"So, I’ve heard," Mr. Crawley replies. "I see you’ve reacquainted yourself with Melody. It must be years since you two have seen each other, huh?"
"Yeah," Brett says. "It’s been a long time."
Brett walks toward Mr. Crawley, leaving me with a whiff of his mildly spiced cologne a sight I should avoid admiring. Brett is clearly dressed to impress by wearing a light blue dress shirt, tie, and gray slacks. Dad is the only one who dresses professionally since he mostly just oversees the working parts of the shop. More often than not, he is—was—on the front floor conversing with the customers, teaching them about bourbon. But because Mr. Crawley works with the machinery most of the day, he doesn’t tend to wear anything too fancy.
"I don’t know the password to the computer," I tell them.
"I’ll create you one," Brett says.
I don’t think I like this. "Does my dad know you have this kind of access?" My words sound snippy, maybe more so than they should.
"He does. He walked me through it over the phone the other day," Brett says.
Why didn’t Dad ask me for help?
"Well, it looks like you two have everything under control here, so I’ll—" I point at the front door. "Unless there’s something you need help with?"
"The labels," Mr. Crawley says, chuckling.Can’t the fabulous Brett handle them?I can’t believe I was sitting next to Brett Pearson on the plane and didn’t recognize him. It’s the hair. He cut off the mop, grew scruff, and a sharp jawline.
"I can do the labels if you’d rather get back to your dad," Brett offers.
I guess we didn’t need to exchange stories on the plane.
Panic pulsates through me. I needed this time to be a distraction, not a reminder of what’s coming. I spin around in my frenzy, deciding if I should stay or leave.
I should leave.
Definitely leave.
The two men are staring at me as I turn around and walk out the door without so much as saying goodbye.
5
How canDad be thinking about so much when he doesn’t know if there will be a tomorrow? I can’t believe he already hired someone to run the business. I can’t pretend like I ever had intentions of taking over the shop, even knowing Dad wouldn’t be able to run it forever, but the thought hadn’t crossed my mind because Dad should get tolive well past his retirement age. Nothing has gone as I have planned since I graduated college, and while I have traveled along with the bumps in the road, everything feels like it’s crashing down on me now.
Maybe I have no business being in The Barrel House, pretending like I know everything there is to know about running a bourbon distillery or even know enough about bourbon to sell a bottle.
"Melody!"It’s Brett. He’s calling after me. Doesn’t he know when a woman runs out a door, it’s best not to follow her?
I turn back toward the firehouse, watching him walk toward me. My instinct forces me to take a step back, which causes me to trip off the curb. I catch myself by grabbing a mirror on a car, but the car’s alarm beeps at me to add an extra dose of humiliation to this moment.
My heart is in my throat, or maybe it’s my stomach. My head is spinning and ... why did he have to come after me?
"I need to get back home. I should be with my dad.” I look both ways to make sure I don’t get creamed by a car on top of it all. The coast is clear, and I cross the street, finding my way to Mom’s car.
"Wait up for a second," Brett continues, following me across the street. He places his hand on the door, preventing me from opening it and jumping inside. "Your dad wanted a bottle," he says, handing me the bottle of Red Apple, which Dad did, in fact, request.
"How did you—"
"He called to warn me you were on your way down, flustered, upset, trying to be a hero, and you’d most likely forget he requested a bottle of Red Apple." Brett’s laugh is endearing as hesmiles benevolently. "I’m not trying to take over your family business, despite what you might be thinking. My dad has been a barrel supplier for your dad since before either of us were born. I was asked to come and help you guys out."
"I know." I understand little of anything now. I’ve been going a mile a minute since I got the letter yesterday. I’ve been awake since five this morning, and I’m exhausted. "Thank you for coming to help," I offer with sincerity, wishing he would move his hand from my door.
"I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone." The look in Brett’s eyes triggers more pain in my stomach.I’m losing my dad.
"I don’t know what else I can do right now aside from helping him, and being in his shop feels like the only way I can do so,” I explain.
The backs of my eyes burn. I’m supposed to be the strong one, but I’m falling apart. I stare up to the sky, waning the threatening tears.Keep it together, Melody.My body doesn’t respond to my command. Tears trickle, one by one, and I gasp for air as my lungs feel like they are deflating. I place my hands over my face, embarrassed to be crying in front of Brett Pearson of all people, but the pain has been building, and though I let a few tears escape this morning at the airport, it clearly wasn’t enough. "I’m sorry," I mutter.
