Old Fashioned

by Steiner, Kandi

  I wondered if it was still a dream, if maybe he and Ruby Grace would do it together one day.

  “It’s not you, Mikey,” he continued, his eyes still on the ceiling. “I wanted something low key. I mean, to be honest, I don’t consider this the last night of me being a free man. The truth is, my heart was taken off the market the moment I met Ruby Grace.”

  Logan smiled at that.

  “If anything, this is my last night of a chapter I’m excited to end. I think my real freedom, my real life starts when I marry that woman tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, but still, you don’t want to see some titties?” Mikey asked.

  Noah looked at all of us with an unreadable expression. “Does it make me the biggest pansy in the world if I say the only titties I want to see for the rest of my life are hers?”

  There was a chorus of soft laughter from each of us, but not much of an argument, which was a testament to what we’d been through in the last few years. There was no doubt in my mind that had this night happened five years ago, we would have been at a strip club — whether Noah wanted to go or not. We would have snuck Mikey in, if we had to. Back then, none of us were settled down, and it wasn’t even on the radar.

  Now, we were different men.

  All thanks to women we never saw coming.

  “I would tease you about it,” Logan said. “But the truth is, I’m in the same boat.”

  “Me, too,” Mikey chimed in.

  “I’ll bet you’re in the same boat, Logan. Especially now that Mallory’s boobs are getting baby-ready, if you know what I mean,” Noah joked, waggling his brows.

  Logan pointed a finger at him from his corner of the treehouse — which was filled with books — and narrowed his eyes. “Talk about my girl’s baby-ready boobs again and we’ll be fighting, brother.”

  Noah threw his hands up on a laugh. “I told you, I’ve got my own boobs.”

  “Can we change the subject?” Mikey interjected. “Now I’m thinking about both your girl’s boobs and I don’t like it.”

  There was another shuffle of laughter, and then Noah was refilling the whiskey in our glasses. We were drinking a bottle from one of the single-barrel releases last summer — on the rocks, of course, Noah’s favorite way. And Mikey was indulging in his favorite drink, a rootbeer float, since he’d volunteered to be our designated driver.

  The conversation flowed on, and I stayed mostly quiet — which no one questioned me about since it wasn’t unusual, thankfully, even though tonight’s silence had more weight than my norm. My chest was still tight from Thanksgiving, from the night I’d spent with Sydney, from the feelings for her that were growing and stirring in my gut with the need to tell her and to hear her reciprocate, too.

  I knew when she opened up to me about Randy last night that it wasn’t the time, but I hadn’t seen her today, either, and Noah’s wedding was tomorrow. She would be in our family photographs forever. She would be there for one of the most important days of my little brother’s life. This wasn’t a family dinner or a public date, it was more.

  Having her there as my plus one meant something to me.

  And it was driving me mad that I didn’t know if she felt the same.

  Part of my brain told me to shut up and relax, to take her actions as reassurance. She’d spent the entire day with my family yesterday, and then we’d spent the entire night wrapped up in each other after she came to me with something she didn’t go to anyone else with. She trusted me, felt comfortable with me, opened up to me. And over the last two months, we’d explored each other, discovering just as much about one another as we did about ourselves in the process.

  But this was new for me.

  I’d never opened my heart to someone before, and I worried about what I was feeling, what she was feeling, and where we would go from here.

  If we would go anywhere, at all.

  I wondered if I read all the signs wrong, if I was in too deep when she was wading in the shallow end, if we would be able to survive working together if whatever this was between us didn’t work out.

  And I knew she was wondering how we would survive working together if whatever this was between us did work out.

  I was worried about one thing, and she was concerned about another.

  How could we meet in the middle with those two facts being true?

  This was the constant whirl of my thoughts over the last twenty-four hours, and I couldn’t shake loose from them, no matter how I tried.

  “So, Jordan,” Mikey said, snapping me back to the moment with my brothers. “You going to fill us in on the Sydney situation willingly or do we have to beat it out of you?”

  I blinked, trying to think of the right words to assure them that there was nothing to talk about, but Logan rolled his eyes before I could speak.

  “Oh, come on. Mikey told us that you kissed her earlier this season, and though he also told us she didn’t want it to ever happen again, I think it’s pretty clear after yesterday that it has.”

  “A lot, I’d wager,” Noah added with a smirk.

  I narrowed my eyes at Mikey, who threw his hands up. “Hey, we’re brothers. Don’t act like y’all didn’t talk about me behind my back when I was going through my shit with Bailey and Kylie.”

  I sighed at that, because it was true, and because if my brothers didn’t worry about me, I’d be worried. We were a family unit tied together with bonds as strong as steel, and we watched out for each other, ready to fight if necessary or be there as a shoulder to cry on.

  And we hated to cry.

  But we were never too proud to. It was one of the many things our father had instilled in us — that it was okay to have emotions, and it didn’t make you less of a man.

