My Best Everything
Page 25
You were quiet a minute. Then said, “We all get forks in the road. But either way we turn, we eventually get where we’ve always been headed. It’s only a question of how and when.” You wrapped my hair around your fingers. “I’m just glad you drove on my road for a while, Lu. You’ve made me stronger. I’m different now. I can do this.”
“Do what?”
“Moonshine is my destiny. Always has been.”
“That’s the moonshine telling you lies, Mason. It makes it hard to see what’s what.” The tears streamed down my face. “You have to take my money and go. Anywhere but here.”
“I can’t. That’s everything we worked for.”
“It’s nothing,” I said.
It was both. Everything and nothing.
“What about you, Lu? Come with me.”
I shook my head against the impossible.
Turns out I do believe in love.
It’s the place where faith and action meet. It’s where the river takes us once we make it through the rapids. It’s me with you.
And me letting you go.
As we waited, the fermenting tank shivered and trembled. It protested the gases ballooning within its walls. Rocked in reaction to the unbearable bubbles and roils. Metallic pings, bumps, and dull thunks announced the tank’s struggle to stay in one place. Its metal seams stretched and slid, steel sheets scraping and screeching against each other.
When Seth opened the door to the warehouse, we were already in awe of the whistle-like shriek screaming through the air. Impossibly high and piercing. I heard him and Peanut yell in confusion.
Beneath our tarp, you smiled at me. The sweetest, most beautiful crooked smile.
Then you lunged. Threw yourself on top of me.
The tank tipped. Shot from its spot on the floor like a missile. Or a demon from hell. Like mash in a bucket.
It flew through the air—blasting through the metal door. The roar of liquid hitting air drowned every other sound.
You held me down, covered me. Your head folded over mine. I ducked into your chest. All through the chaos of the world exploding, your heartbeat pressed against mine. When the air finally quieted, and the only sounds were the echoes in my ringing ears, your eyes stayed closed, your breathing heavy.
“Mason. Get up.” When you didn’t respond, I rolled to the side, eased you to the floor. I sat up, ripped off the tarp, and looked around, unable to process the destruction surrounding me. When your eyes fluttered open, it gave me a burst of strength. Some kind of higher power kicked in.
I dragged you to the now-open wall, passing by two figures, one sitting up and moaning, the other coughing while lying on his back. Somehow I got you outside.
The sky was at the dusky moment when day surrenders to night. The moon and the sun, sharing the sky, both shone light on us. Your truck lay on its side from where the metal door had slammed into it. I dragged you to the loader. It seemed like a place to lay you down. Once I settled you in, I saw it worked like the one at Sal’s.
Knowing I was bumping your poor battered body, I drove the loader away from the Quarry Supply Company. At the end of the dirt road I turned and kept going. The loader creaked and sputtered, but I urged it onward. Until I found Bucky’s truck parked and waiting.
That morning a man had strolled into Sal’s Salvage looking for our special brand of poison. He’d been back to his childhood home for a visit. Old memories gave him a thirst for moonshine. He heard a rumor that some junkyard girls could help him out.
Turned out he knew Sal—knew my mother too, back when she was Penny Riggins. He stopped to chat and reminisce.
Hearing what his long-lost friend had to say, Sal zeroed in on Roni, asking all shapes and sizes of questions. I’m not sure she lasted twenty minutes before she broke down and told him everything. Sal, being the way he is, wanted to retrieve the still.
When they drove out to her land, Roni immediately knew who’d smashed Aunt Jezebel. She recognized that handiwork. She called to confront Bucky.
That’s when Bucky noticed the missed call from an unfamiliar number. Listened to your message. Figured we were in serious trouble. Sal, who knows where to get all kinds of things, called in a few favors from friends. Managed to get pretty close to the old quarry supply store. They’d parked to consider their options and whether it was time to call the police.
Seth and Peanut must have passed them on the road heading back to the warehouse. Five minutes later and they would have missed the explosion. Five minutes earlier they might have had time to stop what we’d set in motion. To make us pay in ways I don’t want to imagine. Instead, it was somewhere in between.
They survived—riding the same miracle that saved you and me—but they were hit hard enough they couldn’t take off after us. They didn’t follow us down the road or to the hospital, where everyone assumed we’d been in an awful car accident. They weren’t waiting when we were released late that night. We didn’t see any sign of them the next morning, when we woke up together.
And then we said good-bye.
Turns out I hate good-byes too.
There was no question. Not after this. You had to leave Dale.
And I had to stay.
But that day, when I’d lost everything but found it too, Roni, Bucky, and Sal were there to circle around, lift us up, and carry us home.
Like it was all meant to be.
39
Except I don’t believe in meant-to-be.
It’s easy to believe in destiny when everything is shiny and bright. When wishes and dreams come true. But what about the days when everything gets smashed to pieces? Or when it all explodes?
Especially when you know it’s your fault. What do you do with that?
