Page 19 of Side Trip

But unexpectedly showing up at a bar to watch a new friend perform wasn’t the same as sneaking out of the house and hiding under the scratchy wool blanket on the back seat floorboard of Judy’s car, desperate for a chance to hang out with Kevin. Her sister had driven up the steep, mountain-hugging highway without a clue Joy was hiding in the back. If Joy had only heard the voice mail Taryn left on the answering machine that her parents had canceled their plans to be at the cabin that weekend, Joy never would have sneaked out of the house. If she’d known she’d have to weave through the Dulcotts’ crowded yard unnoticed to use Kevin’s bathroom because she was too embarrassed to pee in Taryn’s yard, she wouldn’t have left her bedroom. She wouldn’t have set foot outside the house if she’d foreseen the events her spontaneous and reckless action had set into motion.

Joy gulped her beer, washing down memories of Judy and that night. They made her miss her sister and the little things she’d do, like decorate Joy’s dinner plate with goldfish crackers. She’d make them look like they swam in a broccoli coral reef. It was the only way Joy would eat her greens. But mostly the memories made Joy loathe herself.

Arcade Fire cut out midsong and polite applause broke around her. Dylan finally made an appearance. He stood in the center of the small stage. She joined in, clapping enthusiastically.

Dylan acknowledged the crowd with a mediocre wave. He still wore the same stonewashed jeans but had changed into a solid black shirt, the sleeves shorter than his previous shirt. Ink peeked out when he moved his arm.

Curious about the tattoo, she leaned forward. What was it? Would he show her the design if she asked? She also wondered about the leather bands on his wrist. Why so many? What was their significance?

Joy tugged her engagement ring on and off, the weight on her finger suddenly heavy. She still wasn’t used to wearing it. She also had a lot of questions about Dylan, too many to pass off her interest in him as solely a stranger she’d given a lift to.

Dylan adjusted the mic height and sat on the stool under a single spotlight. The light was harsh, not at all flattering. It made Dylan’s face look pallid. He picked up the guitar, slung the strap over his head, and plucked the strings while adjusting the tuning keys on the head. Joy thought he would have tuned his guitar by now. But he kept at the task for several minutes. He seemed to be procrastinating.

The sparse audience had grown quiet, watching him. Like Joy, they probably wondered,What is this guy’s deal?Get on with it already.

Dylan stopped the tuning session and silence fell over the bar. Joy’s gaze roamed over Dylan. What was wrong? Her eyes dropped to his right hand, the one pinching the guitar pick. His fingers trembled violently. He adjusted the mic again and looked out into the audience.

No, he looked beyond the audience. And it wasn’t the lighting that made him look sick. He was sick. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and upper lip. Was he nervous? Joy couldn’t imagine him being so. He was Jack Westfield’s son. A hole-in-the-wall gig like this should be a breeze.

Dylan cleared his throat. “Hi ... I’m Dylan Westfield,” he murmured into the mic, “and I’m going to play for you tonight.”

Murmurs rippled through the bar. Joy caught the name Jack Westfield. She picked up “Westfield Brothers.”

Dylan swallowed, then swallowed again. His hand still shook as his gaze drifted without focus over the sparse audience until it landed on her. His eyes widened, then blinked. Joy smiled and waved. Dylan grinned, a beatific curve of lips that made Joy’s heart flutter. Tension melted from his face. His shoulders relaxed and his hand stopped shaking. He started to play, eyes locked on Joy, and after the first few instrumental measures he began to sing, an acoustical cover of “Driving into You,” a Westfield Brothers’ Grammy-winning song anyone who listened to the radio would recognize.

The audience cheered, realization dawning that tonight’s act was a special treat. Murmurs about Dylan’s parentage floated around her. Unlike his dad’s grunge rasp, Dylan’s voice was haunting, with pop roots and a singer-songwriter vibe. Alluring and heartbreakingly smooth. Joy sat glued to her chair as his voice soared. She was transfixed, and she remained that way for an impressive seventy-minute set, when he closed out his performance with the best rendition of “California Girls” she’d ever heard. Slow and seductive, eyes locked on her. Joy was blushing by the time he finished.

Dylan took a bow and left the stage with his guitar, disappearing through the side door where Lea had gone looking for Dylan earlier. Lea passed Joy’s table and eyed her empty glass. She asked if Joy wanted another beer.

It wasn’t even ten thirty, and she wasn’t ready to turn in. She’d already checked in with Mark and called her parents. The rest of the night belonged to her.

“Yes, please. Sierra Nevada.”

“Make that two.”

Joy smiled up at Dylan. She’d hoped he would come say hi before he left.

“May I sit?” he asked when Lea left with their order.

“Please.” Joy moved her purse off the chair beside her.

Dylan dropped into the seat, stretching out his legs. He raked his hair off his forehead and watched her with a hint of a smile. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m staying at the hotel a block up. It was too early to turn in and I wasn’t tired, so I decided to come. Hope that’s okay.”

His smile broadened. “Totally. Why would you ask?”

“You didn’t invite me. I didn’t think you’d want to see me again.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to come. I’m glad you did, though.”

“Me too. This was by far a better side trip than that museum I dragged you to.”

“Tell me about it,” he said on a short laugh.

They shared a smile and Joy felt a connection. She reasoned it was over a mutual dislike of museums with odd curiosities and a love of music. Lea returned with their drinks. Dylan pulled out his wallet and Lea refused payment. “On the house.”

“Thanks.” He slid his wallet back into his pocket and raised his glass. “What should we toast to?”

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