  “Come on, guys,” I said on another sigh, looking through the binder of old football rookie cards I’d once collected. It felt good to keep my eyes there instead of meeting their gaze. “You know I’m not a man of many words.”

  “So just use a few of them,” Mikey offered.

  I scowled, but closed the binder with a heavy breath. “I don’t know. Obviously, we’re not just friends.”

  “Quite,” Logan said, and I narrowed my eyes at him before continuing.

  “We… were intimate, after the first home game win,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable airing our personal business like that. But it was my brothers, and I knew I could trust them. “And I thought that was it, you know? That we were going to cross over the friendship line. And we did, but… it was different for me than it was for her.”

  “Meaning?” Noah probed.

  “Meaning we had a conversation the next day about how she didn’t want to tell anyone, and she didn’t want it to get too serious.”

  “Yikes,” Logan said on a whistle. “And you said?”

  I shrugged. “I was honest, told her I didn’t do the hook-up thing. So, we made a kind of deal, I guess. That we’d keep it on the down low, not make a big deal of it, but that I wanted her to come to your wedding with me.” I looked at Noah then. “And I basically implied that if we made it to this point, we would know if we were serious or not, if we should tell people, claim our relationship.”

  “And?” Noah asked.

  “And…” I sighed. “I know how I feel, and I think I know how she feels, but I’m not sure. And I want to ask her, but I’m afraid to push, but I also can’t wait much longer, because I think I’ll go fucking crazy if I do.”

  They were all silent for a long moment, and finally, Noah asked, “What’s the rush? I mean, would you be okay to not push it, to wait until she’s ready to broach the subject with you?”

  “I just don’t like this game,” I confessed. “Why are we not telling anyone, running around in secret, keeping it from our families and making it feel… dirty? You know?” I shifted uncomfortably. “This isn’t how Dad taught us to be with women, and I don’t like how it makes me feel.”

  “And you’re scared.”

  I looked at Logan, who’d said the wor
ds I didn’t want to admit.

  I swallowed. “And I’m scared.”

  “I was the same way with Mallory,” he said with a nod of understanding. “I understood our reasonings for needing to go slow and keep it to ourselves for a while, but after a certain point, I just… I needed to know I wasn’t fooling myself.”

  “Exactly,” I said on a breath, feeling understood. “And she’s got her reasons — good ones — for us to keep it quiet. I mean, she’s the only woman on a staff of men in a small town. People would talk if they found out we were together — and not about me, because that’s not how it works.”

  “So shitty…” Mikey murmured.

  “I know. And I couldn’t protect her from that, though I could try. She has to be ready for it. She also has to be ready to tell Paige, who is just getting used to the idea of her parents being divorced, I’m sure.”

  “And then there’s Randy,” Logan said, his expression hard, and when his eyes met mine, I knew that he knew what Sydney had confessed to me last night.

  “And then there’s Randy,” I echoed.

  “What about him?” Mikey asked, confused. “So what, she was married before. They’re divorced now. It’s not like she’s cheating.”

  “That’s not it at all. It’s more that Randy is a shithead,” Logan said for me. “And he has been on a power trip since he first became an officer shortly after high school. I’d bet anything that he does whatever he can to constantly remind her of his power.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way, and I tilted my head to the side. “You think that’s it? I mean, I figured she didn’t want to upset him, because from what she’s told me, he has anger issues and their relationship wasn’t the healthiest. But… do you think she’s afraid he’d do something to put her or Paige in jeopardy?”

  “That’s exactly what I think,” Logan said.

  We all fell silent, chewing on that, and finally I blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I get that, but she knows I would be there for her through that. We could figure it out together. And honestly, I think I’ll go crazy if I don’t just hear it from her that she’s feeling the same way I am. I know she’s showing me with actions but… it’s different.”

  I looked up at the stars above Noah’s corner of the treehouse, trying to explain it.

  “I’m already afraid of how I feel, like I’m an aerial artist that just flung off my hoop into the air and I have no idea if her hands are outstretched and ready to catch mine or if I’m going to freefall to my death. I’m more anxious than I’ve been my entire life, and I don’t want to be stupid.” My throat closed in on itself before I said my next sentence. “If she’s not in it, I need to let her go.”

  There was another long pause, and we all sipped from our glasses, letting the whiskey settle in as if it could help us problem solve.

  “I think you should tell her,” Noah said. “Tomorrow. Just put it all out there.”

  “I agree,” Mikey chimed in. “I mean, at this point, the possible gain is worth the possible risk. You just said it — if she’s not where you are, then it’s better to stop it now, before you both get in deeper.”

  I nodded, and Logan told me with his eyes that he agreed, too.

  “Thanks, brothers.”

  They offered small smiles, and then the conversation was changed — blessedly — and they let me slip back into my quiet state.

  Somewhere around midnight, as we were packing up and getting ready to leave, Mikey stopped in the middle of the treehouse, looking around at each of our corners.

  “I wish Dad could be here tonight,” he whispered. “And tomorrow, for you, Noah.” He looked at our brother then, whose face crumpled a bit.

