days to go. One day left on Route 66. She looked at the bucket list in her hand. Two bullets left. Dance in the rain and do something spontaneous.

She thought of everything waiting for her in New York—new job, new home . . . Mark—and wished Judy had more items to fulfill on this list. She could extend her trip. Delay her arrival. Live in this bubble a little longer.

Or maybe, she could do something spontaneous and call her parents. Confess the truth about Judy. Get it out in the open once and for all. Risk their judgment and rejection and whatever consequences they tossed her way.

But confessing wouldn’t bring back her sister. Her lists, at least, kept her memory alive and Joy’s guilt under control.

Movement outside caught Joy’s attention. She glanced out the window. Dylan strode across the parking lot to her car. Time to jet. She stuffed the list into her purse and went to meet him.

Dylan dropped his guitar and duffel in the back seat and offered to drive. Joy dropped the keys in his hand. Fine with her. She wasn’t particularly fond of driving.

He started the engine but didn’t go anywhere. He stared out the front windshield. Joy studied him, trying to gauge his mood. He seemed troubled.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He paused. “I forgot to call Rick last night.”

Joy made a noise of commiseration. She knew this could be problematic for him. Dylan called his attorney before and after each gig from what she’d noticed. He had his reasons, which he didn’t share with her when she’d asked a few days ago. But Rick’s profession gave Joy the impression that Dylan was under some sort of contractual obligation to keep in touch.

In his defense, it completely slipped her mind that he hadn’t asked to borrow her phone. They were having too much fun.

“What’s going to happen since you didn’t?” she asked.

He frowned. “Don’t know. Well, I do, I just hope he doesn’t follow through with it. Fuck.” He smacked his palm on the steering wheel.

Joy hadn’t seen him apprehensive like this about anything before. Whatever was between him and Rick had him worried. She showed him her phone. “Can you call him now?”

“Yeah.” Dylan tapped in Rick’s number and waited. He swore and gave back her phone.

“He didn’t answer?” Joy asked. He shook his head. “We’ll try later.” She slipped her phone into her purse.

Dylan clipped his seat belt and revved the gas. A nervous flutter pulsed in Joy’s throat. She buckled up and gave her belt a habitual two tugs, which caught Dylan’s attention.

Dylan sighed heavily. He rubbed his palm along his jaw. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” She was still worried about whatever it meant for him that he hadn’t called Rick.

“I am.” He gestured at her iPod propped in the cup holder. “Passenger picks the tunes.”

She wasn’t in the mood to listen to fifties music. She also didn’t want to decide what to play. But she could take his mind off Rick.

Bypassing the iPod, she turned on satellite radio and hooked a finger on the tuner dial. “Whichever channel we land on we stick with for the next hour. Agree?”

Dylan grimaced and Joy almost laughed. They could get stuck listening to the Wiggles on Radio Disney or whiny ballads on Sirius XM Love. He nodded. “Go for it.”

“You’re a good sport.” She grinned, feeling her mood lift. “Here goes nothing.”

Joy counted down—“Three . . . two . . . one”—and Dylan lifted his chin, scratching his neck. He kept his gaze locked on the dash screen. She yanked her finger down, and like the Wheel of Fortune, the dial spun and landed on ’70s on 7.

“Yes!” they shouted in unison. Joy thrust her hands up to the canvas top, then clapped. Dylan held up his fist and she gave him a bump, grinning broadly. Dylan loved that decade. He wouldn’t be able to resist singing along. She was a lucky gal. The ride into Chicago just got a whole lot livelier.

Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” kicked in and Dylan slowly grinned, shaking a finger at her. “You rigged the tuner dial.”

“You wish. Luck of the draw, friend. That’s karma.” She gestured at the dash screen.

“Whatever,” he said, but he was still smiling. Happy Dylan was more fun than Mr. Dark and Moody. “The day just got brighter, wouldn’t you say?”

“Brilliant like the risin’ sun.”