Page 92 of Tennessee Trouble

“And? Did we win?” I ask, ready to jump out of my skin. Holy shit…how did he find that person? How did he convince them to spill? Know what—I don’t care. Especially if this is the news we want.

“I dunno. I didn’t ask.”

“What do you mean you didn’t ask? How could you not ask, Rylan?”

For fuck’s sake…

My older brother waves me off. “Brandt did enter his cocktail months ago. Beginning of February.”

Well, that’s that then. It’s not named after me. We didn’t meet until March. It is just a coincidence.

“But…” Rylan continues, eyes going wide like he’s about to drop a bomb, “he resubmitted two days before the deadline.”

Wait…what?!

“That fucker…” I mutter under my breath. So he didn’t just lie to me. He extra lied. He made adjustments after the creation of Rocky Top Double.

I want to strangle him all over again. Beat him over the head with a heavy object until all the rage has left my body.

“He changed the name.”

Errrr…huh?

“What?” Kyra asks, stealing the word from me.

“It was originally a something smash. Or smash something. But then two days before cutoff, he wrote in, asking to change the name to Cherry Luna.”

Holy shit.

“Why?” Kyra follows up.

Rylan shrugs. “Coordinator didn’t say. But that proves⁠—”

“Nothing. It proves nothing,” I cut him off. “He came up with a different name.”

“Yeah, yours.”

I turn and glare at my brother. “Why will you not let this drop?”

“Because I saw what was between you. And it was…special. And when you have that special connection, you fight for it.”

His voice is wistful. A pang hits me, because I know exactly where his mind is right now. Who is on his mind.

“Give him the chance to explain,” he continues. “Don’t let him walk away because you’re hurt. Don’t get me wrong, Lind. I’m not saying don’t be hurt, just…don’t lose this because of that.”

I listen, trying to absorb his advice. I’m not sure he’s the expert he thinks he is, but I do have to admit that he’s at least got experience in this area.

“It’s not that simple.”

“As the fixer in this family, I’ve learned that sometimes, the simplest answer is often the best one.”

A microphone crackles, stealing our attention. Turning to face the stage, I say a little prayer, hoping I’m not violating any code by asking God to let me win. A hippie-looking middle-aged gentleman is standing behind the mic, tapping on it, trying to get everyone’s attention. Feedback cracks through the air, startling him.

Well, he certainly has everyone’s attention now.

“Hello. I am Franklin Tyler, President of the Society of Liquor, Overproofs, Spirits, and Hops. I hope everyone is enjoying CocktailCon this year.” A round of applause erupts, and I look around, noticing for the first time that most of the lower bowl is full of people. “For the first time in the history of CocktailCon and the SLOSH awards, we had a tie for one of our categories. Instead of making all our voting members vote again, we thought a fan-voted runoff would be more fun. And we were right! So, it’s without further delay, I announce the winner of this year’s Best Original Cocktail.”

I grab hold of my sister and brother, squeezing as tight as I can. I try to remember to breathe, but it’s not easy. This is it.