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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “What do you mean?” Journey asks, still looking at me with questioning eyes.“Do you want something to drink? My throat is feeling a bit dry.”

  “Sure, I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she says, standing up to follow me into the kitchen. I didn’t think she’d be getting up too, but I should stop assuming. “Brody, what happened after that night?”

  I open the fridge, feeling my throat tighten. “Why did you really run off last night?”

  “I wasn’t lying. The pizza didn’t agree with my stomach.”

  I pop the cap off two beers and hand her one. “Let’s try again,” I say.

  “Do you want me to tell you I shit myself? Is that a turn-on?”

  I wasn’t expecting the words to pour out of her adorable mouth, and I can’t help the bellowing laughter that erupts from my throat. “Wow. That’s incredible. Nice, nice. Um, well, that’s not what I meant, but I hope your bathroom has recovered since last night.”

  “I’m not sure. I left the fan on all night and lit a match. We’ll see. Why do you think I’m at your house instead of my apartment right now?”

  Damnit, this is why I like her. Why do I always attract trouble?”

  Journey takes a sip of her beer, holding one arm over her chest as she leans against the fridge. I follow and take a swig from my beer. “What’s going through your mind right now?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Everything and nothing at the same time, an issue I often have.”

  “I see, and I’m supposed to read between those lines, I assume?”

  “It depends. What are you reading?”

  “You just licked your lips, and you’re looking at mine,” I explain.

  “So you’re good at picking up on cues,” she says.

  “I know a thing or two.”

  Journey takes a step toward me, and I take a step back, refusing to give in to the mind game she’s playing in my kitchen. She’s avoiding something, and I’m not sure what it is, but nothing is happening between us until I figure it out. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” There’s a hint of sincerity in her voice, but more hope than concern, in my opinion.

  “Are you trying to?” I ask.

  “Make you feel vulnerable?”

  “That wasn’t your original question.

  “Okay, let's try this,” she says. There’s a storm brewing in your eyes, and I want you to tell me about the pain you keep locked inside you.”

  There’s a storm in my eyes?”

  “I saw it last night when you were telling me about Pete.”

  “And you think I’ll fess up to the girl who ran off halfway through my story because she had to shit herself, then cornered me in my kitchen to continue talking?”

  “Yes,” she says, taking another step toward me—cornering me as I suspected she might.

  Journey grabs at my elbows and urges me to move, switching sides with me, so she’s cornered in my kitchen. It’s more of a turn-on than a motivation to continue speaking about a sore subject. In fact, I take the opportunity to lean forward, reaching for a spot on her neck beneath her right ear. She allows my lips to brush against her skin before pushing her hand into my chest. “No, first you talk. I want to know the rest, and you’re standing in my way of moving from this spot.”

  With a longing stare into my eyes, I see the need for truth written across her face. This outer shell she wears like a metal armor is breaking down, and I’m not sure she’ll be okay if I’m the one who takes it from her. I also believe she’s thinking the same about me, and she might be right. What if that protective armor that I shield myself with is what makes people assume I live a happy and carefree life—what if people were to see the truth I’ve become a master at hiding? This could be a disaster for both of us.

  Journey drops her focus to my free hand and takes it within hers. “Finish telling me what happened, please.”

  I take another long swig of my beer, unashamedly needing the liquid courage to continue digging up these old, buried bones. “I haven’t told anyone this stuff, Journey. It’s not my story, and it’s been easier to avoid than to share.”

  “If it affects you, it’s part of your story, and avoidance isn’t going to make the pain go away, it’s going to postpone it from erupting in your soul.”

  Her point is valid, so valid, and I hope she follows her advice and shares her pain with me, too.

  Journey’s thumb sweeps back and forth within my hand's palm, maybe a gesture to show she’s listening and waiting.

  “He hated me after that night,” I say. “Like, there were times he said he wished he had pushed me over the ledge first—that kind of hate.” Part of me thought that he would realize how big a mistake he almost made when he came to his senses and would know I was doing nothing more than trying to help him, but I became his enemy after that night. It was a hard pill to swallow after being friends for so long, you know?”

  “Did you lose touch?” Journey asks.

  I shake my head. “No, I wasn’t about to let that happen, no matter what shitty things he said to me.”

  “You strike me as the type who doesn’t give up on anyone, Brody Pearson,” she says.

  “My gut speaks louder than it should, and it motivates my determination more often than not.”

  “That’s a good quality,” she says.

  “To some, that’s debatable, but in any case, there is a wide array of circumstances surrounding an attempted suicide. It’s not cut and dry. Everyone has their own story and reason. Some people are remorseful after an unsuccessful attempt. Others are horrified at how close they came to dying. There are ones that are afraid of themselves or the voice in their head that was louder than their rational thoughts. Then there’s the person who is only sorry that the attempt to end their life, failed or in Pete’s case, was interrupted. A psych evaluation usually determines what the outcome might be for each individual. There was a quick determination that Pete needed advanced therapy—inpatient rehabilitation, where he was on suicide watch and needed monitoring twenty-four hours a day.”

