“This your car, lady?” the officer demands.

Joy nods.

“You need to move it. Come on, get a move on.”

Move on.

Dylan’s moving on. She agreed to do the same.

Together their chemistry had been off the charts, something undefinable and more than anything she’s known before. But she can’t delude herself that anything good can come of starting something with a man she met only ten days previous. Dylan is set on living his best life. With plenty to look forward to, she’s determined to do the same. A new home, new city, new job as an entry-level cosmetic lab tech at Vintage Chic. She should be excited about working in a lab on their lipstick line, mixing oils and colorants. It’s an incredible opportunity. Her sister, Judy, would have been ecstatic to work there.

Joy swipes the moisture from under her eyes, and her engagement ring catches the waning New York sunlight. The ring Mark had placed on her finger just two short months ago, the day after she graduated from UCLA. The man faithfully waiting for her at his apartment in Manhattan.

Guilt takes a roll downhill in her stomach.

Joy closes the passenger door and walks around to the driver’s side. She sinks into the seat Dylan recently vacated and shuts the door. She takes a deep breath, and a wave of longing washes over her. Her car smells like him. It feels so empty without him.

She feels empty.

She plucks a soiled tissue from the cup holder and dabs her eyes, willing the tears to dry up. She needs to stop crying and she needs to put him out of her mind.

Leaning across the seat, she grabs her purse from the passenger-side footwell and roots through the bag. Her hand deliberately dives past Judy’s Route 66 Bucket List, the list Joy failed to complete.

That hadn’t been part of the plan, and she feels like she let Judy down. Her sister would have completed the list no matter what. She was efficient like that, with laser-sharp focus. It was one of the many traits Joy had admired in her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

She takes a deep, pained breath and grabs her phone. Two texts had arrived during the time Dylan parked her car curbside and left: one from Taryn, the other from Mark.

She reads Taryn’s text first and feels a hint of relief and a smidge less lonely. They’ve been inseparable since the day Taryn toddled three doors down wearing nothing but a saggy potty-training diaper and the sticky, Kermit-green stain of Popsicle drippings on her bare chest. Her BFF texted that she’s in line for a promotion at the social media agency where she works in LA. With luck, she’ll be able to transfer to New York within a few months.