“No!” I laugh again, this time in disbelief. “I can only presume it’s something to do with honoring the deity that gifted us Kablukov brothers such a large endowment.” The joke, as I suspected, doesn’t land well.
Aleks looks between me and the big red sign incredulously. “It’s an acronym, idiot.”
The best my brain comes up with is: Many Amazing New Sips—which reminds me of how my maternal grandmother would sound when trying to speak English to us on the phone when she called once a year on Christmas. Maybe the name is Nik’s bizarre way of honoring our heritage. “I don’t—”
“Milo, Aleks, Nadia, and Sef…Nik didn’t even put his own name in there; unless you count the N as standing for both him and—”
“Fuck,” I interrupt, letting my head fall back as I squint up at the sky.
“Yeah.”
“Fuuuuck.” I lower to a squat, my eyes finding each big red letter. I run my hands over my stubble and then cover my eyes. “I’m such a dick.” I stand, turning my body toward Aleks as he seems to count the stones between us, avoiding eye contact like the plague. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did.”
“Fuck,” I repeat for good measure.
“Not your best work…”
I run a hand through my hair and tug at the back of my skull before letting my arm fall to my side. “What do I do?”
“You know Nik…. It’s probably best if you give him a minute to calm down. He’s—”
“Pissed,” I finish for him, already nodding.
Aleks shakes his head, a crease appearing between his brows. “I was going to sayhurt.”
Right.“He could have just told me! Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Did you give him the chance to?”
I pull back, staring at my not-brother-brother like he’s got two heads. “Did everyone go to fucking therapy since I’ve been gone? Why are you all acting so—”
“Mature?” Aleks smirks, throwing his hands up defensively. “We’ve been growing up…haven’t you?”
He doesn’t mean to be an asshole, I tell myself, shoving a clenched fist into my jeans pocket. That’s just Aleks. He says the things the rest of us are too afraid to because he doesn’t realize how bad they’ll sting. The things that call on our deepest insecurities. The truth.
With my head hung, I go back to work in the supply closet. I organize and reorganize and rigidly line up each item with the shelves’ corresponding labels until the boxes are all emptied out. Then, I go get more boxes, the ones we were told didn’thaveto go in today, and I unpack those too—just in the hopes that Nik might walk past and give meoneapproving nod.
He never did.
I successfully avoided my brother for the remainder of the afternoon until he took off to greet the kids when they got home from school. Although onecouldargue he was successfully avoiding me, I was sort of hoping he’d stop by to clear the air. Or, at least, to see how sexy the shelves looked thanks to me.
And yes, maybe such gorgeous closet organization was brought on by guilt, having mocked something thatclearlymeant a great deal to him. But I can’t fix that now. A conversation would only make it more awkward for us both. Nik would have to admit his feelings were hurt—which would only embarrass him—and I’d have to apologize—which would makemedeeply uncomfortable.
I’m not great at expressing regret, despite having been a child worthy of an Oscar in apologetic performance. I offended myparents frequently, deeply, and often growing up. Mistakes were treated more like felonies by good ol’ Mom and Dad. Things like not taking the trash out on time, accidentally breaking a glass while washing dishes, changing the channel by sitting on the remote, or looking at Dadwrong—which was measured on an unpredictable scale.
Disrespect was the only cardinal sin in their house, both arbitrarily defined and tyrannically punished.
Consequently, I was forced to apologizeover and over and overor face a worse punishment. Which was usually just more strikes from Mom’s wooden spoon, or Dad’s belt…or worse as I got older.
Now, I prefer to avoid the whole charade. In my version of adulthood, mistakes are frequent and encouraged and fucking celebrated. Half of my skin is covered in them. Half of my history is decorated by them. And today’s, well, actually, today’s mistake was one that won’t be making the hall of fame any time soon.
I worked until Aleks decided it was time to call it a day too, emerging from the brewing hall smelling strongly of sulfur and citrus. We locked up, said our goodbyes, and I successfully avoided eye contact with Nik’s sign as I got into his wife’s minivan and pressed my forehead into the steering wheel.
Then, I spotted it. The six-pack of unlabeled beers Nik had given me to pass along to Tom, still in the passenger seat. Nik’s gift for my transgressions. One skipped apology is already too much for one day. And Tom’s is certainly the easier one to face.
So, instead of turning left out of the brewery’s driveway, I make a right. And half a minute later, I’m back at Welch’s for the second time today. I grab the six-pack, check myself out in the rearview mirror, adjust my hair accordingly, and then hop out of the van.