  Journey’s hand squeezes mine, but I'm not sure if it’s because of her feelings or the awkward trembling in my voice as I continue speaking.

  “I was convinced an inpatient facility might be better for him than living with his parents since they were partially to blame for the cause of his problems, but his stay there was only temporary. I didn’t know who would be watching over him after his release back into the real world.”

  “Aren’t people usually kept as an inpatient for just a week or so?” Journey asks, making me wonder how she would know such a specific piece of information. Between the movies and books, people have the preconceived notion that inpatient therapy can be a year or longer, but most often, it’s a week, although sometimes up to a month if the situation warrants it.

  Pete’s parents had him admitted since he was under eighteen. The psychiatrist assigned to his case explained that they would release him when they determined he was mentally stable, on a regimen of proper medication and follow-up visits scheduled to treat his depression.

  Pete was either trying to extend his stay in the psych ward or lost a part of himself the night he tried to jump because he ended up staying longer than I thought he would since he was being monitored under intense supervision for five weeks. Even then, he had a transition period between inpatient and outpatient therapy. He wasn’t making anything easy on himself or the doctors, for that matter.” Nothing about Pete resembled who he used to be.e. It was like his old personality was stolen, and as the days and weeks went by, I was sure the person I once called my best friend was never coming back, and even if he did, he would never trust me again.

  14

  My body and mind are beyond the point of exhaustion, and even though it’s almost four in the morning, there’s no way I’m going to fall asleep. Shock at what I saw firsthand and the reality of what occurred on top of the tower ... a place where most of us always went to have a good time, is hard to digest. Even in my room
, a safe cocoon, with darkness and quiet surrounding me, the realization of what happened and what could have happened, is overwhelming. I wanted to follow the ambulance to the hospital, but Dad spoke to Pete’s parents, and while a “thank you” was sent along, they asked that I stay home.

  I didn’t see the signs. Or maybe I did, but I overlooked them. Should I have done something sooner? Maybe this is somehow my fault. If I stopped thinking about myself so much and considered what someone else might be going through, I might have saved Pete from feeling that this was his only way out. Thoughts about the end of the school year are consuming, what I plan to do this summer, and a million other little things that don’t matter compared to what Pete’s been going through. Why didn’t he tell me? Why did Pete even want me to be with him tonight? Was it a cry for help … for me to save him, or did he want me to watch him jump to his death? Maybe he intended it to be a punishment for something I unknowingly did to him?

  * * *

  Three hours pass, but it feels like twelve, with my mind reliving every moment of last night. It’s seven now, and the sun is blinding even through the closed curtains. I need to know what’s happening to Pete. I wonder if they'll keep him in the hospital or send him to a psychiatric facility. Surely, they won't just send him home. Someone needs to keep an eye on him.

  My bedroom door opens without a knock, which means it’s Brett. The bonehead doesn’t get the meaning of respect when it comes to walking into my room.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, tentatively. “Pops told me—”

  I don’t have the energy to tell him to get out of my room, but I don’t have the energy to talk about anything either. Brett pulls my desk chair away from the wall, spins it around, and swings his legs over the side. He rests his arms on the back of the chair and rests his chin onto his crossed wrists. He’s ready for school—his backward Sox hat, and his favorite crap brown Green Day t-shirt. “I don’t know,” I say, hoping the answer will suffice his curiosity enough to leave and go to school.

  “I take it you’re not going to school today?”

  “They said I could stay home.”

  “You’re just going to sit here and think about it all day. Maybe school would be a distraction. I doubt anyone knows what happened.”

  Not yet. I don’t know how the word will spread about Pete because it won’t be by me, but this town has no secrets. Brett doesn’t want to take the bus. I bet that’s what this is all about. I’ve been driving him for the last few weeks, and he’s seen the finer side of life without the ‘squeezed into a sardine can’ bus ride to school. “I’ll drive you, but I’m not going to stay,” I say.

  Brett lifts his chin from his arms. “I wasn’t asking because I wanted a ride. I’m worried about you. No one should have to go through something like that with their best friend.”

  Maybe I should have told Pete I was concerned about him. I was too worried it would sound lame coming from another dude, but I’d feel better knowing I had at least tried in hindsight. “I don’t know what I’m feeling, how I’m feeling, or what I’m going to feel three hours from now. I just—I’m not going to school. I need to find out where Pete is. I need to talk to him.”

  Brett’s mouth curls to one side, a look that says he’s questioning my plan. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to get in the middle of this today?” Only my brother can push my buttons to the point where I want to snap, but he knows this, and for that reason alone, I do what I can to control my irritation toward his question.

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t have buried that t-shirt two years ago when that album died?”

  Brett presses himself up from the chair. “Dude, I was just trying to see if I could do anything to help you. You don’t have to rip on Green Day, and you know the album is still hot.

  I shake my head, feeling the heaviness in my eyelids return. I want to sleep. I just know it isn’t going to happen, so I toss the covers to the side, realizing I never changed out of the clothes I had on last night. Whatever. “I’ll take you to school.”

