Sorry,
Brody
I tear open the drawer where I keep the k-cups in, knowing I only had one left.That bastard. What kind of sick game does he think this is? He’s just waiting for me to text him with a string of obscenities. Well, hopefully, he’s waiting for this text at four in the morning.
After retrieving my phone from the nightstand, I see he responded to my text, telling him to watch porn last night.
Brody:Can’t watch porn anymore. :(
What?I’m not responding to that text. He wants me to ask why, and I can only imagine the answer he’d come up with.
Me:You stole my coffee. What kind of person does that?
Me:You should definitely be awake right now at four in the morning.
Me:Hopefully you don’t put your phone on silent, or to sleep, or anything like because I’d be wasting my effort of waking you up.
Me:You’re a jackass!
I don’t feel better at all. Even more so because I didn’t wake him up or cause any damage to his life yet today, not like he’s done to mine at four a.m. He was so concerned about my lack of a smile yesterday, and he stole my coffee. He’s unstable. It’s obvious.
Somehow, without being able to charge up on caffeine, I get through another third of the photos I owe Marco, and the wee hours of the morning morph into a foggy haze outside the window by seven when my phone buzzes beside my keyboard.
Brody:Good morning, sunshine!
He’s not getting a response.
Brody:Thank you for the coffee, by the way.
A photo pops up with a navy-blue mug, filled with steaming coffee. I drop my phone back to my desk. I need to clear him from my head and move on with the day. I don’t have time for these childish games, which should be the exact reason why I am no longer angry about having my coffee stolen.
I lift my phone back up and thumb in a message.
Me:Payback is a—
No. No. I force myself to place the phone down without sending the message. But the blinking cursor is taunting me.
6
After the lastcouple of days, working non-stop between shoots and editing, I have other things to tend to today—something I’ve been putting off. I’ve waited long enough. Decisions should be black and white, but the one I’ve been losing sleep over is so many shades of gray, I will never know if I’m doing the right or wrong thing—the best thing.
When Dad passed away, he left The Barrel House to Melody and me but told us both in person and in letters, as well as the will that he expected neither of us to fill his shoes or live out his passion by managing a distillery and shop. We could easily sell the shop and inherit the worth. However, the business has been in our family since it originated as a whiskey distillery in Dublin, Ireland. When our great-great-grandfather migrated to the United States, he re-opened The Barrel House in Kentucky; the home of bourbon. He then passed the business down to our grandfather. With the determination to hold on to the business, he was left with a choice between love and Kentucky. That’s when our grandfather followed his soon-to-be wife—my grandmother and moved the business up to Vermont, where her family lived. The legacy is unbelievable, which has made the weight of my decision unbearable. Do I help Melody run the business or sell my share? Dad supported either decision. He did not want me to give up my career as a photographer, but I couldn’t make this decision before he passed away. There was already too much to consider.
Melody, however, doesn’t see another open path. She has a career as a screenwriting editor but is determined to pick up where Dad left off in the shop, even despite her lack of knowledge about bourbon. She’s been working her editing job at night after the shop closes. It’s a lot. I’ll give her credit; she’s trying.
The guilt I have, watching her try, makes me feel like a terrible sister. I should be next to her, enduring the pain of seeing the reminders of Dad every second of the day, but I can’t. I can’t be there every day with the memories. It hurts too much. I fear if I took this opportunity with Melody, I would always be living in the past and never move forward.
There were many summers I helped Dad in the shop and enjoyed spending time there with him, but without him, I don’t see a point in being there.
Before he died, Dad told me Bill Pearson, Brett and Brody’s dad, the barrel distributor, would buy my share of the business and help keep the distillery running. Brett offered to step in and help Melody. Their family has been beyond gracious to us, and I’ve hardly had the energy to say thank you. Brett didn’t have to disrupt his life to help us, yet, he did.
Watching how well Melody and Brett have been running the business has offered me clarity, and though it feels wrong, I think it’s time to hand over my part of The Barrel House to Mr. Pearson.
Knowing today would be my only free day in the next couple of weeks, I scheduled an appointment with an attorney to discuss my options. I need to know I’m making the right decisions.
I open my kitchen drawer and pull out my pair of scissors to trim a dead leaf off the arrangement Polly gave me yesterday after the photoshoot. I don’t think I’ve ever had flowers in my apartment, thanks to my everlasting single lifestyle and lack of friends. After Dad died, all flowers and foods were sent to Mom’s house for the three of us, which I understand. Mom tried to get me to take some of it back here, but those flowers were made for sympathy, and it’s all I would feel every time I saw them.
With my copy of the will in a sealed envelope and the letter Dad left me in my shoulder bag, I grab my travel mug and head out. At least I have coffee this morning, thanks to the box of Keurig k-cups left in front of my door with a bow and a note that said:
