Page 7 of Side Trip

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

She watched him for a short bit, her thumbnail flicking against her index fingernail when she eventually sighed. “We were four and a half years apart. She died the summer I turned fourteen. I was thirteen at the time.” Joy squeezed the gearshift.

“What was she like?”

She inhaled sharply. “You’re going to need to find another ride to Flagstaff if you keep asking questions about my sister.”

Dylan didn’t want to do that. He’d lost enough time today.

Joy sat still, waiting for him to figure out what he’d do. Dylan noticed her tight grip on the steering wheel, the firm set of her jaw and rigid posture. Interesting. She dressed like her sister, listened to her sister’s favorite music, and had her sister’s bucket list in her purse. Yet she didn’t want to talk about her.

Maybe she didn’t want to talk about her with him. He wasn’t a friend ...yet. He’d have to work on that. He held up a finger. “One more question. Do you know how to drive?”

She looked at him from under her mile-long lashes. “Seriously?”

“It’s a valid question. My life is in your hands.”

Her face paled. “I’ve been driving since I was eight.”

His expression turned to one of fascination. “I don’t know if I should be scared, jealous, or impressed.”

“All of the above,” she said soberly. “I spent a lot of time on my grandfather’s farm driving tractors and his old truck. Any other questions?”

Dylan made a show of zipping his lips and tossing the key.

“All right, then.” She exited the parking lot and merged onto the highway, heading east toward Flagstaff.

“Sorry about earlier,” she apologized about a quarter mile up the highway. “It’s just ...” She shrugged. “I don’t like talking about her.”

“Hey, I get it. We just met. You don’t owe me anything, especially an apology.”

“Thanks for understanding.”

He understood more than she realized. Dylan worked in an industry where a minute piece of personal information could explode into a gossip magazine maelstrom. He was picky about what he shared of himself and with whom. Which was why he’d try his best not to pry further, no matter how enticing it was to write a song about her.

Dylan held his hands up to the dash vents to cool off. Joy had the AC cranked and convertible top up. It seemed sacrilege to drive Route 66 without the top down, but he wasn’t going to complain. He was hot and in desperate need of a shower. He hoped the bar where he was playing tonight had a place where he could wash up.

“Are you a professional musician?” Joy asked.

“More of a songwriter, but yeah, in a way, I guess. How can you tell?”

“Aside from the guitar in the back seat? You mentioned you were gigging tonight and your vocals are off the hook.”

“Thanks.” A little smile touched his mouth. He could listen to her compliment him all day. In fact, he wouldn’t mind just listening to her. He’d bet a pack of Screamer blue guitar picks she had a mean set of pipes.

“What about you? Do you sing?”

She raised a hand. “Humble brag here. You’re looking at the number-one shower-singing superstar on the west coast.”

He laughed loudly, his head falling back. “Play any instruments?”

“No. But I’ve been obsessed with music for as long as I can remember. My favorite toy was a plastic boom box.”

“I had a plastic horn. It sounded like a dying moose. I took it everywhere with me. What did you do when you weren’t rocking out to the Wiggles?”

“I competitive surfed.”

His mouth fell open. “No way. I didn’t expect that. Though now that you mention it,” he said, assessing her, “I can see it.”

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