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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “Always befriend those in pain and help them find their strength,” Dad says.

  “How would I know someone is in pain? Pete has it all together on the outside.”

  Dad sighs and shakes his head. “Life is confusing, Brody. Sometimes the ones who act the strongest are in fact the weakest and just need someone to talk to, someone who understands them, someone like you. You must see through the outer layer, and you, my boy, do. It’s a gift.”

  11

  I’m not sure which part of Pete’s story made Journey want to get up and leave, but the moment I stopped speaking, she excused herself from the bed of my truck and ran into her apartment building without so much as a goodbye. Now I’m sitting here wondering why I shared something so private with a person who can’t manage to say goodbye or explain why she must leave so suddenly. This is why I keep my shit private. It’s too heavy for others to handle. Normally, I might have stopped her; asked her what’s wrong, but my story wasn’t about her or the way she feels, and I didn’t feel the need to question her rudeness or look for an answer as to why she ran off. It’s crap.

  The quiet drive home invites too many unwanted thoughts and angers me—an emotion I try my best to avoid. That’s why I don’t open up about that part of my life and why I went as far as I did, lying about my whereabouts during those couple of rough years.

  I take a few calming breaths before walking inside the house, knowing Dad’s in there, probably falling asleep on the couch. I’m sure Hannah has been in her bedroom all night doing God knows what, leaving Dad alone with the TV.

  The front door opens into the living room, just feet away from where Dad is in fact slouched into the corner of the couch. He clears his throat and pulls himself upright as if I caught him sleeping on the job. “Dad, I fall asleep on the couch every night. It’s all right I get it.”

  He stretches his eyes open to adjust his focus and glances at his watch. “It’s early. I thought you had a date or something?”

  “Wasn’t a date, but it was something.”

  “Couldn’t have gone too well if you’re home by nine,” Dad adds.

  “I have one word that will explain it all to you. Journey.”

  Dad’s brows arch with surprise. “You went out with Journey tonight?”

  “Kind of.”

  “How’s she doing? Is she hanging in there with losing Harold and all?”

  I shrug because honestly, who knows what’s going through Journey’s head. She doesn’t share much with me, and she’s really good at shutting me down. “I don’t know. She’s got a very cold side to her, but it makes me think she has some deep wounds that are bleeding out.”

  “You know the type well, I’m afraid,” Dad says.

  “Speaking of which … she asked what happened to me those couple of years.”

  “You give her the same old spiel?” he asks.

  The spiel; the lies—same thing. “No, I told her the first part of the story, believe it or not.”

  Dad adjusts his position on the couch and lifts his elbow to the armrest. “You told her about Pete?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “She ran off like I insulted her,” I say.

  Dad tosses his head back and runs his fingers through his thinning hair. He’s been an advocate for me opening up about Pete. He doesn’t believe in hiding the truth when it might help someone else, but it’s been too hard to talk about something that was so life changing. It’s always been easier to make up stories. “Not everyone will react the way she did, Brody.”

  I shrug. “Yeah, well, who knows, right?”

  “Son, if she ran off, why do you think that is?”

  His question pains me because it has been lurking in my head since Journey jumped off the edge, into the night. “Who knows? Look what she’s gone through these last few months?”

  “I know. It’s something no kid, no matter how old, should have to go through, but life’s tricky and doesn’t give us options.” Dad stands from the couch and stretches his arms over his head. “Brody, you’re a grown man. I can’t tell you what to do anymore, but man to man, if someone runs off like that when you are sharing a hard memory, they might be dealing with something just as bad if not worse. Don’t let Journey’s actions dictate your feelings.”

  I know he’s right, but she’s been a tough nut to crack as it is, and I’m not sure I know how to handle someone like Journey. “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Remember what I told you once: the ones who seem the strongest are often—”

  “The weakest. I know,” I say.

  “You are where you are for a reason, Brody. Never forget that, okay?” Dad wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes me. “Cheer up. Everything will work out the way it should. Just do what you do best and be a bull in a China shop.”

  His statement makes me snicker. He and Mom have always referred to me as a bull in a China shop. I don’t have an ounce of grace or eloquence, nor do I have a filter or the ability to be quiet. Some people like that in a person. Others are overwhelmed and scared by it. Journey might be a little of both.

  “Be careful driving home. It’s foggy out tonight. There’s probably deer and moose everywhere.”

  “I’ve lived here for sixty-four years. I’m aware of the wildlife, son.”

  “Thanks for watching Hannah tonight.”

  Dad glances up the stairs toward her bedroom. “Can’t see I did much watching, but I checked on her several times and she appeared to be doing some schoolwork.”

  “Her cell phone was in her textbook,” I inform him with a smirk.

  Dad rolls his eyes. “I didn’t have to worry about that when you boys were kids. I don’t know how you deal with this techno crap. It’s out of control.”

  “It’s a good time,” I agree.

