The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball

by Ryan, Shari J.

  Melody has shock written across her parted lips. “Oh, wow, I didn’t see the story going in this direction.”

  That’s not where the story went; it’s just how it began. I swallow hard, trying to find the words to explain the rest. “It wasn’t in my plan to help raise a child then, especially not my own, but Abby was my best friend, and I truly believe everyone deserves someone to depend on in life.”

  Melody turns her head around to spot Benji sniffing something in the dark then looks back at me. “You’re a good person, Brett.”

  I didn’t do it for the recognition. I wondered if anyone would do the same for me if the tables were turned. I think Abby would have, so the answer was clear to me all along. “I don’t know if I’d say that, but thank you,” I sigh. “Anyway, when Parker was four, Abby left for a three-month deployment. Thankfully, I was between deployments, so I was free to take care of Parker while she was gone.”

  Melody places her free hand on her cheek. “Is that when—?”

  The thump in my hollow chest answers for me as it always does. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Abby wasn’t in active combat, but she was being transported to deliver documents to another battalion when her vehicle drove over an IED.” There was far too much shock and despondency on Melody’s face for me to continue with further details. This is why I left last night. She doesn’t need to be versed in my past, at least not now. “You know, this might not be a great story for tonight. I wanted to make you feel better, not bring you down.”

  Melody runs her fingers through her long strands of windblown hair and shakes her head slowly without blinking. “You’re making me realize I'm not alone in this world right now.”

  Benji forces a pause into our discussion by yanking Melody into the street, ultimately leading us down the darkened portion of the road.

  I blow the air out of my mouth slowly and try to keep up with her, finding it impressive she can see so well on a dark road without proper street lighting. She asks me questions, but I’m not digesting them, and my words are short answers—fillers. We walk down a short path between an opening in the woods, and I’m terrified of my mind going somewhere dark. A crack of a stick could set me off. I hold my breath as I see the other side of the clearing, which opens into a large grass-covered park with lighting and an oversized aged gazebo. Benji finds it necessary to start running, so I grab the leash from Melody before she goes flying.

  She doesn’t seem relieved when I take the leash, but rather curious as she studies my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’re sweating.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. I—it’s nothing.”

  Melody stops in front of me. “Benji, sit,” she commands. With the back of her hand, Melody touched her cool skin to my forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  “No, it’s—um—this is going to sound dumb … I just have issues on dark roads sometimes because—”

  “The war?” I’m surprised she picked up on it so effortlessly.

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to get into it—”

  “I understand,” she says. “Really. There’s better lighting over there.”

  Benji’s patience runs out, and he bolts toward the center of the field. I suppose the distraction of a hyper dog is welcome and gives my heart a physical reason to beat at the pace it’s beating, seeing as I’m attached to the other end of the leash. The closer we get to the gazebo, the more familiar it becomes. I’m on the other side of where I used to spend time back in high school. We would hang out here because it was a place where we could play ball or frisbee, I tie Benji’s leash up to a post on the Gazebo. Thankfully, he’s out of breath and happy to comply after his frolic.

  We take a seat on the bench closest to Benji’s leash, and I place the bag down by my feet.

  “What’s in the bag?” she asks again.

  Now, we’re in the middle of an empty park, and it looks like I want to get her drunk. I didn’t think this through. I scrunch my nose and squint an eye, hoping she doesn’t get the wrong idea when I pull out a bottle and two glasses from the bag.

  “Oh, no, no … I don’t drink bourbon. I just support it,” she says. “In fact, I’ve only had it once, and it was one time too many.” I huff with laughter because I suspect she still isn’t a big drinker of the stuff, not after the time I recall she taste-tested it at the last party we saw each other at all those years ago. I suppose she could have acquired a taste for it since then, but I’m guessing by her apparent dismay, she has not.

  “You need to know what’s special about bourbon before you cross it off your list,” I tell her. Plus, she wants to take up work at the shop, and it’s hard to sell something you know nothing about. Not that this is the time to be teaching her about bourbon, but a distraction is sometimes necessary for the worst moments.

  “I borrowed a book about bourbon today. I plan to learn everything I can so I can help out more in the shop.” It’s like she was reading my mind. I know she isn’t about to let her family business die along with her dad, but I was wondering what her plan was for picking something up she hasn’t been a big part of over the years.

  “You can’t learn everything about bourbon from a book,” I explain. Melody tries to argue with more nonsense, so I pacify her statements as I open the bottle and pour a little into each glass. “This is the first bottle of Quinn Pine to be opened this year, and it’s from 2009.”

  “Is old good?” she asks, seeming embarrassed by the question. We’re definitely starting from scratch here.

  “Yes, old is good,” I respond, trying to hide a chuckle. I continue babbling off the explanation of why older bourbon is better, why the tastes are unique because of the process, and how everything can be altered by different steps in the phases of distilling. I also convince her that she needs to take a sip and see for herself that it isn’t as bad as the look on her face is making it out to be.

