I try to envision myself buddying up to Dylan and convincing him to do the right thing for Abby and Parker, but after listening to the shit foaming from his mouth, there isn’t one part of me that could see this turning out well for anyone.
Abby was right to give up.
All I can do is offer to do more for her. I just don’t know what that is yet.
My phone buzzes on the bar-top, displaying Abby’s name. Guilt floods through me as I wonder if she somehow knows where I am, or what I’m doing, especially since she was against the idea of me hunting Dylan down. I fearfully check the text message, reading the two words I was dreading to see.
Abby:I’m up.
She’s being deployed.
I wasn’t expecting to accomplish anything last night other than helping Melody and Mrs. Quinn, but the few minutes Melody and I had alone felt like a time-out, a break in the storm. It was more than I was expecting and more than I should be experiencing. The feelings, the desire … all while knowing she’s going through hell. What I feel doesn’t matter, though, because I will not do a damn thing except help her or the family when needed. Plus, if there’s anything I’m a pro at, it’s putting my feelings aside, or shutting them off completely.
When Melody strolled into the shop early this morning, I was surprised to see her, especially since she was toting muffins in a fancy container. She said her mom sent them in as a thank you for helping last night. I know she plans to spend most of her day at the hospital with Harold, but she seems to be stalling by the way she’s pacing around, glancing at each shelf. Though, I’d love to think she’s stalling just to spend more time with me, if I was her, I might put off facing the cold reality of losing someone I love.
It’s Brody’s morning to carpool the girls to school, and he agreed to pick Parker up from The Barrel House so I could get started a bit earlier today. Brody makes a show upon entering through the front door, unfazed by Melody's existence even after going years without seeing her. It feels like no time has passed when he starts cracking jokes, and I’m embarrassed for my brother. Sadly, he wouldn’t care if I said that out loud, so I watch the show come and go and silently wait for him to leave.
I kiss Parker goodbye and send them on their way as quickly as possible with the hope of having a few quiet moments with Melody.
However, the moment we’re alone, I accept that the timing is not right. Despite knowing how much I would say to her if her life wasn’t splitting at the seams, it’s more important that I only provide coverage in her family’s shop. She needs to know she can trust me here and be where she needs to be. “I have everything under control here. I promise,” I say, watching her nibble on the tip of her thumb. She’s staring past me, lost in thought, just as she has been each time I’ve seen her throughout the last couple of days.
“I know you do,” she says, fixing a bottle on one of the lower shelves.
“Go to the hospital, and when you need a break, take one. It’s a lot and you have to be easy on yourself.”
Melody tucks her long waves behind her ears as she parts her lips to release a heavy sigh. “Thanks for the advice,” she says with a small smile. Melody scans the back area of the store until she spots her jacket resting on a crate. “There it is.”
“I can bring you guys dinner again tonight if you’d like?” My offer might be overkill at this point, but I would offer even if I had no interest in seeing her again today. Plus, I know Mrs. Quinn would see it as nothing more than a nice gesture.
Melody slips her jacket on and pulls her hair out from beneath the collar, letting it sway against her back. She takes a few seconds to respond but shrugs before speaking. “You have a lot going on, I’m sure. You don’t have to worry about us too. I appreciate the offer,” she says. A firm no. Understood.
With her coat on and her phone pressed between her hands, she walks up to me again, looking as if she has something to say, but with a long quiet stare, I assume she can’t find the words, or she is simply refraining from sharing what’s on her mind. Melody is impossible to read. She never was before. Regardless, there seem to be words written across her face, spelling out what she’s thinking.
Pain. Just pain.
It feels like an entire minute passes when I consider asking what’s on her mind, but I hold back. Instead, I reach for the phone she’s holding against her purse and slip it away. She doesn’t try to stop me, nor does she snag it back when I hold the display up to her face in order to unlock with facial recognition.
Instead, a look of surprise passes through her eyes, but not in a negative way. I add my number to her contacts and place a call to my phone, so I have her number. I could have asked for it, but it feels like a line on the do-not-cross-list. “I have your number, and you have mine. I figured you still hadn’t added it to your phone from the crumpled receipt I handed you on the plane.” Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed, but my contact wasn’t in there. “Call me if you need anything, please.” Even if you want to talk, smile, or just need a hug. I can be all of that. I’m good at those things.
Seeing how her moments of talking and silence are unexpected and sporadic, it’s hard to determine her mood, but it’ll keep me guessing, wondering, and now waiting for a call.
“I will,” she agrees.
“I’m going to check up on you later.” I shouldn’t have said that. I meant to leave the ball in her court. I can’t be pushy. I’m having trouble following the unspoken rules I’m familiar with in delicate situations, and I need to get a grip.
“Thanks for trying to be a friend. I don’t have many people in my life who would care so much, aside from my immediate family.” Another surprising comment. I figured our exchange of words had hit its limit for the day, but now I know she sees me as a friend and not a pain in the ass, so that’s something. I’ll take it.
“I know life can be a jerk sometimes. We all need to know someone cares, right?”
A smile perks to one side—it’s a faint smile, but a smile, nonetheless. Her cheeks turn to a shade of pink and she brushes her hair behind her ear again, something I notice she does just after her cheeks become a little too warm. Maybe I’m not alone, feeling like there’s something between us, something that never went away from all those years ago. There’s a chance it’s not just me who had faith we’d find each other again.
In any case, it’s time to be patient and wait on her. I did it once, and I’ll do it again no matter what the end game turns out to be.
12
When Haroldfirst showed me around The Barrel House last summer, I was a little overwhelmed, especially thinking I was only there to help out when he was out of town during the couple of weeks he was on vacation. However, he had a way of teaching … it was as if he wanted to unload his knowledge onto me. Of course, I was interested. Coming from a family with a business who chars barrels for the purpose of storing bourbon, it was nice to see the other side of the process. I had been to The Barrel House hundreds of times before, but I kept my hands to myself and admired the machinery, wondering why there were so many machines to prepare a barrel full of liquid.
I let Harold’s words soak in and I saw the passion through his eyes, finding my sparked interest. I must have asked him a million questions over the course of just a couple days, but he happily answered each one with detail. I understood the reason for taking pleasure in watching even the most minute part of the process because each phase has an equally important role in the final taste of bourbon, a taste no one will get to enjoy for at least two years after it stills in a charred barrel. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated by the process of distilling bourbon, but there is so much science involved. With only a few simple ingredients of grains mixed with water, yeast, and sugar, a fermented product develops. I thought the importance of the distilling process ended there, but it doesn’t. It’s where it all begins. Every single environmental factor has an effect on the final taste; how the barrel was charred, the temperature of storage, the airflow, and duration of time—it’s all so easy to alter, even just slightly. It’s hard to understand how any barrel of bourbon can taste exactly like another, but Harold mastered this process.
