Page 106 of Side Trip

For the most part, he hasn’t intentionally thought about her in a long while. Oh, she’ll pop into his head every so often, like when he hears a track fromJoyrideplay on Sirius. But he doesn’t deliberately dwell on her and what could have been, not like he used to. And he hasn’t looked her up or stalked her profiles. He deleted his social media accounts and the apps from his phone to eliminate the temptation.

He sets down the glass, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’s real. Chase say something?”

Cal shakes his head. “Didn’t have to. Though I did wonder. Those lyrics didn’t come from nothing. You’d have to have experienced that to write about it. You’d have to have felt them right here.” He jabs a blunt finger at Dylan’s sternum. “She’s the real deal, man. She’s your real deal.”

Dylan resists the urge to rub his chest bone and crosses his arms. “She’s married.”

“You know,” Cal says, turning back toward the beach. He leans his forearms on the rail. “Our fans were crushed when Jack and Billie divorced. They loved Billie, the way she’d walk onto the stage at the end of every show and give Jack a kiss. He’d be all romantic like and dip her. The audience ate that shit up. They also didn’t have a clue what was going on between them when they were offstage. Jack and Billie were damn good at keeping their problems out of the media. But they were never a good match. They were both hotheads. Chase and Dakota? Fire and ice. That’s a good match. They balance each other. Your girl and her husband? I wonder what they are. You should text her or something.”

Dylan shakes his head. He won’t be the catalyst for any rifts between her and Mark, and his showing up out of the blue would assuredly cause one. Unless something comes up beforehand—like a lightning-bolt-of-a-sign to the head that changes his mind—he intends to honor their deal. Bide his time. Hope that she shows.

“You meet her on that trip Jack sent you on?”

Dylan nods. “I did.”

“Jack told me he added the condition to his will. I tried to talk him out of it. I knew you never wanted a career as a performing artist. Jack did, too. But he loved to jam with you. He was incredibly proud of your talent. He was even more proud of you. About six months before he died, when you and Chase were struggling to make a dent with your label, he told me you’d be successful. Nothing would hold you back.”

“What was the point of sending me on that road trip then?”

“Did you know that he had stage fright?”

“What?” Dylan asks, astounded.

“It wasn’t as pronounced as yours, but enough where he had to psyche himself up before every concert.”

Dylan shook his head. “I never knew.”

“Not many people did. When he first came west, he drove cross-country for a reason. Small stages aren’t as intimidating, and he taught himself a few tricks with those dive bar performances. He learned to focus on the material and not what was happening in his head.”

Exactly what he’d learned on his own trek, Dylan thinks, bemused.

Cal grips Dylan’s shoulder and looks him in the eye. “Jack regretted not being the dad you needed. He should have been more understanding when you were younger. He was hoping the road trip would help you the way it had helped him.”

Dylan stares at his uncle, dumbstruck. Then he grins. “That son of a bitch.”

The corner of Cal’s mouth pulls up. “Did it work?”

“Perfectly.”

Cal laughs. “Would you do it again?” he asks after a beat.

“The road trip? In a heartbeat.” That experience was a defining moment in his life.

“Good man.” Cal lifts his glass. “To Jack.”

“Jack.” Dylan taps his glass to Cal’s.

“And all the women—orwoman—we loved before.”

“You just had to toss that in.” He smirks but drinks a finger of scotch anyway.

“Hey, I’m the old fart here. Someone needs to coldcock some sense into you kids.” Cal looks at Dylan’s empty glass. “I’m gonna get a refill. You want one?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Cal smacks his shoulder and starts to walk away only to stop. “That advice I gave you as a kid about love and music and shit? Worst advice ever. Don’t be stupid like me.” With a wink, he strides over to the bar.

Dylan inhales the salty ocean air and takes out his phone. He lays the device faceup on the rail. Only for a minute or two. Does he really want to do what he’s about to do? He tosses back the rest of the Macallan and sets the glass down. Ice rattles.

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