  She gives in, closes her eyes, and takes a pull on her glass as if ingesting the worst tasting cough syrup. Her eyes squeeze shut, and her lips curl, but she’s thinking about the taste. I see a look of relief settle into her expression. “It’s sweet like vanilla or caramel, maybe a hint of cinnamon too, but it has a dry smoky aftertaste.”

  Her description stuns me. She’s precise and knows exactly what she’s tasting. It’s incredible. “Wow, you’re spot on.”

  “What can I say?” she responds with a coy grin.

  Melody may not be into bourbon, but she has the taste buds of a bourbon connoisseur, and I’m impressed with her skill to detect the flavors in one sip. I watch as she takes another sip, which is followed by a peaceful smile curling into her cheeks. “I’m glad you’re sipping it this time.”

  Her eyes open wide with a look of surprise. “What do you mean by that?”

  “The last time you had bourbon was at the holiday party all those years ago, right?”

  Melody seems taken aback by my question, as if I shouldn’t know such a minute detail in her life. “Yes …”

  I smile at the memory, recalling the moment I found out she had been gulping the bourbon Journey had been feeding her that night.

  We both take a moment and pause the conversation for another sip from the glasses. “You’re still drinking it. That’s something,” I tell her.

  “I guess this isn’t the worst tasting stuff in the world,” she says.

  “It’s amazing to think your dad began preparing this very bottle ten years ago. It’s crazy to think about,” I say, offering more justification about this particular bottle, wondering what she is thinking.

  “Ten years ago,” she says as if digressing. “Our lives were perfect.”

  “Mine wasn’t,” I reply, wishing I could suck the words back into my mouth.

  “Why not?” Melody asks, placing the cup down between us on the bench.

  This isn’t the time, but I’ll be damned … because it’s definitely the right place. Screw it. What do I have to lose? “Well, th
ere was this kiss,” I say, my words sounding faint. “It made me want to change my future, but I had already signed papers—signed my life away.” It was that night, that one damn night, I realized I had made a mistake. I should have tried harder. I wasn’t ready for the life I had signed up for.

  “A kiss?” Melody asks. Her gaze falls to her lap as her cheeks burn with her signature color of red. “What kind of kiss could make you want to change your future plans?”

  An unfamiliar pain in my chest shakes me up as I admire the way her cheeks glisten from the surrounding lights. My focus falls to her lips, taking advantage of the moment when she doesn’t notice my stare, but I’m lost, wishing I could taste her lips once more because I have never had the desire to kiss anyone as much as I want to kiss her again. It makes no sense. I was so young back then, knew nothing, yet my heart spoke as if it knew everything. I was sure of it all even before I realized how deep my feelings were. “It was just one kiss,” I say, still admiring the perfection of the cupid’s bow curve of her lips—how it’s perfectly centered beneath her nose.

  “She must have been some girl,” Melody responds in merely a whisper.

  “You sure are,” I say, feeling foolish for the way I’m attempting to explain how she made me feel that night.

  “Me?” she questions as if my statement is absurd.

  I’m not sure how else to make her understand. I reach my hand to her cheek and sweep the tip of my thumb along her bottom lip. “I wouldn’t forget my first kiss,” I explain.

  “There’s no way,” she says.

  It’s nothing I would have admitted to at the time, nor did anyone know back then, but between sports and trying to at least pass classes, there wasn’t time for much else.

  “I went to an all-boys school,” I remind her.

  She glances down again, her shyness making her all that much cuter than she already was. “You were my first kiss, too,” she admits, biting down on her lip.

  I didn’t know for sure, but by the way she showed her nerves that night, I assumed it might have been a first for her. “I had no idea.”

  “Liar,” she calls my bluff.

  I shouldn’t be doing this right now. I want to kiss her. I want to lift her up from that damn bench and push her against the beam so I can press my nose to the side of hers, run my fingers through her soft hair, feel the heat of her cheeks burn beneath my palms and kiss her like I wish I knew how to ten years ago.

  I need her.

  But I know better.

  I can’t.

  Not now.

  It hurts to hold myself back.

  “I wish you were home for different reasons,” I say.

  Melody places her hand down on my knee, her gaze following her fingers as she traces a small circle into the fabric of my jeans. “You are a nice distraction.”

  I shouldn’t be distracting her from the reality of what she’s about to go through. It doesn’t seem right, and she could misconstrue this as me taking advantage of a weak moment. In truth, though, I would do anything for the circumstances to be different, but if they were, she might be with someone else, and I might still be playing house as a single dad. There’s no way either of us could comprehend what the other has gone through, and there is no rhyme or reason for how we both ended up back here like this.

  The silence between us is filled with thoughts of what could be, but also, what can’t be … right now, and it’s enough time for Melody to fall back into the reality of her situation. “My mom must be wondering where Benji and I are. I don’t want her to worry,” she says, sounding disappointed.

  “Good call,” I agree, standing up to clean up the glasses and bottle. I take the leash and unwrap it from the beam, allowing Benji to run ahead. He doesn’t gallop this time, allowing us to keep up. Melody’s hands are tucked into the pockets of her jacket, and a smile is still intact, pinching at her rosy cheeks. “I hope it’s okay that I stopped by tonight. I just needed to know you were okay.”

