Half the contacts in my notebook are because she introduced me to someone. Or she introduced me to the someone who introduced me. She was so much fun until she wasn’t. Until I caught her trying to take my guitar to a pawnshop because we could both use hers. Because she needed the money for a ‘thing’ she couldn’t tell me about yet, and she’d get more cash for mine. The fight we had was brutal, and it got worse from there. I had to leave her. You can’t travel with someone you can’t trust. I did it the best way I could. Told her I was going. Tucked a bus ticket and some twenties in her bag before I drove away, but somehow I was stuck with gasps of guilt that still take over in the quiet.

Women notice more. They pay attention to tiny details, so it’s easier for them to break you apart from the inside. Maybe I should have been willing to share my guitar. Maybe the ‘thing’ was going to be more than a little plastic baggie she’d empty in a day, and I was a horrible person for thinking otherwise. Maybe I’m too chipped and cynical and stale, finding the worst because I’m looking for it.

Now I always ask who else is playing before I book a show to make sure we won’t cross paths. But she never is. Cole told me that the last time she gigged at The Downtown, she looked like “death on a coke bender,” and the songs she played were mostly mine. He said some people live hard and burn out fast and that I should learn not to get too sad about it. I try to not even think her name.

It’s late. I’m tired. Justin’s been sleeping for most of the trip, so when he stirs and gives me a dopey smile, I suggest he take the night shift, even though I feel funny about him driving my car.

“We’ll just stop at a cheap hotel,” he says, yawning loud. “We’re not in a hurry.” He stays awake to watch for lodging signs. The mixtapes start again and I miss the quiet.

Justin has a very different idea of what constitutes a cheap hotel. A good lock on the door and a mattress that doesn’t smell like piss is as fancy as I can justify. And even that feels like a splurge. In my notebook I keep a list of the motels that aren’t so bad and the ones I will never, ever set foot in again. I assumed we’d look for something on my list, but Justin points out a Holiday Inn sign from the highway and says, “There. That’ll work.” Hands his dad’s credit card across the counter without asking what the rate is. Orders burgers for both of us from room service.