And he never has to look far. He’s enjoyed enormous success with a solo career since Jack’s sudden passing. His contract with Sony expired and Westfield Records snatched him up. Cal’s first record under his and Chase’s label dropped last year and went platinum within eight months. Opportunities of the female sort drop into his lap all the time. Cal’s rough-around-the-edges voice and rugged Westfield looks haven’t slowed him or his career one bit. He just gets better and better looking.

“Think they’ll last?” Dylan asks.

“Chase and Dakota? I do. They’re the real deal.” He leans on an elbow, pivoting his body toward Dylan. “What about you and that girl?”

He frowns. “What girl?” He hasn’t been seeing anyone. Other than a red-carpet affair or record launch celebratory one-nighter, he hasn’t had a real date in an obscene number of moons.

“The one you wrote about on Joyride. She’s real, isn’t she?”

Memories rush through his mind at the mere thought of Joy, leaving him light-headed. He tips back another mouthful. Producing Joyride without reaching out to Joy first, then never following up with her afterward was a mistake. She would have known the songs were about her and their trip. And if she felt about him the way he still does about her, he’d hoped she would seek him out after she heard the album, especially after listening to the title track. But she didn’t. She probably believed he was capitalizing on what had been between them. After all, he’d told her he wasn’t going to sell the song. He didn’t, but she might have interpreted it that way, which was why his guilty conscience finally set him straight. He’d made a deal and he needed to honor it. Don’t search for her. Try not to think about her. Just live his life. And pray to whatever god you believe in that she’ll be there when time’s up.

For the most part, he hasn’t intentionally thought about her in a long while. Oh, she’ll pop into his head every so often, like when he hears a track from Joyride play on Sirius. But he doesn’t deliberately dwell on her and what could have been, not like he used to. And he hasn’t looked her up or stalked her profiles. He deleted his social media accounts and the apps from his phone to eliminate the temptation.

He sets down the glass, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’s real. Chase say something?”