Page 39 of Side Trip

Dylan knocked loudly on the door. Joy glanced at the bedside clock. Nine o’clock a.m. If anything, Dylan was prompt. She let him in, and golly gee willikers, Judy would have griped, he was in a foul mood.

Joy got the hint. She didn’t need to be told twice to “go do your thing.” She grabbed her belongings and bailed from the room. Obviously yesterday’s stunt on the bridge wasn’t as monumental to him as it was to her.

What an asshole,Joy thought as she made her way to Old Town. She drifted from one shop to another, looking at crafts and jewelry, but nothing caught her interest. Did she really want to drive across country with Dylan when he was acting like such a jerk?

Ummm ... no.

That was a no-brainer.

Didn’t he realize that she was doing him a favor? Why should she drive him if he couldn’t be polite, or treat her with respect? Hopefully he’d apologize soon; otherwise she’d drive him no farther than Amarillo, their next stop. She didn’t want to spend time with someone who treated her rudely.

Joy meandered through a store filled with local arts and handcrafted jewelry. She treated herself to a reasonably priced silver and turquoise bangle, something Judy would have passed over. Perfect, though, for Joy. And it felt good to wear it. She loved the shine, and the single stone had a unique design she knew she’d never tire looking at.

After lunch at a patio café, Joy leisurely walked through the plaza before heading back to the hotel. Music and a lone singer’s voice reached her and her ears pricked at the sound. It was Dylan, his voice immediately recognizable to her. He sang an acoustical version of the nineties punk band Face to Face’s “Disconnected.” He’d sung it the other night at the Blue Room, but it sounded different out here in the open. Sad, almost devastatingly so.

She spun around, looking for him.

Where was he? There must be an outdoor restaurant or bar nearby. She quickly crossed the plaza and stopped short across the street from the church.

Dylan stood on the corner with his guitar. A few people loitered around him, but for the most part he appeared disconnected from them or anything around him. Face down, expression tight, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and cap pulled low over his brow, Dylan sang.

Joy glanced around. This couldn’t be his gig. What was he doing?

Performing in public, and absolutely hating it, judging by his demeanor.

Why?

Joy’s heart went out to him. Was this why he’d been in a foul mood earlier? Was there a reason he had to do this? He obviously wasn’t acting like he had a choice about playing his guitar on a corner.

Joy immediately regretted her harsh thoughts about him earlier. Whatever had been eating at him had nothing to do with her. How selfish of her to think so.

She settled onto a park bench with her back to him, hoping he wouldn’t notice her. Her presence would surely embarrass him, and she should leave. But curiosity won over, and the sheer pleasure of hearing him sing kept her rooted to her spot.

For the next hour she listened, until he packed up and gave the homeless man taking a nap on the sidewalk nearby the crumpled bills and coins passersby had tossed in his guitar case. She followed him back to the hotel and watched him place a collect call from the lobby phone.

“It’s done.”

What’s done? His gig? Could what she’d seen be called a gig?

He slammed down the phone and Joy ducked into the ladies’ room before he saw her. She freshened up, confused about what she’d witnessed, then went to meet Dylan. He was waiting for her by the car.

She stuck on a smile. “How was your gig?”

“Fine.” He dumped his gear in the back and sank into the passenger seat.

“Did you have a good turnout?” she asked, starting the car. She cranked the AC. The car was blistering hot and stuffy, and the air stale.

“No.” Dylan flipped back his seat and dropped his cap over his face. “I’m exhausted. Wake me when we get to Amarillo.”

“Seat belt,” she said, unable to prevent the hint of panic that slipped into her tone when he hadn’t automatically clipped in.

Dylan didn’t notice, or chose not to comment. He roughly yanked the belt across his torso and slammed the latch into place. “Happy?”

And relieved. “Yes.”

Dylan might be throwing attitude, but after what she’d seen in the plaza and heard in the lobby, she decided not to call him out on it. She did wish that she knew why he performed on that street, and why that street in particular. Why didn’t he tell her his plans? Was he ashamed? His voice sounded amazing. He played incredibly. It wasn’t as if he needed the money, so why did he do it?

Something more was going on with him, and she suspected that was at the root of his attitude issues.

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