  “Okay, well get some sleep. I’ll see you in the shop tomorrow, but I’ll be late. I have a dentist appointment first thing.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, walking toward the front door to let him out.

  “Oh, don’t forget, I have to leave early tomorrow to get Hannah to Connecticut after school.”

  “I have it on the schedule,” he says, waving over his head. “Love you, son.”

  “Love you, Dad,” I reply, shutting the door as he closes himself into his truck.

  I debate whether I should veg out and watch TV for a bit before bed, but I’ll end up waking up on the couch in the morning if I do that.

  I check on Hannah, finding her asleep, shockingly, so I give her a kiss on the forehead and straighten the covers over her back. She still looks like a little girl when she’s asleep. I thought it was hard when she was younger. I did not understand what was to come or how fresh she’d be, but she sure is cute. “Love you, peanut,” I whisper.

  My divorce with Kristy was quick because it scared me to think about putting Hannah through what Pete went through. His parents’ divorce spanned across a two-year period. They were fighting on who got what and who was to blame. They went through months of mediation, and Pete was never even an afterthought for either of them, which I don’t understand. Still, to this day, I don’t get it.

  I debated whether I should fight to keep my marriage together, which would mean turning my head to the fact that Kristy cheated on me and confessed her lack of love for our family. What was healthier? It was a horrible choice that I wanted to believe was mine, but it never was. Kristy decided for all of us and all I could do and will always do is to pick up the pieces and give Hannah what she deserves; a normal life. The thought of her ending up like Pete haunts me as I lay in the dark each night waiting for sleep to rescue me. It was my sole reason for fighting for full custody. I can watch her and make sure she’s always okay—something I’m sure Kristy wouldn’t do.

  With slow, sluggish steps, I go through the process of getting myself ready for bed. The last thing I do before turning off the lamp is check my phone for an explanation, but there aren’t any missed calls or texts. There is no explanati
on for me.

  “I’ll be at pick-up a few minutes early today so if you can try to get out the front door quickly after the bell, we might have a chance of missing some rush hour traffic,” I tell Hannah as she hops out of the truck.

  “No problem,” she says.

  “You sure everything is your bag? We aren’t going home after school.”

  “Yes, Dad. I packed everything last night. I’m all set.”

  “Okay. Have a good day, sweetie. I love you.”

  Hannah stares at me for a long second—longer than she usually stares at me when I tell her I love her. More often than not this past year, her response has been a mumble in the wind as she runs off. “I love you too. Are you okay?”

  “What? Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Hannah’s eyes widen. “You look like you didn’t sleep. Just asking.”

  “You look beautiful too, sweetie. Have a great day.”

  The eye roll comes and goes, followed by the charming sound of a door slamming. It’s like my second cup of coffee every morning. Who needs caffeine when a door slams in my face at the same time each day?

  As usual, the back lot of the warehouse is empty this early in the day, but at the current moment, I think I’d prefer people to be around to get my mind off things. It is as it is, though.

  I grab my backpack and head for the door, spotting something white shoved in the crevice between the brick and metal. We have a mailbox out front. Anyone who delivers shit to us knows where the box is located.

  I grab the folded paper out of the crack and unlock the door. Once I flip the lights on and toss my stuff down in the back, I turn the folded paper over. There’s nothing written on the outside, nor is it taped or stapled shut.

  What the—? I unfold the note even though mail usually goes to Dad, but something tells me this isn’t mail.

  It’s a handwritten note. Haven’t seen one of these in a while.

  Hey Brody,

  I owe you an apology for what I did last night. I realize I could have sent you a text or called, but I opted for the most complicated form of communication because that’s what I do. I wasn’t thinking straight when I walked away. I wasn’t thinking about you when I should have been. I was selfishly thinking about myself, my life—my existence. The thought that you might be forcing yourself into my life because you think I need someone made me feel too many things, things that I try to avoid. I didn’t know what to say or how to respond, so I ran. I’m good at that, I guess.

  I don’t want you to worry about me or think that I’m someone who needs your help. I think it’s commendable that you try to be there for someone who needs a person like you in their life, but that’s not who I am.

  Maybe I misunderstood and you really don’t see me as a broken being. Maybe I’m not a project. I don’t know, but I want you to know you don’t have to be concerned about me. I’m good.

  Thank you for the pizza last night and for showing up when I ditched you. Also, thank you for not being a typical guy and telling me to move over so you could fix my flat tire. I like to handle things myself.

  Anyway, I’m sorry for the way I acted and if you want to talk more about Pete, I’m happy to listen and I promise not to run away again. I guess we’ve all been through some stuff that changes who we are and reroutes the paths we thought we were going to take. Unfortunately, I get it—more than I care to admit.

  I know you said you have to drive to Connecticut after Hannah gets out of school, but you know where to find me when you’re free, that is, if you don’t completely hate me for running off like I did.

  Hope you have a good day.

