"The labels," Mr. Crawley says, chuckling. Can’t the fabulous Brett handle them? I can’t believe I was sitting next to Brett Pearson on the plane and didn’t recognize him. It’s the hair. He cut off the mop, grew scruff, and a sharp jawline.
"I can do the labels if you’d rather get back to your dad," Brett offers.
I guess we didn’t need to exchange stories on the plane.
Panic pulsates through me. I needed this time to be a distraction, not a reminder of what’s coming. I spin around in my frenzy, deciding if I should stay or leave.
I should leave.
Definitely leave.
The two men are staring at me as I turn around and walk out the door without so much as saying goodbye.
5
How can Dad be thinking about so much when he doesn’t know if there will be a tomorrow? I can’t believe he already hired someone to run the business. I can’t pretend like I ever had intentions of taking over the shop, even knowing Dad wouldn’t be able to run it forever, but the thought hadn’t crossed my mind because Dad should get to live well past his retirement age. Nothing has gone as I have planned since I graduated college, and while I have traveled along with the bumps in the road, everything feels like it’s crashing down on me now.
Maybe I have no business being in The Barrel House, pretending like I know everything there is to know about running a bourbon distillery or even know enough about bourbon to sell a bottle.
"Melody!" It’s Brett. He’s calling after me. Doesn’t he know when a woman runs out a door, it’s best not to follow her?
I turn back toward the firehouse, watching him walk toward me. My instinct forces me to take a step back, which causes me to trip off the curb. I catch myself by grabbing a mirror on a car, but the car’s alarm beeps at me to add an extra dose of humiliation to this moment.
My heart is in my throat, or maybe it’s my stomach. My head is spinning and ... why did he have to come after me?
"I need to get back home. I should be with my dad.” I look both ways to make sure I don’t get creamed by a car on top of it all. The coast is clear, and I cross the street, finding my way to Mom’s car.
"Wait up for a second," Brett continues, following me across the street. He places his hand on the door, preventing me from opening it and jumping inside. "Your dad wanted a bottle," he says, handing me the bottle of Red Apple, which Dad did, in fact, request.
"How did you—"
"He called to warn me you were on your way down, flustered, upset, trying to be a hero, and you’d most likely forget he requested a bottle of Red Apple." Brett’s laugh is endearing as he smiles benevolently. "I’m not trying to take over your family business, despite what you might be thinking. My dad has been a barrel supplier for your dad since before either of us were born. I was asked to come and help you guys out."
"I know." I understand little of anything now. I’ve been going a mile a minute since I got the letter yesterday. I’ve been awake since five this morning, and I’m exhausted. "Thank you for coming to help," I offer with sincerity, wishing he would move his hand from my door.
"I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone." The look in Brett’s eyes triggers more pain in my stomach. I’m losing my dad.
"I don’t know what else I can do right now aside from helping him, and being in his shop feels like the only way I can do so,” I explain.
The backs of my eyes burn. I’m supposed to be the strong one, but I’m falling apart. I stare up to the sky, waning the threatening tears. Keep it together, Melody. My body doesn’t respond to my command. Tears trickle, one by one, and I gasp for air as my lungs feel like they are deflating. I place my hands over my face, embarrassed to be crying in front of Brett Pearson of all people, but the pain has been building, and though I let a few tears escape this morning at the airport, it clearly wasn’t enough. "I’m sorry," I mutter.
Arms envelop me, and my head falls against his firm chest. His embrace is tight, and though I don’t know the adult version of Brett well enough to feel comfort from a hug, the squeeze is easing some of the pressure in my chest.
The rate of my breaths slow, and I’m able to stop the tears from falling. Brett must notice I’ve calmed down because his arms release from around me, and he takes a step back. I don’t know what else to say or do aside from searching his worry-filled eyes as if I’d find the answer there.
He presses the pad of his thumb beneath my eye and sweeps away a remaining tear. "Take some time to process it all," Brett says, sounding wise beyond his years. "I don’t know how long you’ve known about your dad becoming sick again, but I doubt there’s any length of time long enough to accept or adjust to that kind of news."
"I’m going to—" I point to the car.
Brett backs away, slipping his hands into his back pockets. I close myself into the car, rest my head back, and close my eyes for a minute before starting the engine.
A knock on the window startles my eyes to reopen. Brett is standing outside of the car, holding up the bottle of Red Apple. I roll the window down and retrieve the bottle. "Thank you," I utter. "For everything."
He presses his lips together and holds his hand up for the same simple wave he gave me earlier at the airport when we didn’t recognize each other.
Ever since I was little, I have run away from blood, from people writhing in pain, from emergencies. I’m not the type of person who should be around a situation requiring immediate medical attention. I pass out when I see too much blood.
My mind knows the right thing to do, when to be there for someone, and when to suck up my fears and internal agony, which is why I’m home, but I feel helpless. I can’t even remember the one thing Dad asked for.
I ran away an hour after I got home, so I could take a break. I don’t know how I will make it through this.
With trembling hands and tired eyes, I make my way back home, easing into the driveway.