  “I can walk. It’s fine,” Brett says.

  I lift the curtain above my window, noticing the sun's brightness has faded over the last few minutes. The clouds rolled in quickly, and the forecasted all-day showers began. “It’s raining,” I say.

  “I have a hood on my sweatshirt,” Brett replies.

  “You’d cover up Green Day’s emblem for rain?” Brett rolls his eyes and returns the desk chair to where he found it. “Just give me two minutes, and I’ll be ready.

  I throw on a hoodie and my Patriots hat and do what’s necessary to avoid the full-length mirror on my closet door. I don’t want to know what I look like right now because it can’t be much better than how I feel.

  As if Brett’s questions weren’t enough to process without any sleep, Mom is sitting at the kitchen table, slowly sipping on a cup of coffee as she stares through the stone wall on the other side of the table. “I’m taking Brett to school,” I say, passing through the kitchen.

  “Brody,” Mom says through a whisper. “I was hoping we could talk before you leave this morning.” She was awake when we got home at four this morning, but I didn’t say much, and she didn’t try to intervene when I made a beeline for my bedroom. She looks as tired as I feel

  “There’s not much to talk about, Mom. Pete tried to kill himself. I stopped him. He hates me for saving him. Great story, right?”

  “Brody,” she repeats my name in the same whispering tone. “Please stop for a minute.” I know we have time. Brett doesn’t have to be at school for at least forty-five more minutes, but we both like to meet up with friends before homeroom. I stop walking, but I don’t turn around.

  “What?”

  “This wasn’t your fault,” she says.

  “I know,” I reply.

  “I think we should talk to your doctor today. I’d like to find you someone to talk to about what happened last night. This isn’t going to go away on its own.”

  I wasn’t expecting Mom to jump in with a solution this fast. I wasn’t expecting her to have any kind of solution because this technically isn’t my problem. However, Mom doesn’t like to wait things out. She’s proactive and goes with her gut—a trait I must not have inherited.

  “I need a day, Mom. Come on. I need to find Pete first.”

  Mom releases a loud sigh, and I turn to face her. “Pete is in the hospital, Brody. They’re doing tests, neurological evaluations, and scans to make sure there isn't something more than depression causing the mental state he was in last night. I’m sure all of that will be going on for most of the day.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I spoke with Melinda this morning.”

  “Did she tell you she was having an affair too?” I say, the words slipping out of my mouth.

  “Excuse me?” Mom asks, placing her hand on her chest.

  “Never mind. I’m going to the hospital. I need to talk to him.”

  “Brody, why did you just say that about Melinda?” Mom asks, standing up from her seat.

  “Because it’s true. I told you Melinda and Jim are getting divorced. That’s one of the reasons why. Since we’re spilling truths, I might as well tell you that Jim’s drinking again too.”

  Mom closes her eyes, and the sound of a lump going down her throat tells me exactly how she feels at this moment. Maybe she thinks she didn’t notice any of the signs with Melinda when she saw her at PTA meetings. “That’s why he’s been asking you to spend so much time with him,” she says.

  “I guess, yeah.” More times than not over the last few weeks, they’ve told me I’m not going out as late as Pete has paged me to meet him. It’s just another gray area for guilt to sneak in.

  “You hate hospitals,” she reminds me.

  “I hate what I saw last night even more,” I say.

  “Can I go with you?” She hates hospitals as much as I do.

  “No, I need to go alone.”

  Mom’s gaze falls to her hands, drawing m
y attention to the red marks on her intertwined fingers where her skin is pulling against her tight grip. “Okay,” she says, sitting back down in her chair. “I’ll be here when you get back. If you can let me know what’s going on, I would appreciate it. Do you have change for the payphone?”

  I dig my hand into my pocket, remembering the quarters I found last night. “Yeah, I’ll call you. I have money.”

  Mom looks like a train just blew by, missing her by two inches. I can assume she’s thinking … that could have been you.

  “I’ll be in the car,” Brett says, kissing Mom on the cheek. “Love you.”

  “Have a good day, sweetie,” she says, trying to sound casual, but failing.

  I follow Brett’s gesture and give her a kiss on the cheek too. “I love you, Mom. You don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

  I try to walk away, but Mom’s hand squeezes around my wrist, tighter than I thought she might be capable of as I’ve grown taller and heavier than her over the last few years. “Look at me, Brody Pearson,” she demands. I do as she says because it’s instinct to react to her motherly tone. “I will always worry about you until the day I die. That is my job as your mother, like it or not.”

  She releases her hand from my wrist, and a tear rolls down the side of her nose. “I’ll call you.”

  I hate the smell. I hate the expressions on faces from those coming and going. I hate the constricted feeling of being in an extra-large, yet overcrowded elevator. I hate that there is no music or artwork without inspirational quotes. There is nothing about this place that can be confused for anywhere other than a hospital. It isn’t that this place has done me wrong, but I’ve been here so many times for stitches and broken bones that the feeling of dread follows me through the sliding doors. I should be used to it here, but instead, I try harder to avoid injuries on the playing fields.