Joy reaches for his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I wish I believed you.” He looks at their hands and waits. She reluctantly lets go. He fists the Knob Creek bottle and leaves the room.

Dejected, she goes to their bedroom. She falls into a fitful sleep but wakes after midnight. Mark snores beside her on the far side of their king bed.

She slips from their bed and pushes her arms into her ratty robe. Barefoot, she softly treads to the front parlor and turns on the floor lamp. Warm, buttery light bathes the room. It stings her eyes, raw from crying, as they adjust. She rubs them and goes to the couch. Trace the Outlines’ CD cover is where Mark had left it.

She opens the case and slides out the booklet. Flipping to the last page, she reads the album’s details and her stomach sours. Every song is written by Dylan Westfield. There are eleven of them. The album is mixed by a Rhea McPherson and mastered by Fred “Grips” Merrick, but Dylan produced it. And the copyright? It’s under exclusive license to Westfield Recording Studio for the United States. A Westfield Records Company.

At least he didn’t sell the songs. He still owns the rights. But still . . .

Joy flips the pages and skims the lyrics. She’s never read them and hasn’t heard the words either. But she knows the story behind them.

Because the song is about her.

Sixty-six is where you’ll find, the girl with her hand wrapped in mine.

Joy sinks onto the couch. She knows she has no right to be, but she feels betrayed. He said he wasn’t going to produce the song. He promised to keep what happened on the road, on the road. Granted, she hasn’t told a soul she met him, and her name isn’t mentioned once in any track. Only she knows, and Dylan; and he’d know that she knows. Yet he hadn’t reached out to forewarn her, which meant he didn’t care, about their trip, her, or what happened between them, and could still happen.

Joy shouldn’t care either. But she does.

She crosses the room to the player and ejects the CD. She inserts the disc in the case, slides the booklet into its slot, and claps the plastic closed. She should throw the disc away, but she can’t bring herself to do it. Too many memories she can’t make herself let go of. Instead, she hides it in Judy’s hatbox, then stores the box in the back of the closet behind her handbags and overnight cases. Hidden from view. She won’t be tempted to listen to it.

First thing tomorrow, she’s canceling her Rolling Stone subscription and tossing her back issues. She’s done with Dylan Westfield, his record label, and anything else with the music industry.