Joy glanced at the empty chair beside her, not wanting to break eye contact with Dylan for too long. “Is this seat taken?” she asked the people at the table.

“I got a seat for you right here.” A man with a gray beanie cap, muscle shirt, and beard that reached his bloated navel patted his lap. The other men at the table snickered. The woman beside him punched his tattooed shoulder. “Behave, Al.”

“I’m with Rex,” Joy blurted.

Al kicked the empty chair in her direction. “Have a seat, pretty lady.”

The woman laughed. “Rex scares the crap out of everyone in the room. If he’s got your back, we got yours, too. I’m Lola.”

“Joy.” She shook Lola’s hand.

“That your man?” Her gaze darted from Joy’s ring to Dylan.

“He’s a friend,” Joy corrected.

“That all? Too bad. He’s good.”

“He is,” Joy agreed, but her tone belied the feelings sneaking up on her. Something more was evolving from their friendship. What exactly, she couldn’t define and knew that she shouldn’t explore. But she secretly wanted to. This thing was new and exciting, and it beckoned.

“With his face and that voice, he’s going places.”

Joy answered with a small nod. He was—they both were, in opposite directions. But it was hard to be melancholy about a friendship with an expiration date when Dylan was singing the way he was. His vocals took her over. She forgot that she was fatigued from driving, or that Mark believed she was asleep in her motel room. She simply enjoyed the pleasure of watching his performance and letting his music course through her.

A waitress brought her a beer. “From Rex,” she said, moving on to the next table. Joy glanced over her shoulder and lifted the glass in gratitude. Rex nudged his chin in greeting and winked.

Dylan finished the song and launched into another, Darius Rucker’s “Alright.” Slowly, as he played on, his focus widened from solely her to include the audience. He kept his selections loud and upbeat, and with each new tune he grew more comfortable in the spotlight. It didn’t hurt that the audience was really into his music. They clapped and sang along. When he finished two hours later, he bowed dramatically with a big shit-eating grin, and the audience gave him a standing O. Joy swore she clapped the loudest.

Dylan bounded off the stage and left through the postered door. Lola elbowed her. “Go get your man.”

Joy didn’t correct her about Dylan. He wasn’t her man. But she didn’t object to her suggestion. She hugged Lola, said goodbye to Al, waved to Rex, and ran after Dylan. She found him in the rear parking lot, guzzling a water and cooling off.