  —Journey

  I’m more than a little surprised by every word written on this piece of paper. Not only does this sound nothing like Journey, but the person who wrote this sounds exactly like the thoughts running through my head. There’s more to her—more that I want to know, not fix, just learn.

  The heaviness in my chest fades, and though I can’t say it’s okay that she ran off the way she did, I’m willing to hear her out. She made the effort of driving down here to leave me a handwritten note. It’s something more than a text, and it isn’t a mind game.

  I grab my phone out of my back pocket and type up a quick message to send her.

  Me: Thank you for the note.

  I’ll leave the message at that. She’ll know I got and read it. The rest will have to wait until after I return from Connecticut.

  Journey: There are things I want to tell you.

  Dammit. For one second, I thought I had the upper hand. I should have known I was walking right into a trap with her.

  Me: Like what?

  Journey: I’d prefer to speak in person.

  Me: No problem, I’ll just wrack my brain thinking about whatever it is you want to tell me while I drive to and from Connecticut this afternoon.

  Journey: Oh. Well, let me know what you come up with!

  I’ve met my match. There is no doubt in my mind that she is back in my life for a reason. She will be another challenge, on top of the one I already have raising a tween daughter alone. Why are women torturing me? What have I done so wrong that they all want to suck the life out of me?

  Me: Enjoy your day. I’ll talk to you later.

  Journey: Do you always need the final word?

  Me: No.

  Journey: Okay, good.

  Me: Good.

  I should be pulling my coveralls on and starting on the lineup of barrels, but instead I’m staring at my phone for the battle of the last word to end. Five minutes pass by before her last text pops up. It’s a photo of her from the chin down, wearing my sweatshirt that she somehow snagged from my truck at some point last night. Me: Looks good on you.

  Journey: It’s a little big.

  Me: No, it’s just right.

  Another five minutes pass and I tell myself I’ve won the last word challenge, but I have a feeling this isn’t the end of our conversation today.

  12

  I hate this drive. I hate this drive.

  I hate Kristy.

  I hate party-boy.

  I hate subjecting Hannah to both.

  “Dad, does it bother you to drive this far every three weeks?” Hannah asks. She’s never asked this question before. I would never tell her my genuine feelings on the subject, but I wonder if she just assumes it.

  “Nothing I do for you bothers me, Hannah,” I tell her, trying my best not to sound robotic.

  “Why are you doing this for me, though? I don’t even like going.” I have speculated as much but didn’t want to assume. Hannah is old enough to understand what Kristy did to her by leaving the state.

  “Well, you want to see Mom, don’t you?”

  Hannah doesn’t respond right away. I glance in the rearview mirror, finding her staring out the window, looking like she is lost in thought. “Not really, and I can’t stand Brian.”

  “What does Brian do that bothers you?” The normal uptick in my pulse triggers at the mention of the guy’s name. I hate the thought of him being around Hannah. I don’t have an exact reason aside from him being half the reason Kristy had the affair in the first place, but he never seems to want to show his face when Kristy and I exchange Hannah. I’d like to know who my daughter is spending time around, but it isn’t a requirement per our divorce decree.

  “He calls Mom babe like four hundred times a day and he acts like a child who needs to breakfast, lunch, and dinner served to him. His gym schedule ruins any plans we try to make, and he thinks he owns the TV, so no one else can watch anything, ever. Plus, he calls me Hae-Hae, and it’s really dumb.”

  My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I wish Kristy would focus on Hannah when she’s there and send her man child home for thirty-six hours, but that would be asking too much of her.

  “He sounds like a—” I choose my words wisely. I must be an adult and set a good example, and it’s challenging for me to do so. “A guy who doesn’t have kids or understand th
e meaning of quality time.”

  I sound like an old man.

  “I guess,” she says. “I don’t know. When do I get to choose when and how often I see Mom?”

  I feel like this is a trick question I shouldn’t know the answer to, but at any point after the age of twelve, I know Hannah can express her feelings to a judge if she wants there to be a change in the custody orders. It doesn’t mean it will go through the way she wants, but there’s a chance she could have things shifted to benefit her lifestyle more. “It’s something we can talk about in a couple of years, okay?”

  Hannah doesn’t respond. She doesn’t like the answer, and I can’t say I blame her, but laws are laws and life is life.

  We pull into the rest stop where we meet Kristy and park toward the back where there are typically empty spaces. It’s no surprise that she isn’t here yet. Being on time was never her best quality, which doesn’t say much since I can’t think of one good quality I ever saw in her now.

  Thirty minutes late, Kristy pulls around the corner in her white Land Rover Daddy bought for her as a divorce gift. People get rewarded when they cheat on their husbands and destroy families. It’s incredible, really. Kristy can do no wrong in her parents’ eyes. They probably blame me for her having an affair too. Hannah shuffles around the back of the seat, gathering her belongings, huffing and puffing along the way. “Do you have your phone charger?”