Page 70 of Side Trip

Mark’s proud of her achievement. Her parents are pleased with her recent series of promotions.

Too bad she hates her career.

Joy folds the torn page in quarters and tucks it into the pocket of her ratty pink terrycloth robe. She’ll sneak it into Judy’s hatbox later, where she’s stashed other articles and magazine clippings, along with the Polaroids of her and Dylan.

The song spotlight that caught her attention on the page she just tore out is the single of the month released by Catharsis. She’s heard the rock band’s music. It’s good, and their most recent released single is on their fourth album, which dropped several months back.

But it wasn’t the song or the band that was of interest to her. It was the mention of the album’s producer. Dylan Westfield.

His name leapt off the page and her heart slammed against the backside of her sternum.Bam, bam.That happened every time she came across any mention of Dylan and his label, Westfield Records. Every. Single. Time. And it always took her a moment to regulate her heart rate, or to cool the blush heating her skin as it crept up her neck. Sometimes she broke out in a sweat. Would Mark notice her reaction and remark on it? She can’t risk that, so she makes sure that she doesn’t read the magazine, or watch the Grammys, or listen to any of the label’s artists when Mark is nearby.

Joy closes the magazine and drops it on the coffee table, thinking of Dylan.

He’s doing exactly what he told her he wanted to do. He’s living his best life. Good for him.

She’s doing exactly what she told him she planned to do. Too bad she didn’t realize then it would be hard to put what she wanted on hold. Too bad she didn’t foresee how unhappy she’d be.

Does Dylan think about their time together as often as she does? Does he think about her as often as she thinks of him? He promised that he wouldn’t. It’s why she didn’t want him to know her last name. He wouldn’t think of her or seek her out. She wishes that she could do the same, the not thinking part, that is.

She does wonder if he’s ever tried looking her up. He’s not on social media, but that hasn’t stopped her from posting photos on her Facebook profile with the privacy settings set to public. Just in case he’s curious about what she’s been up to. She’s tried to stop, but she can’t let go of him and those ten days.

Joy looks out the front window of the townhome she and Mark have lived in since they married. Mark’s parents bought the place several decades ago and leased it to them. A wedding present, even though it’s their names on the deed. It’s a beautiful home, with its loftlike openness and perfectly scaled bedrooms. Four bedrooms, to be precise. Three of them waiting to be filled.

A perfectly sized home in a perfect neighborhood that’s perfect for families.

No pressure to have one. None at all.

Joy sighs.

She does love the home and the street they live on. One day, she’ll join the moms’ club and walk her child to school just like the other moms that she watches through the window do. But that won’t be today, or any day soon.

Outside, the sky is a baby blanket blue, the air muggy and temperature hot. Inside, Joy sits on the couch in their front parlor with the AC blasting. Out of habit, her hand finds its way to her lower abdomen. Her empty lower abdomen.

Tears well.

Will she ever feel a baby growing inside her? Will she ever touch her belly and feel joy rather than sadness? Will she ever be able to give Mark the children he desperately wants?

An unexpected noise comes from the stoop, the scuff of shoes on concrete, drawing her attention. Keys jangle and the bolt unlatches. The front door opens, then closes, and there stands Mark in the parlor entryway. Perspiration sheens his forehead and darkens the pits of his lavender shirt, which is unbuttoned at the collar. He’s removed his tie and rolled up the sleeve cuffs. His suit jacket is draped over an arm. He looks at her with love and worry swirling in an elixir of frustration and disappointment.

“You’re home early,” she says. It’s only two in the afternoon.

“I’m worried about you, Joy.” Mark comes into the room.

“I’m okay.”

He sends her a look and she deflates. Even to her own ears she sounds unconvinced.

Mark lays his jacket over the back of the couch and drops a plastic Target bag on the cushion. He settles on the ottoman facing her and takes her hands.

His palms are clammy. She can smell the city’s mugginess on him, the sharp tang of sweat that hits the back of her nose when she inhales.

“Why aren’t you at work?” she asks.

“I couldn’t concentrate, so I took a walk.”

“You walked all the way here?” His office is in Midtown, past Rockefeller Center, over thirty blocks from their home. “Why?”

“I’ve been thinking. We ...” He squeezes her hands, looks down at them. “We should take a break.”

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