My phone rings as I step out of the car, and I see Ace’s name on display. I didn’t expect a clean break since, perhaps, I’m not in the right frame of mind to be making permanent decisions. Still, I debate answering his call, but maybe he wants to make sure I got here okay.
I press the answer button and hold the phone up to my ear. "Hey," I say, my voice sounding hoarse.
"Hi," he says, his response sounding meek. "I wanted to make sure you got home."
I nod my head as if he can see my response. "I did. Thanks for checking in."
"Mel, I know this isn’t the time to have this discussion, but had you been thinking about ending things with me before this morning, or was this a panic thing?"
I’m not sure how much more I can endure today. "Ace, I’m so sorry for the way I handled things today, but the thoughts had been on my mind for a while. We want two different lives. I want to get married and have a family, and I don’t think you’re in any rush for that."
There’s a moment of silence between my statement and his response, and I thought I could predict what he might say after being with him for so long, but I have no clue what is going through his head. "I—I don’t think marriage was on my mind because it feels like we have already been married for years, and I watch the neighborhood kids causing havoc and the parents looking like zombies. It all scares me. I don’t think it’s what I want."
We should have had this conversation a long time ago. I kept waiting, thinking he would come around, but Ace was living a comfortable life and didn’t desire more. "I had an inclination where your head was.”
"I still love you, Mel."
"I don’t think you’re in love with me, though," I reply. There has been very little affection, sweet gestures, compliments, anything to make me feel loved.
"I’m not sure I know the difference," he says. I know he didn’t mean to sound cruel, but how can someone question the difference between loving someone and being in love with a person? Being in love means standing by a man’s side with nothing but hope that someday he mig
ht want the same things in life.
I know the conversation is ending, and I see Mom open the front door, watching me, wondering why I’m outside, shaking from the brisk wind just for a phone call.
"Ace, someday you will know the difference. It just won’t be with me.”
"Okay," he utters.
"Take care." I end the call and drop the phone into my back pocket before heading for the front door, where Mom is still waiting.
"Ace?" she asks as she opens the door for me.
"Yup," I reply, sighing.
"He’ll be okay, and so will you," Mom says. She knows I’ve been feeling this way for a while. "I know everything seems like it’s falling to pieces, but we will pull through."
I don’t know how she can say such a thing. I’m having a hard time saying goodbye to a man who didn’t want a future with me, and she will have to say goodbye to a man she has spent her life with.
"I don’t know, Mom."
She wraps her arm around my shoulders and guides me into the family room where Dad is spread out on the couch, and Journey is in the corner on the recliner with her laptop. "Did you mark your territory at the shop?" Journey asks.
I know better than to respond, so I ignore her statement and place the bottle of Red Apple down on the ottoman in front of Dad.
"You met Brett, I see," Dad says.
My brows furrow in response. "How did you know?"
Dad groans as he leans forward, taking the bottle of bourbon into his hand. "This bottle is from 1996. We only shelve the bottles from 1998 to 2000."
"Why would you want an older bottle?" I ask, confused. Why would Brett give him that rather than a newer one?
Dad smiles and stares up to the ceiling as if he’s reminiscing. "The temperatures fluctuated so greatly that year and the barometric pressure in all of our barrels had a strong effect. I thought we lost the batch, but it turns out I’ve never tasted a better bourbon from that year’s barrels. So much of the bourbon evaporated, which we refer to as the angel’s share; it's when the liquid evaporates into the heavens." Dad opens his arms wide as if he’s proud to share this tidbit with me. "Anyway, we were left with much less than normal, but the taste was rare and top-notch."
I appreciate Dad’s passion, but I have no clue what he’s talking about. "The barometric pressure? Aren’t the barrels in a temperature-controlled room beneath the shop?"
"Oh my God," Journey groans. "Melody, seriously? The firehouse is like a million years old. There’s only so much climate control down there."
Journey has never left our little town and has probably spent more time in the recent years, helping at The Barrel House. I’m sure she knows more than I do, so I don’t understand why she hasn’t offered to go down there and help. Her photography gigs are usually on the weekends and she can edit the photos at night.
"Journey, why don’t you come to the shop with me tomorrow and give me some pointers. I want to help around there," I suggest.
Journey doesn’t lift her gaze from the screen of her laptop. "I don’t think so. Tomorrow isn’t good for me."
"Well, when will be a good time for you?" I walk closer to where she’s sitting, trying to break her attention away from the screen.
"I don’t know. Dad told me he’s leaving us the business, but I don’t think I want to—he’s not going to be—" Journey slaps her laptop shut, tosses it beside her, kicks the leg-rest closed and storms through the room.
The silence she left behind is deafening. "She’s not doing well," Dad says again.
"I know we’re all handling this in our own way," I explain. "But I need to help. It’s all I can do."
"Give her some time," Dad says. "And like I said, I don’t expect you two to pick up my life and carry it on your back. I’m proud of you both for the lives you have built."
I missed a deadline yesterday and haven’t checked in with work in two days. I’m not sure it’s something to be proud of.
"I’m going home. I’ll be back in the morning," Journey shouts from the foyer.
Mom scurries out of the kitchen with Tupperware filled with food. "Here, I made some chocolate chip muffins. You might get hungry."
