“Engaged, remember?” She flashed him that damn ring again.

“Well . . . it was worth a try. Hmm . . . you can buy me a pack of Twizzlers.”

“Twizzlers? What are you, twelve?”

“Twenty-five, and I love them. You ready to play?” He waved the iPod.

“Game on.”

She crushed him. Okay, it wasn’t a complete wipeout, but she did make him sweat. It had been an even match until she pulled up some obscure U2 B-side track he’d have heard only if he were a member of their fan club. Her fiancé was a member and Joy had downloaded the tune from his account. Dylan didn’t do fan clubs.

After a random side trip to a gas station museum in Williams that took longer than he’d have liked, they rolled into Flagstaff around sunset. Dylan owned up on his bet and filled her tank on his dime. She still bought him a pack of Twizzlers. It was close to 8:00 p.m. when she pulled to a stop in front of the Blue Room. A neon martini glass flashed above the beat-up door. Faded posters of long-ago musical acts filled the bottom half of the single square window.

“Nice joint,” Joy declared.

“Is that sarcasm I detect?”

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay here?”

“I play at joints like this all the time.” Lie. But he did like that she cared. “I’ll be fine, doll,” he drawled, dropping his best, and first ever, James Dean impression.

“Oh, my stars.” She humored him, fawning over his words.

He got out of the car, glanced up at the bar sign with a grunt of irritation, and grabbed his stuff from the back. He closed the door and leaned in the window, feeling reluctant. Reluctant to leave her or reluctant to play? Probably a little of both.

“You know . . . I think I’m going to miss you, friend,” he admitted, wondering what lyrics he could string together off what little he knew of her.

She smiled, and he liked to think that the gleam in her eyes meant that she’d miss him as well. “If anything, friend, driving with you wasn’t dull. Where are you going once you get to New York—flying home?”

“Are you going to ask me out?” he teased.

Her face heated. “No! I—I don’t know . . . Umm . . . Curious?” She stumbled a recovery.

“London. Meeting up with my cousin, then home.” He smiled easily. “Take care of yourself. And make sure you do something for you on this trip.” He’d hate to think it was all about Judy and her bucket list.

“Goodbye, Dylan.”

“Bye, Joy.” He did an imaginary tip-of-the-hat salute, shouldered his duffel, and picked up his guitar. He then flung a string of curses to the heavens and went into the bar.

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4

AFTER

Dylan