Page 66 of Hauling Ashe

“Mae, this is unbelievable.”

“Yep. Denton went back to their small town and gave his sister his car to drive to California. She fell in love with her brother’s neighbor, if you can follow that, who was Garrett, my brother. Now they’re married and live in Blue Ridge. He started a vineyard there.” Because we came from a small river town, and our grandfather worked in a local factory, our Granddad’s dream had always been to own some land. Garrett wanted to fulfill that dream for him.

“Anyway.” I wave a hand. “Continue with your story.”

Tucker clears his throat. “So, I’m eighteen and playing in a bar. I don’t know anyone out here and these two guys come in. Roughly the same age as me. They say they like my sound and my talent and want to know if I’ll play with them. Lawson could sing. Denton played guitar. I could play whatever they needed. Piano. Drums. Guitar.”

“Don’t forget harmonica. You’re really musically talented,” I interject, noting the number of instruments he has mastered. He brushes off the compliment and continues.

“Colt45 was a name Lawson loved. He thought it sounded badass, old-school metal rock, but we’d have a twist on it.” Tucker bitterly chuckles. “Then we couldn’t get a break. That second album. His sister showing up. Her husband’s death. My parents’ death. Rochelle. Everything piled up.” He sighs and swipes a hand over his hair. “Maybe I gave up too easily.”

I smile weakly at him. “Or maybe it wasn’t your full journey. That isn’t always easy to hear, especially as you started out on that path. But you weren’t meant to end on it, or you would have. I believe in that. Everything happens for a reason, and we don’t always get to understand those reasons.” I softly chuckle. “If only we did, it’d be so much easier to accept some things or avoid situations completely.” Like a husband who cheats in your marriage or steals money from your business. Like falling out of love with the person who swore commitment to you. Or like meeting a man on a road trip and falling in love with him.

“Yeah, probably,” Tucker says, his head tipped to his fist while his elbow balances on the door. I reach for his arm, wrapping my hand around his wrist near the original leather band he wears and the new one he purchased. “We almost match,” I say, as my left wrist nears his right and I tinker with the new strap on him.

“I bought it, so I’d always remember.” He glances at me and takes my hand, lifting it to his lips and lingering as he kisses the back. “You’re not going to be easy to walk away from, sunshine.”

And everything in me wants to tell him not to do it.

But I don’t.

31

Playlist: “California Soul” – Marlena Shaw

[Tucker]

Something in my chest—my heart or my soul—thrived in California and I’d left that piece of me behind. The emptiness inside me was deepest every time I’d returned to the area. This time was different. The vacancy behind my ribs wasn’t there. The space, once full of air, feels fuller, peaceful, almost content. Maybe what I needed was coming back here to find what I’d lost. Turning to look at Mae, I wonder if I’d ever lost anything. I had my heart the entire time. I just needed the right person to remind me. Remind me of the harmony of attraction. Remind me of the powerful rhythm of love.

As we near Pasadena, memories return like harsh waves against beach boulders. One after another crashes through my mind. I’d been to California since first leaving. Rochelle held a conference or two here, and Julia eventually moved into the state. But I didn’t visit often. I could count the total number of times on one hand. With Mae beside me, I ponder what she’d think. Maybe all I got was my fifteen minutes of fame. No more, no less. Moving forward with the guys wasn’t meant to be. Being a part of Colt45 was a blip on their radar but maybe being with them was a blip on mine.

Eventually, Lawson Colt got all the accolades for talent, and there was no doubt he was talented. In my heart, I knew I was better. I had more skill than just the guitar and a voice, but then again, our skills were simply different. Again, no more, no less.

When we near South Pasadena, I suggest a stop I hadn’t paid enough attention to when I visited Julia once. An ice cream treat in celebration, I tell Mae. Fair Oakes Pharmacy and Soda Fountain is an original Route 66 attraction, and Mae agrees to the destination. Upon entering, she finally smiles one of those genuine grins I’ve missed throughout today.

“Ice cream could spoil our dinner.” She gives me her best mom voice, but she’s too cute to pull off stern and reprimanding in her excitement to be among the music and memorabilia here.

We haven’t made plans for dinner actually, but it will be part of the conversation we have once we reach the pier. What next? The question is the first thing on my list to discuss. I want to see her again. I don’t want this to be the end, as she hinted earlier. I meant what I said, she’s going to be hard to walk away from, so I don’t want to walk away. This time, in this place, I’m making my own choices, and I choose Mae.

“I only want to spoil you,” I say and Mae blushes.

Her sweet rosy cheeks warm me, and I rub a hand up her back before leading her to the counter to order ice cream. Mae has dreams of grandeur about what life must have been like on this iconic road. The travels. The stops. The dates along the way. Couples sharing experiences, she called it, explaining drive-ins and diners. Sitting here eating ice cream at an old counter with bright red stools and lots of chrome around us, I envision what she meant. This is a classic date, and I can’t recall ever going on one like it. Just a guy and his girl, sharing an ice cream sundae.

I’ve eaten so poorly on this trip I’ve probably gained ten pounds, and I’ll take every ounce of them, if I get to keep this woman. Watching Mae savor the chocolate ice cream at one end of the sundae, I take another mental photo of her. She mentioned how she should have collected things along the way when we stopped at the folk-art bottle garden, but I’ve been collecting. The memories. The snapshots. The pieces of my heart that she’s put back together.

Leaning forward, she shows me a picture she took of our sundae.

“Ice cream with my guy. That should be your caption,” I tell her. Like the selfie pro Mae has become on this trip, she plans to post the photo like a true foodie. Her personal social media chronicles our adventures, but we made an airdrop folder for images, and there are ten times as many in the file.

Mae snorts at my suggestion and I wonder what would be so wrong about saying I’m hers. We started this trip with rules and crossed every boundary, but maybe she isn’t interested in something long-term. Maybe she’s just been melancholy that her trip is nearing the finish line, not that we are at the end of the road for us. Like going to summer camp where the time will pass, and people will go their separate ways when summer is over.

This isn’t some damn band camp, though.

When we finish our ice cream, our journey will be delayed further by the lateness of the day and Los Angeles traffic.

“My daughter’s cupcake shop is around Pasadena somewhere,” I say as we idle along with the other cars on the overcrowded highway that feels like a parking lot.

“Should we have stopped?” Mae asks.