On the side of a dumpster behind my apartment building, I saw wordsspray-painted in white letters. At first, I wondered what derelict would take the time to obstruct a piece of property filled with trash just to write some random line, but the sight piqued my interest and I stopped to read what was written—a quote by Alfred Lord Tennyson: “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
I’ve heard this quote many times throughout life but never gave it a second thought until now. Maybe the vandal was heartbroken and feltas ifhis or her heart was in the dumpster. It’s all I could muster. It waslike a blatant messy sign. However, I began to wonder who gets to determine that it’s better to feel love than not? Did Alfred Lord Tennyson lose his love, or did he never love at all then eventually feel regret? What if he didn’t have an accurate portrayal of which pain is the lesser kind?
I glance at my phone, displaying the time, knowing I have to shower and get downtown before eight. Melody and I are doing a photoshoot of the upcoming season’s bourbon bottles to display in the local Mountain Living magazine. Dad never advertised his shop, The Barrel House, because his clientele were loyal repeat customers. However, business has changed a bit since he passed away. I think some patrons are having a hard time returning to Dad’s favorite place. Maybe they assume it’s the honorable thing to do—not continue buyingbourbon from a man who can no longer enjoy the taste. As unfortunate as it is for the business, I understand. I opted out of taking over the shop with my sister because the thought of walking in Dad’s fading footprints every day is too overwhelming to consider.
However, Melody has vowed her future to continue running our family business, feeling the opposite—feeling more connected to the man whose presence was ever so prevalent in this small town. She doesn’t know a thing about bourbon, but she has some help, and I will support her desire just as she understands my lack thereof.
I drag around the heaviness of my hungry body, knowing I haven’t been feeding it enough to store energy. Some enjoy comfort food when in grief, others lose the urge to eat altogether. I’m feeling the consequences of my low-calorie routine—the soreness in my ribs, my exhaustion, and shortage of stamina. Therefore, I paint a layer of happiness across my face in the form of foundation, bronzer, and blush. A dark line above and my lash-lines and a coat of mascara offer me the false appearance of: I’m fine.
“I am fine,” I tell myself, staring at the facade in the mirror.
In less than forty minutes, I’m out the door, waiting for the seat warmer in my Jeep to light a fire under my ass. Best investment ever. Speaking of great investments, I appreciate our anti-chain shop town agreeing to a drive-thru Dunkin’, so I don’t have to get off my heated seat to acquire my daily intake of caffeine.
I consider sending Melody a text, asking if she would like a coffee too. She would ask me, plus it would be the sisterly thing to do.
At the stop sign out in front of my apartment building, I take my phone from the cup holder and thumb out a quick message to my sister.
Me:Coffee?
I sometimes think Melody has her phone adhered to her hand because she rarely leaves me hanging for more than ten seconds before responding.
Melody:Sure! I’ll give you the cash if you can grab a few, though. Brett and Mr. Crawley are here too.
Me:No problem. Be there soon.
Melody:Are you texting and driving again?
I drop my phone into my cup holder as I take a right onto the four-mile-long road where I won’t pass another moving vehicle for the next ten minutes. In the spring, I might get stuck behind a manure tractor, but not in December.
The line at Dunkin’ takes more time than I’d like, and I can see a considerably shorter waitinside, but I’d rather sitbehind six cars expelling exhaust from their tailpipes.
Vermont is so green, yet there is so much diesel. The irony.
Melody:It’s five after eight. Just making sure you didn’t text and drive yourself into a tree.
If I texted and drove myself into a tree, it would be the punishment I deserve for what I’ve caused in the past.
I receive her textas I’m pulling into the parking lot of The Barrel House; which used to be a firehouse from a hundred years ago. Every year older Melody gets, the more she becomes Mom—a worrywart. Sometimes, she’s worse than Mom, and that concerns me for when she has kids someday. I thought the type of worry Mom carries like a suit of armor was due to having children, but Melody is proving otherwise.
After pulling the key from the ignition, I thumb back a quick text.
Me:Come open the back door. My hands are full.
Melody:If your hands are full, how are you texting me?
I throw my head back against my seat, rolling my eyes at my darling younger sister, who I adore more than life, but who drives me bonkers more often than not. With the coffees in hand, I kick my door closed behind me just as Melody pushes through the oversized metal door, creating a screeching moan that echoes between the surrounding trees.
“You look pretty this morning,” she says.
“You look like you had sex last night,” I reply.
Melody raises a brow and grabs two of the coffees from my overfilled hands. “Don’t be crass,” she groans.
I follow my sister out to the front of the bourbon shop where she seems to have cleared off on the back counter, most likely for the photoshoot.“I think we need a different spot. This won’t be the best place to capture the proper lighting.”
“Thanks for the coffee,” Brett calls out from across the shop, holding his cup up with a cheerful smile—far too perky for eight in the morning.
“Yup, definitely had sex last night,” I reply, loud enough for him to hear.
