Side Trip(78)

“What if I told you I changed my mind?”

She looked at him quickly, startled. She then rolled her eyes. “You’ve felt that way for years. We’ve only known each other for a week. You expect me to believe that?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“I don’t know, have you?”

“You tell me.” He held her gaze.

She visibly swallowed and relaxed her grip on the steering wheel. “No.”

“Have you ever lied to me?”

She paused. “No.”

He waited a second. “Until now.”

She straightened her back and watched the road. “Mark and I are engaged again.”

“You were never unengaged.” His eyes dropped to the rock she’d never removed. He’d sworn off taking their friendship further unless Mark was out of the picture. But then she’d cannonballed like a kid into the pool, danced with him in the rain, and walked out of the bathroom dripping wet from the storm in nothing but a towel, looking like a gorgeous nymph, and he’d lost his will. He hadn’t given two shits he’d likely end up hurting her, or getting hurt himself. His road trip one-nighter. He had just wanted to be with her.

“The point I’m trying to make is this”—Joy pointed at her damp face and swollen eyes—“has nothing to do with Mark.”

“Then help me out. What’s going on with you?” He took in her stiff posture and getup. The clothes, the hair, her withdrawal from him. He recalled the bucket list clenched in her hand when she’d come out of the bathroom and sighed. He glanced up at the canvas top and briefly closed his eyes in understanding. “This is about Judy.”

“No.” She shook her head hard, then sagged in her seat like a wilted flower. “Yes. Judy never would have cheated on Todd.”

“Who’s Todd? Judy’s boyfriend?” he asked, recalling one of their previous conversations. What did he have to do with Joy?

Joy didn’t answer him. A tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another.

“I really like you, Joy, and yesterday and last night, shit. I’d perform live at Madison Square Garden if it meant another night with you.” He angled his body toward her. “I got the impression you felt the same. Then Mark calls and you disappear into the bathroom without so much as a ‘good morning’ and come out dressed like your sister, acting like your sister—”

“How the hell would you know how she acted?” Joy snapped. “You never met her.”

“But I’ve caught glimpses of Joy. And she’s nothing like Judy. Joy’s incredible, if you ask me, not at all like this stuffy, old-fashioned woman you try to portray. Why are you dressing like her? What’s the real reason you’re on this trip?”

Joy started shaking. Her tears grew heavier. He touched her shoulder and she shirked away.

“I can tell you feel guilty about something.” He’d seen flashes of remorse whenever she saw or did something she knew Judy would enjoy. “What happened to Judy? How did she die? What are you hiding?”

She inhaled loudly. She was sobbing now and he wished to hell they were still in the hotel room. He wanted to hold her and let her drain her pain and troubles on him.

“God, Joy, whatever’s weighing you down, let it out. Holding on to it serves no purpose but making you miserable.” He recalled what she’d told him before they jumped off the bridge: Judy made me swear never to tell anyone what happened. “If it helps any, tell me. Trust me to keep your secret.”

“No.” Joy slammed the brakes, swerving onto the grassy shoulder. “Get out.”

He stared at her in shock. “What?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

“Joy—”

“Please. Just leave,” she whispered through tears.

Dylan’s pulse raced. He didn’t want to leave her alone like this, but he opened the door. He started to get out only to change his mind. How did he expect her to trust him with her secrets when he hadn’t shared his? He turned back to Joy.

“Do you know why I’m on this trip? I didn’t have a choice.”

“You said that yesterday,” she clipped.

“My inheritance is conditional. Jack was so dead set on me becoming a recording artist and going on tour that he wrote this trip into his will. I won’t inherit a dime until I perform in every shithole he played at when he traveled from Chicago to LA to meet up with my uncle. Jack had just turned twenty-one and barely had a dollar to his name because my grandfather pissed away the family’s cash gambling. He played for gas money to get to LA, but unlike me, he loved performing. He thrived onstage, and he never gave up hope that one day I’d come to love it, too. Apparently he and my uncle Cal hatched a plan that if one of them kicked the bucket, I would fill in so that the Westfield Brothers could keep making records.”

“That’s why you call Rick,” Joy said.

“I have to check in with Rick before I go onstage and when I get off, yes. He wants me to confirm that I did it. He also calls the bar manager to verify. It’s embarrassing as shit.”

“But you forgot to call him the other night. What’s going to happen?” Worry threaded her voice.

“I don’t know. I suspect a lot of groveling might be involved.”