Page 27 of Chasing Stardust

I cross my arms and cock an eyebrow. “If the glasses fit.”

“I prefer beatnik.”

“Whatever, same difference.”

“No.” He chuckles. “Not even a little.”

Groaning, I drag my gaze away from his spectacular face and eye the busboy as he clears tables. “If you say so.”

“Come on, I’m curious.” He leans forward again, folding his arms on the table. “I get that your trip is about spreading your mom’s ashes, but what I don’t get is why Cleveland? And why Memphis? I’m guessing that’s your next stop.”

I nod.

“And what’s after Memphis?”

“New York. I think.” I grab the diary from my tote and flip to the next entry after Memphis. “Yep, New York. And after that, Boston. Then . . . I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“That’s an impressive trip. Kinda random, though.”

“Not random at all. I’m basically taking the exact trip my mom took in ’92. She and my grandma spent two weeks retracing the steps of the ’72 Ziggy tour. She wrote everything down in her diary, and I’m supposed to be re-creating the pictures—”

“Wait. Go back.” His eyes light up. “Are you talking about David Bowie’s 1972 Ziggy Stardust tour?”

I realize too late that I offered more information than I intended. The last thing I want is to air my family’s dirty laundry to a stranger.

He locks his gaze on me, giving me his full attention. “Why did your mom and grandma go back and visit all the old Bowie tour stops?”

I shrug and flip through the pages of Mom’s diary, avoiding eye contact. “Just because.”

“No way.” He shakes his head. “No one embarks on a cross-country road trip, visiting the stops of a twenty-year-old concert tour, ‘just because.’”

“Fine.” I lower my voice. “Grandma Lola was a rock groupie in the seventies.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Are we talking Penny Lane from Almost Famous?”

I snort. “I don’t know about then, but now she’s more like one of The Banger Sisters.”

He waves his hand like he’s tugging the truth out of me at the end of a rope. “Keep going.”

I give the diner a quick scan, then lean in and whisper, “According to her, my mom was conceived during that particular tour.”

“Was your grandfather someone famous?” Dash brings his head closer, lowering his voice so we’re both speaking in hushed tones.

My cheeks burn. I know a lot of girls who would jump at the chance to tell the world they had even the shakiest connection to a rock legend, but I have zero interest in that kind of attention. I haven’t even told Damian about the whole Bowie thing. I’m not about to tell Dash.

“Well?”

“You’ll laugh.” With a nervous chuckle, I move to lean back but he grabs my wrist, holding me hostage in the center of the table. My first instinct is to snatch back my hand, but his palm is so warm, I don’t.

“Come on, Zoey,” he whispers. “You can’t leave me hanging here. I’m invested in the story now.”

The soft rumble of his voice turns my guts to mush, and my throat threatens to close. I swallow hard. “It’s not like I believe her, anyway. She smokes a lot of pot.”

Dash laughs, then releases my hand and settles against the bench again. “I don’t know what your secret is, but if it has you this twisted up, it must be good.”

“It’s really not.” I collect the shredded remains of my napkin, twisting the pieces into corkscrews. “My mom was pretty high on pain meds when she asked us to spread her ashes across the country, but a promise is a promise.” And the truth definitely won’t set me free.

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