Meant-to-be might just be another excuse. A way to make peace with mistakes. One more reason to take what you want. No matter who gets shoved out of the way.
If everything is already decided, what’s the point in trying? And why are there so many messes and mistakes? Why are the very worst, most awful moments intertwined with the absolute best?
What happens when meant-to-bes collide?
Maybe it just comes down to pieces and parts. The ingredients.
Corn. Sugar. Yeast. Heat and time. That’s life. The things that happen, day by day.
It’s up to us to mix and shape and cook. Or brew. Sometimes we have a recipe. Sometimes we don’t. But it’s not what happens that matters. It’s what we make.
Roni traded one kind of future for another. She’s in Nashville now, searching for the brightest lights she can find. She’s making that happen. And Bucky, he let his might-have-been slip away. But I know Buttercup likes the way her future looks next to him.
And me? I’m in San Diego. I made it.
Turns out Father Mick knows people at USD. He knew how to arrange for some kind of special circumstances scholarship. Once he realized it wasn’t my idea to stay home, he made a few calls. That very day, about the time we found Aunt Jezebel, he was talking to Mom. Letting her know I had another option.
So, that, along with donations from parishioners, and Sal’s investment in Mom’s new online business, all of it mixed together—made it easy to go. Like there wasn’t any way to say no.
You’d already left in the car Sal gave me for learning to drive. You headed away from the river, past the beech trees and the hills.
I’d made you promise you wouldn’t look back.
My life is exactly how I dreamed it could be when I set my sights on this school. Of course I love my classes. And Ashley Jones is a close-to-perfect roommate. She’s not Roni, but we get along all right. I say she’s smarter than she looks, and she says I’m smarter than I sound. I caught her sprinkling potato chips on her ice cream last night.
Even my work-study came through. I have a job working in a research lab. Using distillation of all things. The professor in charge is impressed with my intuitive skills for such a complex process.
The sun is so bright here. The sky so blue.
Sometimes it’s almost too much for a girl who’s used to shadows. But at night, the moon still shines.
Mom says she and Daddy are coming to visit me one of these days, thanks to her new antianxiety medicine. Once she managed to get to the hospital to check on us, she decided it was time to get better. If it sticks, that’s one good thing that came from that awful day.
The fact that we survived at all must mean something. And yet, I wonder.
Do you wonder too?
When questions and wonderings fill up my head, making it hard to see the shine on anything, I head to the ocean. Look for hints of the rivers that end up here. The waves crash in, then ease back out. They feel the tug of the moon, even when it can’t be seen.
Like me with you.
So, here it is. The way I see it. What happened and why. No more secrets.
An old friend of Father Mick’s called the other day. She welcomed me to San Diego and offered to show me around. Invited me to go to church with her. It’s an old church, almost as old as one of the missions. In fact, they’re getting ready to restore it. They need someone to take care of the delicate wood trim. Someone to rebuild the old pews. Someone who’s good with his hands. Ideally, someone who’d live on-site in the little yellow house with the hibiscus by the door.
If I did believe in meant-to-be, that’s what it would look like.
Come see.
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Acknowledgments
This story is my mother’s fault. Thanks, Mom!
Thank you to the top-notch team at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers, but most especially to my brilliant editor, Bethany Strout. Thank you for your steady enthusiasm and for asking excellent questions.
Many thanks to my agent, Catherine Drayton, who is, without a doubt, for sure and for certain, the best. Thank you also to Masie Cochran.
I received technical advice from Derek Kermode, lead distiller of Ballast Point Brewing and Spirits, and Neva Parker of White Labs San Diego. Their patient expertise is much appreciated. Any mistakes are mine.
I am forever grateful for the community of Vermont College of Fine Arts, most especially my oh-so-reliable classmates, the Unreliable Narrators. In particular, this story benefited from the brilliant guidance of the adviser I never worked with but always wanted to: Margaret Bechard. Margaret, thank you for opening your home and my eyes, along with Ellen Howard and my fellow writer-rocks, Cindy Faughnan, Tamara Ellis Smith, and Sharry Wright. Lulu would have been lost without you all.
To my generous readers, Cindy Faughnan and Jennifer Wolf Kam, thank you for being so smart. And kind too. Thanks also to my sister, Suzanne Wones, for saying the things I needed to hear—you always do.
Oodles of thanks to Denise Harbison, Carolyn Marsden, Suzanne Santillan, Janice Yuwiler, and Andrea Zimmerman for your ongoing wisdom and silliness and persistent demands for more kissing. Special appreciation goes to Suzanne, who is also my blog partner, warden of the cornfield, and bag carrier extraordinaire. We’re gonna love it!
To my three children: Thank you for making motherhood a joy and a delight. You amaze me. Truly.
And, finally, to my anywhere everywhere meant-to-be, Tom: Thanks for everything.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Sarah Tomp
Cover art © 2015 by Joel Holland
Cover design by Tracy Shaw
Cover © 2015 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: March 2015
ISBN 978-0-316-32476-2
E3