Page 117 of Cookout Carnage
She stopped singing. Her face uncertain. He carried the song on.
‘Chicago River flows. Surely to the lake. Hot Sauce, so it goes. Some things are not a mistake.’
Her smile was brighter than all the lights around them as she joined him on the final line.
‘I can’t help. I’ve fallen in love with you.’
As the piano echoed off into silence, he lowered his head and brushed a kiss across her lips. She flung her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the barn erupted. He held her close, deepening the kiss, lost to everything except her, until Emmett dragged a ragged curtain across the stage with a clatter, hiding them from the audience.
Sherilyn broke the kiss, her eyes shining. ‘I love you, Tris. I’m so sorry for what I did.’
He smoothed away her frown with the pad of his thumb. He was so happy he was sure spontaneous combustion was only seconds away.
‘Shhhh, no apology. Just kiss me again.’
And she did.
EPILOGUE
‘But the ’64 was leaner and harder,’ argued Tristan. ‘Thirty more horsepower than the ’71 and zero to sixty in seven-point-seven seconds, nearly a second faster. Plus, it had the classic European styling.’
‘Fake side scoops,’ rumbled Fender.
Tristan shrugged. ‘True.’
‘The air vents on the ’71 actually do something,’ added Axle. ‘And the styling is a shit more refined.’
‘I think you really wanted the ’63 Corvette Stingray,’ Tristan grinned.
Axle leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘No way, dude. My baby’s perfect. She’s as elegant as Jackie Onassis and as hard hitting as Muhammad Ali.’
‘Did you just make that up?’ asked Fender.
‘Nah,’ replied Axle. ‘Read it in a book.’
Sherilyn sat next to Tristan, her leg touching his, her brain struggling to recalibrate each time he revealed something new about himself. The entire situation was surreal enough without this new knowledge that Tristan was a car geek. She was sitting with her family at the dining table, and her monosyllabic brothers were actually talking. Real words, ideas and personality flowed from them instead of the grunts she was used to. Her mother looked more in love with him than she was, and she’d never seen her father smile so much. Tristan was social Viagra: effortlessly affable, naturally charming, and appearing genuinely interested in what her family had to say.
‘Okay,’ said Tris. ‘Here’s a question. In your opinion, which is the best Bill Mitchell design between the ’49 Cadillac Coupe DeVille, the ’65 Ford Thunderbird, the ’70 Chevrolet Camaro, the ’67 Corvette Stingray, or the ’64 Buick Riviera?’
As her brothers and father waded into the debate, Sherilyn caught her mother’s eye and pulled a face. Lynne put a napkin in front of her mouth to hide her amusement.
Tristan turned to her. ‘Too much?’
‘I had no idea you were so… um…’
‘Knowledgeable? Handsome?’
‘Nerdy.’
Her brothers laughed.
‘Didn’t the glasses give you a clue?’ Tristan asked.
She shook her head.
‘Should we put the brakes on this conversation? Steer it in a new direction?’
Sherilyn frowned.
