I close my eyes and shake my head. "I am going to make so many mistakes, and I apologize for it now."
"I have no issues correcting every single mistake you make," he says, reaching for the right stack. I turn and tilt my head to the side, giving him a look of distress, but his response is another kiss. "But I guess it means I must make you smile again after." He sighs and turns away from the labels, walking back toward the shop door.
I place my hands on my cheeks, trying to cool them down before Mr. Crawley sees the red hue likely outlining every freckle on my face.
"Are you two all set up front here? I have to go fill a few barrels downstairs?" Mr. Crawley asks.
"Yeah, we’re good," Brett says. "I plan to get her settled with shipments and the computer system in a bit."
"Next week, I’m teaching you the art of making bourbon, young lady," Mr. Crawley says, pointing at me with a wink as he walks out the back door.
"I suppose I should learn about that too," I say.
"It could help, a little, maybe," Brett says, pinching his fingers together in front of his crooked smile.
Brett unloads the first crate, pulling the bottles out one at a time. "These are the 2013s," he says, pointing to the lid off the crate where there is a date stamped next to Dad’s scribbling words of Quinn Pine.
"He had messy handwriting whenever he was in a rush.” I stare at the smudged numbers, remembering the way he would stick his tongue out of the side of his mouth while scribbling.
"It’s a lot of work to get done in one day," he says. "He was efficient."
I lift the first bottle, preparing it for the label. I close my eyes and imagine Dad placing the bottle into the crate. I can almost still feel the warmth of his hand.
"When you’re feeling up to venturing out into town some night, I’d like to take you to a restaurant they built a couple years ago. They’re one of our biggest local customers, and they know your dad well. You should meet the owners. They’re great people."
"Is this for business reasons?" I ask him.
Brett shakes his head as he places a label on a bottle. "No, it’s for selfish reasons."
19
Journey messagedme about a half-hour ago asking me if I could come home to Mom’s for a bit. She wouldn’t give me a reason but said everything was fine. I figured Mom was having another moment, maybe, or something broke in the house. Journey has been staying with us for the last few weeks so we can keep Mom company, but at some point, soon, she’s going to have to go back to her apartment, and I will have to start thinking ahead to what’s next for my life. I know I can stay with Mom, but I’ve been living on my own—more or less—for years, and I don’t know if it’s a healthy situation to stay "home," long-term. Right now, she needs us, though.
I helped Brett finish preparing the shipments due to go out today and left to see why Journey needs me at home.
Brett. I’m grateful for the thoughts of him consuming my mind on the drive home today because, for the first time in weeks, I’m thinking of something other than death, loss, and pain. Maybe I don’t have a right to move those thoughts aside, but that kiss was like a painkiller.
My fingertips press against my lips as I pull into the driveway, wishing I could still feel the touch of his mouth against mine. My heart flutters at the flickering memories of feeling his hands on my face. Even the prickles of his short hair against my arm sent sparks through my skin.
I feel like I’m walking on clouds as I take the steps up to the front door, but I collect my thoughts before stepping inside. I need to put the last few hours away and focus on what’s happening in this house.
The moment I enter the foyer, I hear a muddled conversation—it makes me stop and listen before I drop my bag to the ground and toss my jacket onto the foot bench. I storm into the kitchen, finding Ace at the table with Mom and Journey. "What in the world are you doing here?" I ask him, fury fills my every word.
I’m still holding my keys, shaking my hand toward him with anger. "I have been trying to reach you for weeks. I know you didn’t change your number since your voicemail picks up, so I thought something happened." Ace stands up and takes a few steps toward me. Mom and Journey are both wide-eyed and silent.
"Yes, something happened, but it doesn’t concern you anymore because we aren’t together.” I fold my arms over my chest, feeling as though I need to defend myself.
"So, you get to break up with me on a whim and tell me to stop caring about you as if I can turn my feelings on and off like a light-switch, and I’m supposed to just say, ‘Okay, sure, hon, no problem. Let me know when you want to talk things out.’ Is that what I’m supposed to do here?"
I can hear the rage growing through each word, but he has no right to be angry, and I have no problem sharing this news with him. "There is nothing to talk out, which is why we haven’t spoken."
Ace throws his hands in the air. "For Christ’s sake, Mel, we were living together. Your shit is still all over the house. It’s like you’re still living there, but nope, you’ve left me for someone else, evidently."
"What?" I question.
"I heard you with him a couple of weeks ago when I called," he continues.
"So what? He’s an old friend."
