Will Dad even make it to Thanksgiving?
"It’s whatever," Journey adds in. "No biggie. I’m still waiting for my big break."
"It’s coming, sweetie. I can feel it," Mom says.
The four of us continue to munch on our sandwiches in silence, but as Mom and Journey focus on their food, I have a side-eye on Dad, who is inconspicuously feeding parts of his lunch to Benji under the table. I consider clearing my throat, but when I stop to think, I realize Mom thinks she’s helping Dad by feeding him, and Dad can’t stomach the food. It’s best to let this go.
"Did that guy show up at the shop?" Journey asks Dad.
Guy?
"I’m not sure. I haven’t heard from anyone yet. I’ll call him in a bit," Dad says.
"What guy?" I question.
Dad slips a sliver of a potato chip into his mouth. "A supplier has a guy who will watch over things for the time being."
"No," I argue. "I told you, I will take care of everything at the shop. It’s a family owned business. It should stay that way."
Dad presses his lips together, bringing focus to the slight purple-hue outlining his mouth. He looks sick.
"Melody, what are you talking about?" Journey asks, stabbing her coleslaw with a fork.
"We need to take care of The Barrel House while Dad can’t.” I’m making it sound like he will able to take care of it again someday when we all know it isn’t the case.
"We don’t know a thing about bourbon," Journey says, her voice flat and lacking emotion.
"We’ll learn," I say, gritting my teeth.
"You don’t have to control everything," Journey continues. "Dad has a plan. Just let it go."
"No, I will not let it go. Don’t you care? Papa passed the store down to Dad and now—"
Everyone at the table looks up at me, I’m sure wondering if I plan to finish my sentence.
"Well, good luck. You don’t even know the difference between red wine and white wine. How are you planning to run a bourbon shop?" Journey scoffs. This is why we don’t always get along. I love her more than anything, but she has never grown out of the typical big sister act of pushing every one of my buttons to get a rise out of me.
"Girls, enough," Mom says. Now I feel like I’m a twelve-year-old being scolded at the kitchen table. "Your father doesn’t expect either of you to take over the shop or step in to help. We both know you have your own lives and careers, and the last thing we would ask of you is to uproot your life to run the shop."
Dad is already losing everything. I can’t bear the thought of the business going with his failing body. Journey and I grew up in the back room of the shop, since Mom spent many years helping Dad run the place. It’s the only bourbon shop in a hundred-mile radius, and the place is never empty.
"Remember the time Journey went missing in the back of the shop, and it took us three hours to find her?" I ask, keeping my focus locked on my pile of untouched coleslaw.
Dad tosses his head back with laughter, and Mom places her hand on the side of her face, trying not to laugh, as well.
"Who falls asleep in a wooden barrel?" I ask, joining in with Dad’s laughter.
"Are we done?" Journey asks. Her chair scrapes against the wooden floor, and she snags her plate and glass, then brings it to the sink. After a quick rinse and a clatter from the glass dropped into the dishwasher, we are left with the wind of Journey’s existence. She still stomps up the stairs like a child, and her door slams as loud as it ever did when we were younger.
"She’s not taking this well," Mom says.
"None of us are," I retort, my brows furrowing with aggravation. “It doesn’t mean she needs to be acting this way. We should be doing what we can to makeDad comfortable, not stressing him out."
Dad clears his throat. "I’m still alive. I’m right here, and I can talk for myself, Melody. We’re all going to deal with this in our own way, and we need to support one another."
My heart hurts, and I didn’t know my heart could physically hurt. It feels heavy like my body is using all its strength to keep it beating.
"Why don’t you go take a breath," Dad suggests.
