“Right,” she says, keeping her gaze on the disorderly array of bottles. “Hey, uh—sorry about the mom-comment to your daughter. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
I’m still wondering what she must be assuming about my situation with Parker, especially if she truly doesn’t know my history. “No worries,” I reply. I’m not sure it’s appropriate to dive into those details. She has enough on her plate, and I don’t need to bring her down with my past woes. Plus, she hasn’t exactly asked, so maybe she isn’t wondering. I reach up to the shelf in front of me and begin resorting the bottles by year, but she takes a step back while I’m doing so.
“Do you remember me at all? Like—”
Do I remember her? What kind of question is that? Well, a deserving one I suppose after neither of us supposedly recognized each other while sitting together on a four-hour flight. I could ask her the same question though. I don’t think I’ve given her the impression that I don’t know who she is, or who she was.
“What do you mean?” Maybe I’m confused by her question. Is she asking if I remember who and what she wanted to be someday? Because I do.
“Never mind,” she follows.
Melody’s words are loaded, and there is obvious frustration in her voice too. I’ll play this out carefully because I don’t know what is going through her head. “From our odd encounter on the flight? Yeah, of course I remember you.” Maybe my statement is more of a mind game than a one-step at a time introduction to our past. Maybe she doesn’t remember me from when we were younger. Not that I’m claiming to be unforgettable, but I guess it’s possible that she’s truly confused as to why I’m acting as if we didn’t sit together on the plane ride to Vermont.
“No, I mean from years ago.” Well, there we go. She remembers me, and I remember her. This conversation has turned into a grade-age teasing match. Why would she think I’d forget who she is? We’re both acting childish.
“Hmm,” I reply with a sigh, intending to play into the back and forth of what is so awkwardly obvious. “Vaguely, maybe.” Too far? Maybe.
Melody sweeps her hair away from her face, and the muscles in her cheeks clench. I can’t tell if I’m aggravating her or winding her up to play back. “There’s supposed to be a tasting today,” she says, changing the subject. Is this a move in her playbook or does she want to end this conversation? How am I this stupid with women?
“Yeah, we have a little time. It’ll only take a few minutes to set up.”
Melody pinches her lips together and nods her head, understanding, but obviously has more thoughts swimming through her mind. Maybe she hates me. I wouldn’t blame her, I suppose. It would explain why she never wrote back to any of the letters I sent her when I was in Afghanistan.
The bell above the door screams, startling me into turning around in search of who is throwing the front door open. Journey. No surprise there. Although, she has coffees in both hands and looks to have kicked the door open.
“Coffee?” she shouts, moving across the shop to the back counter where she places the recyclable cupholders down. “What happened to my shelves?”
She was quick to notice the mess that Melody was calling organized.
“Me,” Melody answers.
“All you had to do was sit here and look pretty, Mel,” Journey tells her. I walk away from their little banter and tend to the register that needs to be cleared from last night.
“Okay, if you don’t want to just be pretty, can you grab a bottle of Quinn Apple Red 2013, Quinn Original 2014, Quinn Peak 2011, and Quinn Pine 2012?” Journey asks Melody. “We’ll need those for the tasting.” I guess Journey knows more about what’s going on here than Melody, or so it seems. I think Journey has helped out in the shop from time to time, living in town still. Melody has been gone for so long, I can understand why she wouldn’t be knowledgeable about what’s going on in here.
The sample glasses are in the sliding cabinet beneath the register,” I add in.
Melody seems frazzled, spinning around in search of the bottles Journey just spat off. “I’ll be right back,” Journey says, disappearing into the back room, leaving Melody and me alone once again.
Melody slaps her hands over her face and exhales loudly. I feel bad, seeing how frustrated she obviously is. No more games. It isn’t the time. I walk over to a nearby shelf where I can grab one of the bottles for the tasting.
“I remember you, Melody,” I say.
“Yeah, from all the way back to yesterday. Good memory,” she says, snapping at me. Maybe I deserve that comment. I wasn’t trying to play her for a fool or pretend I forgot her. I can’t read whatever is going through her mind and I was being cautious. Too cautious.
“No, I remember you from when we were kids, all the shop holiday parties, and the last big bash we were both at all those years ago.” It was the party where one kiss would unknowingly dictate all future kisses for comparison. I didn’t just forget. I never forgot, or stopped thinking about it, or her.
“You do?” she asks, sounding shocked by my statement. She must take me to be quite an asshole for thinking I’d forget about that night. I’m not sure what I did to give her such an impression.
I remember many details, all of them, in fact, from those few minutes we spent together. “Yeah, didn’t you try bourbon for the first time?” It was the reason for her sudden confidence to approach me after walking past me without so much as a glance for years. I’m not big on bravery found through inebriation, but I would rather have known she didn’t hate me as opposed to having feelings for me but not having the courage to say so. I’m grateful to have known the truth. I just wasn’t so grateful about the timing.
“That’s what you remember?” she replies.
I give her a quick wink. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to rehash.”
Seemingly flustered, Melody walks away from the conversation toward the back of the shop to set up the taste testing. Everything I say to her feels like the wrong thing. What else should I talk about? It’s been ten years and now we’re working together while her Dad is losing a battle with his life. Nothing feels like the appropriate thing to converse about, so I’ll continue cleaning up the bottles on the shelves while she handles the sampling. Maybe less is better for her. I can keep quiet.
However, she is the one who sent me the friend request last night. She’s confusing the hell out of me, and I’m pretty sure I’m making things a lot worse for her.
