Prologue
TEN YEARS AGO
"Just go talk to him,"Journey says, pushing me in his direction.
"He's like two years older than me. There's no way he would be interested in me of all people. Plus, I heard he's about to leave for boot camp or something."
Journey grabs me by the shoulders and stares me straight in the eyes. "You have had a crush on him for like three years and haven't said a word to him. I say it's now or never," my sister continues badgering me. "Plus, if he's leaving for boot camp, what's the worst that can happen?"
"What's the purpose, is a better question?" I chide.
"What if he feels the same way? You could keep in touch, you know?" Journey presses.
I narrow my eyes at Journey, wondering why she's pushing this subject so hard. "Why do you suddenly care if I talk to him?"
Journey rolls her eyes and scoffs. "Honestly, Melody, I don't want to hear you complaining about the fact that you couldn't find the courage to talk to him. Every time we have seen him over the years, I have had to listen to you whine about the fact that you didn’t talk to him, and mutter, ‘It was my only chance,’ blah, blah, blah. So, save us both the grief and go say hi. It's literally one syllable. It takes less effort than breathing. Do it."
I close my eyes and shake my head, feeling the pressure build in my chest. "You're my big sister. You're supposed to be a good influence." Journey is nineteen and anything but a good influence, but still.
"Fine. You want me to be a good influence … I'll be a good influence." Journey takes me by the elbow, and drags me behind the counter in The Barrel House. People are filling every corner of the shop for the holiday party, but no one is behind this counter except us. Journey yanks me down to the ground and snags a bottle from behind a crate of gift boxes. She unscrews the cap and hands it over. "Swig."
"No," I snap at her. "I'm seventeen. I shouldn't be drinking."
"Oh, please. Who will know?"
"The legal drinking age is twenty-one, Journey."
Journey continues to hold the bottle in front of my face. "You can either live your life in fear of rules, or you can live a little, and see how far your luck will take you. A few sips won't do anything, but give you some liquid courage."
I don't know why Journey has gotten through to me tonight, because this isn't the first time she's tried to drag me down with her misbehaving ways, but she's right about being out of chances. It's now or maybe never.
With my heart in my throat, I snag the bottle from her hand and take a big swig—too big. This tastes like rotten cold medicine. I have a mouthful and somehow need to force it down my throat. My eyes are wide as I stare at my giggling sister. “Swallow it," she asserts.
I choke it down, feeling the burn travel all the way down to the pit of my stomach. "This stuff tastes awful," I respond, sounding raspy.
"It's an acquired taste," Journey schools me. "One more gulp, and you'll be golden."
As much as the taste made me feel sick, my mouth feels numb enough to give it one more try. This time, the taste didn't bother me as much, but the burn feels more intense.
Journey takes the bottle from my hands, takes a couple swigs, and fastens the cap back onto the bottle. "What's the point of being daughters to the owner of a bourbon shop if we can’t sample the product sometimes?"
"It's illegal," I grunt.
"Only if someone finds out," she says. "Now, go talk to Brett." Journey pops up, peering over the counter as if she's on a secret mission. "He's right there, heading into the back room. Now is your chance."
Journey pulls me up to my feet and shoves me toward the door, leading to the back room. I take in a deep breath and walk, pulling my shoulders back, holding my chin high, and remind myself I have nothing to lose.
I have nothing to lose.
I have nothing to lose.
I have nothing to lose.
As if my feet are floating through the air, I end up right in front of Brett Pearson, the son of Dad's business associate. "Hey," he says.
"Hi," is all I manage to say. It’s all I’ve come up with to say. According to Journey, my statement should come out easier than a breath, but now I don't know what to say next. He's kind of staring at me. I assume he’s wondering if I have a purpose for following him back here.
"It's so stuffy out there. I need fresh air. Although, maybe not as fresh as the negative degree kind of air outside," he says, chuckling.
