"Yes, please, we’ll have two orders of chocolate chip pancakes, and two coffees," Journey says, ordering for the both of us.
"Are you twotwins?" the woman asks with a chuckle.
We get that a lot, despite the different colors of our hair and the fact of having a face full of freckles, and Journey is as pale as a white sheet. "Oh, no, she’s older by two years," I tell the woman.
"Well, you look so much alike. I’ll be right back with your coffees."
"Is Ace a factor in your grief?" Journey asks.
I think for a moment, trying to search my mind for an answer that should be there, but isn’t. "Not even a little. I feel relieved to be away from him, which makes me feel guilty, I guess."
"He didn’t make you happy, Mel," she says. "You did the right thing."
"Yeah," I agree.
"What else is weighing you down beside the obvious?" Journey asks.
The waitress returns with our coffees and a little bowl full of individual creamers. "Your pancakes will be out in just a few minutes," she says, placing a handful of napkins down beside the creamers.
"I don’t want to sell The Barrel House," I tell her. "The thought of losing the family business is like we’re burying all parts of Dad with him when he goes."
Journey drops her gaze to her coffee and takes a creamer from the bowl. "He ran the shop seven days a week, Mel. How are we supposed to keep up with our own careers?"
"I don’t know, but I need this.”
"He hired someone to pick up the heavy lifting," Journey says, taking a sip of her coffee
"Yeah ... Brett Pearson. Brett Pearson, who also happens to be the guy I sat next to on the plane yesterday. I had no clue it was him—he looks so different now. What are the odds of this happening? In fact, what are the odds of any of this happening?"I huff with frustration.
Journey spits her coffee into the back of her hand, and her eyes go wide. "Wait, Brett Pearson—Mr. Pearson’s son—the Brett Pearson you—"
I close my eyes and toss my head back against the seat. "Yes."
"Does he remember you?"
"I think so, but he asked which daughter I was. Maybe he forgot all about that stupid night."
Journey takes a napkin and wipes up her little mess. "Okay, relax. It was like ten years ago or something. We were teenagers."
"It will bite me in the butt. I can feel it."
"See, you should have dyed your hair like me. Then, bam. No one recognizes you."
"Great, well. It’s a little late for that. In any case, we can’t allow Brett to run our father’s shop. We need to take some ownership. The business has been in our family since it originated in Dublin a hundred years ago. We have to do something."
"Dublin?" Journey asks.
"Yeah, I think our great-great-grandfather started the business in Dublin," I say, trying to remember the history.
"Mel, look, I know you need something else to focus on, but we need to take care of Dad first, okay?"
The waitress places our pancakesdown in front of us, along with a stack of napkins, and two place settings with forks and knives. We both eye the bottle of maple syrup by the edge of the table, waiting for the waitress to walk away, but she presses her hands down on the table and looks back and forth between us. "I always tell people … pancakes can fix everything," she says.
I wish it weren’t the case. "You’re right," I reply, forcing a smile. "Thank you."
"So," I say, cutting into my pancakes.
"No," Journey replies as if she knows what was about to follow my ‘so.’
