something to prove. Not a time to beat. We were sweating and suffering together. And something about that bonded us together as we pedaled our way through hills and turns, trees flashing past us. The stingiest of summer breezes enhanced by our speed.
I thought again of Bootleg Springs and my survey. Bonds. Roots. I was going to remember this hill, Gus’s butt, Tameka’s sharp laugh for the rest of my life. Because we were bound together now.
The Bodines were tied to Bootleg. Not just because of the history of the generations that came before them. But because of how the town witnessed their pain and arranged itself within it. I imagined the casseroles that would have lined the Bodine fridge and freezer when Connie died, the turnout for Jonah Sr.’s funeral. I’d seen first-hand the gossip stir about Jonah Bodine’s involvement in the Callie Kendall disappearance. It was a small town. Gossiping was a professional sport. However, so was compassion.
And as often as a “may he rest in peace” was raised up in atonement for gossiping about the man, there were many more instances of the town stepping up to claim the surviving Bodines as their own.
They hired Scarlett for handy work. Proudly ooh-ed and ah-ed over Jameson’s metalwork when his installations made the news. They pushed new clients at Gibson and praised Bowie for his work with the students at the high school. They took their legal issues to Devlin. They sweated with Jonah in the gym or in the park, trusting him to guide their health, their bodies to a better future.
And though they discussed it to death, the town never once seemed to hold Jonah Sr.’s misdeeds against his children.
Love wasn’t just being there in the good times. Real love was standing next to someone on their darkest days. Real love was sweating together, striving together. Falling down and getting back up. Hurting, healing. That’s where the bond came from. The work.
I felt a new burst of energy wash over me and crested the hill with a big, fat smile on my face.
The miles were ticking by, and I didn’t want to miss a single one of them.
I didn’t want to miss out on anything anymore. Yes, I was a researcher at heart. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t get out from behind my data and live.
Love.
Jonah.
I almost fell off my bike.
I loved Jonah Bodine. This was no summer fling. This was no temporary stopover before I got on with the rest of my life. This was my life.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I wheezed. I felt… free. Lighter than I had in years. Happy.
“Almost there,” Gus puffed over his shoulder in glee as we spotted the transition area a few hundred yards ahead of us.
“Oh my god. What is that?” Tameka gasped beside me.
On the side of the road, six elderly Bootleggers hooted and hollered from lawn chairs at racers as they passed.
“And why aren’t they wearing shirts?” Tameka asked.
Because they’d painted S-H-E-L-B-Y on their bellies. My neighbors, my friends, proudly displayed their painted torsos. The horror. The hilarity. Now, I was certain I wouldn’t forget today. These memories would be etched into my mind like the blue paint on the sweet wrinkled skin of my fan club.
“Shelby! You’re not in last place!” Jefferson hollered.
“Great job, Shelby! You don’t look like you’re going to vomit!” Myrt bellowed. She was wearing an umbrella hat to keep the August sun off her face.
I waved, careful not to veer into the ditch.
“We’re real proud of you!” Gert said, hefting a jar of what looked like apple pie moonshine.
“Thank you,” I laughed as I zipped past.
“What was that?” Tameka asked still in disbelief. “Or am I dehydrated and hallucinating mirages?”
“You wish! That’s my fan club,” I told her.
We reached the transition area and high-fived Gus on our way back to our spots. Only 3.1 miles were left in my personal challenge, and I was actually looking forward to them. I hopped off my bike and nearly face-planted when my knees tried to give out. It was either love or exertion that was taking my legs out from under me. I decided it was love.
I was in love. And I finished my dissertation. And I had a degenerative disease. And I was really, really tired and might have to crawl my way across the finish line.
That was life. The good, the bad, the ugly all mixed together in a special kind of recipe of possibility.