CHAPTER 1
AFTER
Joy
Joy shouldn’t have agreed to Dylan’s deal. She should have let him say goodbye, because goodbye would have been much easier than the crushing despair she feels right now. She wouldn’t be left wondering what might happen between them, or what could happen down the road. What didn’t happen today. Things she shouldn’t be wondering about.
But that doesn’t stop her from looking toward the sliding glass doors to the British Airways check-in counter at JFK, the terminal Dylan just walked into. She presses a hand to the center of her chest and breathes through the gaping hole his departure has left. She aches.
Songwriter, music producer, and record label executive Dylan Westfield is a brilliant musician, and one of the most talented singers she’s had the privilege to hear. A temporary friend she met ten days ago. She’ll never again hear his voice, or touch his face, or see the smile that could melt hearts. This can’t be how it ends. What if she goes in after him? What if she tells him how she feels? What if—
A shrill whistle blows behind her. Numbly, Joy turns her head to the sound. A stout, red-faced airport security officer stands by her brand-new 2010 Volkswagen New Beetle. Both the passenger- and driver-side doors are open. They’d been so caught up in each other and their last moment together that neither had bothered to close their door.
“This your car, lady?” the officer demands.
Joy nods.
“You need to move it. Come on, get a move on.”
Move on.
Dylan’s moving on. She agreed to do the same.
Together their chemistry had been off the charts, something undefinable and more than anything she’s known before. But she can’t delude herself that anything good can come of starting something with a man she met only ten days previous. Dylan is set on living his best life. With plenty to look forward to, she’s determined to do the same. A new home, new city, new job as an entry-level cosmetic lab tech at Vintage Chic. She should be excited about working in a lab on their lipstick line, mixing oils and colorants. It’s an incredible opportunity. Her sister, Judy, would have been ecstatic to work there.
Joy swipes the moisture from under her eyes, and her engagement ring catches the waning New York sunlight. The ring Mark had placed on her finger just two short months ago, the day after she graduated from UCLA. The man faithfully waiting for her at his apartment in Manhattan.
Guilt takes a roll downhill in her stomach.
Joy closes the passenger door and walks around to the driver’s side. She sinks into the seat Dylan recently vacated and shuts the door. She takes a deep breath, and a wave of longing washes over her. Her car smells like him. It feels so empty without him.
She feels empty.
She plucks a soiled tissue from the cup holder and dabs her eyes, willing the tears to dry up. She needs to stop crying and she needs to put him out of her mind.
Leaning across the seat, she grabs her purse from the passenger-side footwell and roots through the bag. Her hand deliberately dives past Judy’s Route 66 Bucket List, the list Joy failed to complete.
That hadn’t been part of the plan, and she feels like she let Judy down. Her sister would have completed the list no matter what. She was efficient like that, with laser-sharp focus. It was one of the many traits Joy had admired in her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
She takes a deep, pained breath and grabs her phone. Two texts had arrived during the time Dylan parked her car curbside and left: one from Taryn, the other from Mark.
She reads Taryn’s text first and feels a hint of relief and a smidge less lonely. They’ve been inseparable since the day Taryn toddled three doors down wearing nothing but a saggy potty-training diaper and the sticky, Kermit-green stain of Popsicle drippings on her bare chest. Her BFF texted that she’s in line for a promotion at the social media agency where she works in LA. With luck, she’ll be able to transfer to New York within a few months.
Mark’s text is more sobering. He’s waiting for her. He can’t wait to see her. He can’t wait to make love with her.
Joy swallows her guilt and brings up Mark’s address. She launches the directions to his place—their place—and buckles her seat belt, giving the belt two sharp tugs to ensure it’s latched. She shifts the car into gear the same moment the officer loudly raps his knuckles on her window.
“Move on, lady!”
Joy does, merging into the airport traffic, resisting the urge to look back. Because what she might want, or who, doesn’t matter. It hasn’t mattered for years.
CHAPTER 2
BEFORE
Joy
Ludlow, California
A tall drink of water.
Joy never contemplated the meaning behind that idiom. She never considered using it to describe a guy. The expression was archaic. Something her grandmother would have said. Or Judy, given that it was dated slang and her older sister had loved everything retro, specifically anything circa 1950s. But then Joy saw him. Now she couldn’t think of a better way to describe the man she’d been watching through the window.
She felt parched, her mouth dry. It could very well be from ogling the gorgeous guy with the heather-gray, sweat-drenched T-shirt and stonewashed jeans that fit him way too well as he bent over the engine of his beat-up Pontiac Bonneville rather than the triple-digit dry heat baking the asphalt and everything alive outside Rob’s Diner, where Joy had stopped for a cheeseburger and fries. Food Judy would have ordered if she’d had the chance to take this trip.
Her sister had loved cheeseburgers, and she and Joy had eaten their share at In-N-Out Burger. Joy missed those weekly outings when Judy would buy their meals. They’d eat them outside on the white tables with red chairs under a duo of palm trees, the sun setting over SoCal suburbia.
Joy sucked her Cherry Coke through a red-striped plastic straw and watched the man outside. He straightened, wiped his forearm across his glistening forehead, and looked east down the sprawling stretch of Route 66. She didn’t know how he could stand the desert heat. August in Ludlow was brutal, and tall-drink-of-water guy had been tinkering under the hood of his Pontiac for well over forty minutes. He’d arrived right after Joy had been seated at a window booth.
She liked watching him, which was a first for her. She didn’t ogle guys. She was engaged. But no harm, no foul. She was only looking, and he was certainly more entertaining than what she’d intended to do during her lunch: plan which item she’d cross off that day on Judy’s Route 66 Bucket List. She also liked the way the man’s shoulders rippled under the thin material of his shirt. She liked the color of his hair, a brown so dark it almost looked black, even under the blazing summer sun. But then he ran his hands through the thick mass and she caught some golden highlights. He wore his hair too long to be called short, where the ends curled up off his neck. He had a nice wave that he finger-combed off his forehead. Indie rocker style, Joy thought. He reminded her of a young Chris Cornell, the way his hair flopped back and he gave his head a shake to move it off his face. She wondered what color his eyes were and almost pouted that she’d never get to find out when he slammed the hood closed, sank into the driver’s seat, and started the car. After a couple of chokes and coughs, the engine finally turned over.
He eased the car forward, pulling more fully into the parking spot he’d aimed for when the car had died the first time. He drove two feet and the engine sputtered and died again. Tall-drink-of-water guy sat there for a good five seconds when he suddenly snapped. He smacked the steering wheel three times. He then got out of the car, slammed the door, kicked the door, then kicked the front tire.