She’d pay money she couldn’t spare to hear Dylan sing. Real friends supported each other. They showed up at their gigs and cheered them on. What was the harm in spending a couple of hours doing something that she enjoyed? Hadn’t Dylan said something to that effect when he said goodbye?
Joy had nowhere to be that night, and now that she’d eaten and sucked down two Cherry Cokes she was buzzing. Sugar high. She’d be up late anyway.
She paid her bill, drove the block to the motel and checked in, then walked back to the bar, her step light. She fussed with her shirt, smoothing the creases, and checked her reflection in the window, patting her hair, then paid the ten-dollar cover charge.
Excitement coursed through her. Live music amped her up. She was also excited to see Dylan again, something she’d admit only to herself.
The Blue Room was deep and narrow with muted lighting, the hardwood floors worn and sticky. The rubber soles of her white Keds peeled up like tape being ripped off a surface. The small stage in the back was empty except for a single guitar on a stand, a stool, and a mic. A black cord ran from the guitar to the bar’s PA system. The audience—if she could call them an audience—was thin. Judging by their laid-back demeanor, Joy guessed most of the people here were locals. Work buddies hanging out at their favorite Thursday-night watering hole.
Joy’s gaze darted around the small space, looking for Dylan. Where was he? She thought he started at nine.
She approached the bar. “Excuse me, do you know what time Dylan is supposed to go on?” she asked the bartender, a wiry guy in a Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt with a hoop piercing his lower lip and ink wallpapering both arms.
“Five minutes ago. Lea, go see what’s holding up Westfield,” he told the cocktail waitress who’d inserted herself between Joy and a man who looked as old and haggard as the bar, nursing a light beer.
“Sure thing, Ed.” She left her tray of empty glasses on the bar top and went through a side door near the stage.
“Anything I can get you?” Ed cleared Lea’s tray, upending the dirty glasses in the sink.
Joy scanned the taps. “Sierra Nevada.”
“You got it.” Ed filled a glass and set it on a cardboard coaster with the Blue Room martini glass logo. “Keep a tab open?”
“No, thanks.” She didn’t want to drive tomorrow with a hangover.
“That’ll be seven-fifty.”
Joy passed him a ten and found an empty table for two near the front and against the wall. Conversations flowed around her and Arcade Fire’s newest hit, “The Suburbs,” could be heard just under the drone of voices. Minutes passed and still no appearance from Dylan. Joy sipped her beer, feeling anxious. A little nervous, too. It was the first time she’d intentionally gone out of her way to see a guy in eight years. She hadn’t dated in high school, preferring to spend her evenings in her room no matter how hard her parents and Taryn tried to get Joy to socialize.
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.