Joy takes a calming breath and peels her clammy hands from the steering wheel, then gathers her phone, keys, and purse. Inside is the Joyride CD, the Polaroid photos of them in Chicago, and Judy’s unfinished Route 66 Bucket List. Do something spontaneous remains unchecked. A burst of hot desert wind cuts across the parking lot as she unfolds from the car and a wave of nostalgia rolls over her. She can see Dylan bent over the hood of his dad’s Pontiac, trying to repair whatever was wrong. She can see him cleaning the trash from the car and gathering his duffel and guitar. She can see him striding across the parking lot to her car with a mischievous yet grateful grin. He wasn’t going to be stuck at a diner in the desert. He didn’t have to deal with his dad’s crappy car because he’d just met Joy. An incredible sense of longing burns in her chest at the memory of him.

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?