Side Trip(91)

She shuts the door and locks and arms the car. Another wave of heat blows through, flipping tumbleweeds in the dirt field across the National Trails Highway. Route 66. Her light-blue maxi skirt flaps around her ankles like a flag. Her sun-bleached hair falls in disarray around her face. She makes her way to the diner and waits to be seated until a family of three vacates her table by the window. She orders the same meal: cheeseburger, fries, and a Cherry Coke. And then she waits again, this time for Dylan.

Her gaze remains fixed on the world outside the diner’s window. She watches the occasional car pass on Route 66 and the steady flow of traffic on Interstate 40 visible in the distance. Cars enter and exit the parking lot. Roadtrippers eat their meals, then leave. An hour passes, then two. Joy finishes her lunch and orders dessert, a plated slice of peach pie that sits untouched beside her third refill of Cherry Coke. She’s gone to the restroom twice, only to hurry back out of fear she missed him.

Three hours pass, well past the time Dylan had sat at her table and borrowed her phone, and Joy has no choice but to accept the truth. His life has gone as planned. He isn’t going to show.

She dips her chin, dabs at the moisture collecting in her eyes with the paper napkin on her lap, then looks back out the window. After studying his emotionally charged lyrics to Joyride more times than she cares to count the last few years, she convinced herself this meetup would be inevitable.

She should request her check. She should pay for her meal and leave. But she can’t make herself get up from the table. She can’t peel her eyes from the window. Where is he? Why hasn’t he shown?

She stares harder at the highway, willing him to drive into the parking lot, to pull into the same space he had before. She imagines him getting out of the car and turning to the window to see if she’s there. She is. She waves. He smiles, his gorgeous, heart-stopping smile.

“Anything else I can get you, miss?”

The waitress’s question rips Joy from her reverie. She blinks up at the woman.

“Everything all right, honey?” the waitress asks.

“Yes,” she whispers, acknowledging that she’s waited long enough. Time to get up and go home. She needs to move on.

“May I have the check, please?”

“Sure thing.” The waitress tears the top sheet off her pad and slaps it on the table.

Joy collects her purse, leaving cash behind, and rises to leave. A burst of sunlight reflected on glass catches her eye. She looks out the window and slowly settles back into the booth. A silver Maserati turns into the lot and pulls into the empty space beside Joy’s Mini Cooper. Brake lights flash, then a man unfolds from the car. His gaze swings left to the highway behind him, then right to the diner before he makes his way across the parking lot. He looks like a movie star with his reflective shades and tousled hair. He walks like a rock star and is dressed like he can drop a black card on the counter and buy the diner in one transaction.

He’s here. He came.

A roller coaster of emotions slices through her. Relief, wonder, happiness. A bright, wide grin splits her face. All her regrets that she hadn’t risked a chance with him a decade ago recede. He enters the restaurant and she can’t stop smiling. She rises, ready to run to him, but he removes his shades and looks her way. She freezes, everything hot and electric inside her chilling.

She slowly eases back onto the vinyl bench and stares. There’s something about him that isn’t right. His hair is lighter and jaw squarer than she recalls. He’s carrying the blue spiral-bound notebook adorned with Route 66 stickers. That, she remembers. He wrote Joyride’s original lyrics in that notebook. But something flashes on his hand, startling her. A wedding band. He’s married?

His gaze hooks onto Joy’s and holds for a few beats. A decision crosses his face and he approaches her table. A frown mars his brow. His hand lifts and swoops through his hair, and Joy softly gasps. The gesture is so familiar, so Dylan. But this man isn’t Dylan.

He stops beside her table. “Are you Joy?”

Her throat goes dry. Perspiration dampens her pits and the underside of her breasts. “Yes,” she says.

His expression turns incredulous, as if he can’t believe she’s here, waiting.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Chase Westfield, Dylan’s cousin. May I sit down?”

Joy gestures at the empty vinyl bench and he slides in across from her. He puts the notebook on the table and leans back in his seat. His eyes travel over her, dart to the waitress passing their booth, then swing back to her.

“You look like your photo,” he says.

“What photo?” She thinks of the Polaroids. Was there another? Her cheeks blush. They were in bed together in those pictures.

“The one you took with Dylan at the Grand Canyon. I always caught him looking at it.”

She frowns, trying to recall the photo. Then she remembers. She uploaded the photo to her cloud account in a password-protected file. She hasn’t looked at the image in years. How did Dylan get that photo? The sneak must have texted it to his mobile number when she wasn’t looking.

“He never stopped thinking about you. He was so in love with you.”

She rubs her thighs, apprehensive. She doesn’t like how he’s talking about Dylan in the past tense. “Where is he?”

“He intended to meet you here today. But then he decided that he wasn’t going to wait. He—”