"Yeah. Part of me wants the suffering to be over for him, but the other part of me wants to beg him to hold on as long as he can. There’s no real balance in my head."
"I know it doesn’t help you right now, but there will come a time when you’ll be thankful to have had the chance to tell him what you want to say."
I drop my gaze to the shredded strings on my torn jeans and pull at a loose thread. "I suppose."
"How’s Journey?"
"She doesn’t talk when she’s upset. So—she’s pretty damn upset."
"Coping is different for everyone," he says.
As if Benji is listening, he huffs an exhausted sigh, drawing my attention to his tired eyes. "What’s in the bag?" I ask Brett again.
He takes the bag from between his feet and pulls out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. "Oh, no, no ... I don’t drink bourbon. I just support it."
Brett chuckles. "You need to know what’s special about bourbon before you cross it off your list," he says.
"I borrowed a book about bourbon today. I plan to learn everything I can, so I can help more in the shop."
Brett breaks the seal on the bottle and twists the top. "You can’t learn everything about bourbon from a book. It would be like understanding the taste of chocolate if you haven’t tried it before."
"Who hasn’t tried chocolate?" I question, tripping up his life-lesson.
"You know what I mean," he says. "And you can’t snarl at this bottle. It’s special."
"It’s bourbon.”
"This is the first bottle of Quinn Pine opened this year, and it’s a 2009."
"Is old good?"
Brett snickers and shakes his head. "Yes, old is good." He pours a small amount into the two glasses and replaces the cap on the bottle, carefully placing it down on the bench beside him.
He places a glass into my hand, and all I can think about is the last time I tried this stuff. Brett was there for the aftermath—something I don’t think he remembers.
"Close your eyes and take a small sip, but hold the liquid in your mouth for a couple of seconds before you swallow." Part of me wants to pretend to take the sip, but my eyes are closed and I’m sure he’s watching. I take in a small pull, letting the liquid settle into my taste buds. I imagine I’m making a horrible face as I force the contents down my throat. Though, it wasn’t as bad as I remember. "Keep your eyes closed, and tell me which flavors you taste?"
I lick my top lip for a reminder. "It’s sweet like vanilla or caramel, maybe a hint of cinnamon too, but it has a dry smoky aftertaste."
"Wow, you’re right on. It has the familiarity of vanilla and caramel notes. The smoky taste comes from the barrel. We char each barrel before pouringthe ingredients inside. The cinnamon, though, the Quinn Pine is made with a high rye, which gives it a little touch of spice. It’s the reason why your dad saves it for the holiday season."
He sounds like Dad, gushing about flavors and notes, and hints of spices—statements I never quite understood.
I take another sip, closing my eyes again, trying my best to focus on the rich flavors. "I’m glad you’re sipping it this time," he says.
The statement yanks my attention away from the glass. "What do you mean?"
"The last time you had bourbon was at the holiday party all those years ago, right?"
"Yes …"
"I believe you had been gulping bourbon," he says, his brows angle in toward his nose, looking at me as if my stupid decision was cute rather than mortifying.
"Yes, I had gulped the bourbon. I was not familiar with the art of drinking.” I run my hand down the side of my face, still feeling the embarrassment from all those years ago. "For the longest time, when my dad talked about tasting the notes in the bourbon, I was almost positive he was talking about a written note, and I couldn’t figure out why he would want to taste them."
Brett had just taken a sip of his bourbon, but my comment makes him choke. He tosses his hand in front of his mouth, squeezes his eyes, and shakes his head. "Wow, well, uh—that’s pretty incredible," he says, clearing his throat. "And adorable."
"Gee, thanks," I huff.