Journey returns to the family room with her Tupperware and gives Dad a kiss on the cheek. "I love you," she mumbles through clear pain.
"I love you too, sweetie," Dad replies.
I follow Journey back into the foyer, where Mom is still standing. "Did you want to sleep here, or do you want to crash at my place?" Journey asks me.
Journey’s studio apartment is down near the mills. The space is small, and she only has a pullout couch along with her bed. For someone who needs space, I don’t think taking up more room in her life seems like a good idea. "I think I’ll stay here tonight. Maybe I’ll stay with you tomorrow. Plus, I have to go through my luggage and—"
"I understand," Journey says, giving Mom a kiss on the cheek.
"Drive safe, sweetie."
Without another word, my sister leaves. "Give her some time." It’s what everyone says after Journey shuts down and goes dark, which happens far more often to her than anyone else in our family.
"I know," I respond.
"Anyway, did Brett Pearson turn out to be a nice guy like his dad?" Mom asks. "Gosh, I haven’t seen him in years."
I must have taken a second too long to respond because Mom smiles at me. "Is he handsome like his father too?"
"Mom!"
"I’m only asking because your cheeks are a rosy shade of red. I’ve heard wonderful things about Brett. He grew up to be such a fine young man. You don’t need to worry about the shop."
Wonderful things.
"I’m just overwhelmed," I tell her. It’s the truth.
"Well, he’s here to help. Let him help, and maybe you’ll get a new friend out of the deal," Mom says, winking for good measure.
6
In my childhood bed, still decorated with a sunflower comforter and pink-lemonade sheets, I stared at the dusty ceiling fan making its slow rotations for hours, hoping I would be hypnotized to sleep, but the thoughts are endless. I read somewhere, the mind can only stress over four issues at one time before the body goes into fight-or-flight mode. I don’t know if I’m up to four, but I can’t figure out how to unwind.
It’s four in the morning, and it’s pitch black, but I reach over to my nightstand for my phone, feeling around until I make contact. The display lights up the room and blinds me for a short second, but I open my messages and text Journey.
Me: Are you awake?
Journey would sleep through an earthquake or a smoke alarm as she has done before, so if she’s asleep, I don’t think my text will wake her.
Journey: No.
Me: Oh.
Journey: Meet me on the front step in a half hour.
Though I’m beyond the point of exhaustion, I somehow muster the energy to locate my suitcase resting on top of my short, wide dresser. I feel around for a pair of leggings and my sweatshirt. The thought of turning the lights on seems painful.
I tiptoe down the creaking wooden stairs, avoiding the few loud, creaking steps. Journey and I got good at remembering which steps would wake up Mom and Dad if we were sneaking in a little too late at night.
Flash forward fifteen years, and I’m sneaking out at four-thirty in the morning.
Out on the front step beneath the mild glow of our black iron lamp post, I stare out into the wooded area across the street. I built so many forts between those trees, always looking for a secret hiding place to read. The cold snap in the air offers my lungs more space to breathe. The dryness is nice compared to the humidity I left behind in South Carolina. Though, I’m shaking from the mild temperatures.
Journey pulls up along the curb, the rocks crackling beneath her slow-moving tires. I jog through the lawn and slip into the passenger seat. Her car smells like coffee and soap, and not a thing out of place. Journey is obsessively neat and orderly. She becomes anxious when anything is out of sorts, but channels her anxiety
by hiding or running away, like she did earlier. I’m more vocal about my feelings.
Therefore, it isn’t surprising that we drive into town without saying one word to each other. Even the radio is off. We pull into a parking spot in front of the 1950s diner that remains open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It’s the last stop before the on-ramp to the highway, so it doesn’t attract as many locals as it does visitors. Meaning, hopefully, no one will know us in here.
We step out, in single file, walk into the quiet hum of the diner. There are only a few others here, all seated at the countertop, starring at a hanging TV while sipping on a mug of coffee.
Journey takes the lead and plops down in the last booth to the far left of the restaurant, and I follow, sitting across from her.
She combs her dark-painted nails through her matching dark hair. Journey covers the natural red locks she was born with. It’s hard to hide, but her hair is more auburn than ginger like it once was.
"This sucks," she says. I only nod because if I say too much, she won’t continue talking. "I knew something was up a few months ago when Dad got this wet cough. He wiped his mouth with a tissue, and I saw blood. I told him to get to the doctor."
"Why didn’t you tell me?"
"Because he said the doctor said, ‘All is well.’ There was no sense in alarming you."
"I thought we got a second chance. I thought it would last forever.”
"We got a second chance," Journey says, matter-of-fact.
"There is so much going through my head right now, and I can’t settle on just one thought," I say.
"Do you ladies want some coffee or some breakfast, maybe?" An older woman with her white hair in a mesh net under a fifties style cap glances between us with tired eyes and a small smile. She has a pencil in her hand and an order pad ready in case we want more than coffee.
"Yes, please, we’ll have two orders of chocolate chip pancakes, and two coffees," Journey says, ordering for the both of us.
Bourbon Love Notes Page 5