  “I do, too,” Logan said.

  “He’s here,” I reminded them, clapping the two oldest ones on the shoulder. We all stood there, taking in what our father had built — not just with wood, but with his blood, sweat, and tears.

  He’d built that treehouse.

  And he’d built us, too.

  My chest tightened, and I hooked an arm around each of them, reminding them that no matter what, we had each other. Then, I echoed the truest belief I had.

  “He’s always here.”

  Later that night — or rather, very early the next morning — I lay wide awake in my bed, one arm under the pillow behind my head, eyes on the ceiling.

  I couldn’t sleep, and I wasn’t surprised.

  Talking with my brothers had my thoughts running laps in my head again, and when I glanced at my phone screen where it lay on my bedside table and saw that it was nearly three in the morning, I huffed, tossing the covers off me and storming to the kitchen to get some water.

  I needed to sleep. I was one of the groomsmen in the wedding tomorrow — or rather, today, and it would be a long day. I drank half a glass of cold water, looking around my little house and debating whether I should get in a quick twenty-minute, high-intensity workout and take a hot shower to see if those two things combined would make me pass out.

  But then my eyes landed on my laptop where it sat on my coffee table, and on the external hard drive next to it.

  Digging into Dad’s journal this late was a bad idea. I was tired, and I needed to be focusing on sleeping, not on staring at a computer screen.

  Then again, I knew even with a workout and a shower that sleep wasn’t anywhere near within reach, so I refilled my glass and padded into the living room, pulling the computer onto my lap and plugging in the hard drive.

  I scrubbed my hands over my face as the screen loaded, typing in Dad’s password when the login page popped up. I had his journal open in the next minute, and then I lost myself in translating the Latin entries, in the boring day to day my father had experienced at the distillery.

  I hadn’t realized how long I’d been working.

  I hadn’t realized how much time I’d made up for, how much of his journal still remained when I dove into it that night.

  I hadn’t realized that after just ninety minutes, I’d be staring at the last entry.

  It was marked at the top with the date of his death.

  My stomach lurched — so violently that I shot up straight, gripping the edges of the laptop as my eyes scanned that date in the top right-hand corner over and over again.

  It was the last entry.

  And this one wasn’t in Latin.

  My heartrate accelerated, and the first thing I thought was why didn’t we think to scroll to the bottom, to start here instead of at the beginning?

  The next notion was more consuming, though, and I let it take me under — because these were my father’s last private thoughts before his life was snuffed out like a match flame.

  And I was about to read them.

  Journal,

  Ah, my old friend, I’ve enjoyed our secret conversations in the ancient language, but I’m afraid there’s no time for me to practice that art today, for I have discovered something far too exciting to take my time in divulging.

  As you know from previous entries, I recently discovered the Last Will and Testament of our founder — Mr. Robert J. Scooter. What I might have failed to mention before is that there was no record of this Will when he passed, and for that reason, I did something I’m afraid I should be ashamed of.

  I read it.

  For months, I have combed through each page — of which there were many — researching the legal terms I did not understand and making notes of my own, searching for something my father believed would have existed in Robert’s Will — had there been one.

  And he was right.

  I needed to be sure, so even when I first discovered the pages that dictated how the company shares should be split in the event of Robert’s death, I did not let my hope and excitement guide me. Instead, I read and re-read and made notes and researched until I was so certain that nothing could be refuted. And I discovered the missing piece to a puzzle my father never solved in his lifetime.

  Robert left my father, and our family, fifty percent
of the company stock.

  Half.

  Part-ownership.

  Journal, even when I had the proof, I worried about whether or not to bring this information to Patrick Scooter. As you know, we haven’t exactly been best friends throughout the years, which I attribute largely to his father’s affection for me and how much he entrusted to me when it came to the distillery. I would also have to admit to Patrick that not only had I found the Will, but that I had not come to him with it directly, but rather read it on my own without permission.

  Nevertheless, I felt I had no other choice.

  It was time to set things right.

  Oh, I was nervous. My hands are still shaking as I type this, but now, from an exhilarating joy and anticipation rather than an uncertainty. To my utter amazement, Pat not only listened to me and agreed that I was correct in my interpretation of the Will — he insisted that we rectify the situation immediately.

  He’s going to name me as partner.

  He’s going to backpay my family for the years of income we should have been receiving, immediately include me on business decisions I was only a small voice for before, rewrite the staff organization chart, and for the first time since his father’s death, he seemed open to hearing my ideas for the future of this distillery.

  I guess now, he has no choice.

  What’s more, he wants me to move into his father’s old office — the one I’ve been cleaning out for months. He insisted it was what his dad would have wanted, for me to follow in his footsteps, to “take my place at the table,” so to speak.

  As I write this, I have already gathered most of the belongings in my office to transfer over, and Patrick has asked me to meet him in his father’s office after our four o’clock board meeting to discuss next steps.

  Again, I am trembling with excitement and disbelief. I can’t wait to get home to tell Laurelei and the boys.