  Melody presses her lips together and nods her head. “Yeah, it’s more than all right. I don’t remember the last time someone has waited around for me. It’s a nice feeling.”

  How could no one wait around for her? I can guess there is more to the story of her ex-boyfriend, but if she was mine, I’d wait anywhere, everywhere, and for as long as it would take for her to come back.

  I might have distracted her for a brief moment tonight, but thoughts of her, watching the way she walks, and the way the loose curls of her hair sway with each step almost makes me forget about the darkness long enough to find the faint glow from the light above her front steps. “Are you okay?” she asks as we step back onto the street?

  “I am, thanks,” I say.

  She places her hand on my back and presses her head into my shoulder. “I’m glad.”

  We’re silent for the remaining minute it takes for us to reach her driveway, but I can think of at least a thousand things to say. I’ll save it for another night, though.

  “Good luck with everything tomorrow. Text me if you need anything, even if it’s just company.” I hand the leash back to her and offer a simple smile. Seeing as we’re no more than a foot apart, I take the uninvited moment to lean forward and kiss her warm cheek. I don’t know if it’s too much or not enough, but I’m overwhelmed by the familiar scent of peaches. The shampoo. That damn shampoo. How can she still smell so beautiful after a day in hell? “Good night, Melody.”

  She fights against a smile and spins around, nearly tripping over the leash attached to Benji. With a hint of a giggle I used to hear all the time, she sweeps her hair behind her back and jogs up the front steps to the door. I wait until she’s safely inside and head for my truck, wondering how I’m going to get my head out of the clouds long enough to find my way off this street.

  17

  Would I have wanted a distraction when Abby died. I know the circumstances are different because Abby’s death came as a shock, but maybe I shouldn’t be assuming Melody needs or wants a distraction at the moment. I want to say I understand what she’s going through, but losing a parent is entirely different than losing a friend, and I don’t want to overstep.

  My phone buzzes as I reach the first stoplight. It’s probably Mom looking to see when I’ll be by to grab Parker. I check the message as I come to a stop, finding a message from Melody.

  * * *

  The Girl of my Dreams: Thank you. I needed that in more ways than I can explain.

  * * *

  The light returns to green, and I place the phone down, feeling a bout of relief. I think it’s safe to assume I didn’t cross a line or push too hard. At least that’s what her message sounds like. What a relief.

  My string of thoughts lessen as I continue the half-hour drive to Mom and Pops. I need to clear my head of Melody’s sadness so I can perk up for Parker. The last thing she needs is to go through any more feelings of loss, even if it’s just by hearing or watching it happen to someone else. If I could keep her in a bubble of happiness, I would. At some point, I’ll have to allow more of life’s realities into her world, but I feel it’s my responsibility to keep as much despair from her as possible so she can experience how wonderful life can be.

  I walk into the house, inhaling the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and nail polish remover--the norm when I leave Mom and Parker alone for more than an hour. The woman who never had daughters takes every chance possible to have girl time with her granddaughters. Even Pops has joined in on the fun from time to time, but we’re not supposed to talk about the times I’ve found him with mascara or lipstick smudged across his cheeks from one of the girls using him as a model.

  Pops is in the living room watching TV, ready to fall asleep when I interrupt his crime show coma. “Brett,” he says, checking his watch. “Oh, it’s only eight. God, it feels like ten.”

  “It’s that time of year again,” I tell him. We just hit daylight savings, and no one has adjusted yet, including myself, who evidently doesn’t need
the extra hour of sleep.

  “Take a load off. Your mom is painting Parker’s nails, and it’s the crucial-no-interrupting-part. Whatever that means.”

  “That process is the drying time. If Parker moves, the nail-polish will scrape off,” I inform him.

  “Listen to you, speaking girl. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Yeah, me neither, but here we are,” I say, taking a seat next to him on the couch.

  “How’s Miss Melody holding up?” I didn’t expect Mom to tell Pops what I was up to tonight, since he rarely brings up the topic of women with her or me. It’s not in his nature to pry.

  “It’s hard to say. I don’t know who or how she was before she found out about Harold, at least not since she was seventeen. Maybe she’s been quiet since then. I don’t know. She’s obviously not in a great place, but I offered to be there in case she needs someone, you know?”

  “That was a nice thing to do,” Pops says, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off. “I assume she’s going through more than she’s letting on.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees.

  “I spoke to Harold for a bit this afternoon. I was asking about both of the girls because I wanted him to know I’d be there for them. It doesn’t matter what age you are when you lose a parent. It’s tough and I felt like I needed to know what concerns he’s leaving behind so he would rest easy knowing that I’ll keep an eye on them from afar.”

  “That was nice of you,” I say.

  “He appreciated it. I told him if either of the girls ever need anything, they can count on me.”

  “I know this isn’t easy for you, Pops.”

  “No. God, Harold and I have been friends since we were kids. I know our families didn’t do a lot together over the years, but Harold and I always spoke and saw each other at least once a week. It’ll never be the same without him now.”