Dylan had instantly fallen asleep when Joy exited the Hotel Albuquerque parking lot, and fell directly into his past, right onto the middle of the stage during one of the Westfield Brothers’ concerts at Red Rocks. He’d been ten at the time and had written his first song. Jack was impressed and wanted Dylan to perform the song. Jack offered to accompany him. He had visions of a father-son duet, and grander visions of them recording an album.

But Dylan resisted. The stage spooked him. He’d be on display. The center of attention among thousands of screaming, crying, and singing fans. It was too much. He flat-out didn’t want to perform, so he peppered Jack with excuses. The song wasn’t ready. He needed more practice. Jack ignored his pleas, which wasn’t new. He dragged Dylan onstage in front of an amphitheater full of screaming fans. Jack started to play. Dylan froze . . . then he puked on Jack’s brand-new snakeskin boots.

A reporter had photographed the moment, and that was the picture that had landed on the front page of the local paper’s entertainment section: Jack’s horror-stricken face and Dylan’s green one. It was not the picture-perfect father-son duet Jack had dreamed of.

The memory of that day onstage morphed into a nightmare, him shackled to the stage, the audience jeering. Joy’s side trip announcement had ripped him from that nightmare, along with his demons. Rather than subduing them, Dylan had turned them on her.

He dropped his head into his hands. He owed her a massive apology.

Outside the window, he saw Joy get into her car. The brake lights flashed.

Shit.

She was going to ditch him.

Dylan threw down a fifty and ran after Joy. She sat in the car, motor running. He knocked on the window, winded. She eased it down, averting her gaze, but not before he glimpsed the moisture on her face.

He’d made her cry.

“I’m sorry, Joy.” He wanted to punch himself for the way he’d treated her.

She wiped her face, sniffled. “Mark’s a good guy. You’d like him if you got to know him. I love him, and I love the ring he gave me.”

“No, Joy, don’t.” He crouched until they were eye level. “You don’t have to defend him, or the ring. You’re right. I’m a jerk, and I’m sure he’s an awesome guy. He’d have to be if he’s with you. You’re amazing, and maybe I’m a little jealous that he knows you better than me.”

She sniffled again. She didn’t look at him but he saw the corner of her mouth twitch at his compliment.