“I understand,” she says. “Really. There’s better lighting over there.”
Benji’s patience runs out, and he bolts toward the center of the field. I suppose the distraction of a hyper dog is welcome and gives my heart a physical reason to beat at the pace it’s beating, seeing as I’m attached to the other end of the leash. The closer we get to the gazebo, the more familiar it becomes. I’m on the other side of where I used to spend time back in high school. We would hang out here because it was a place where we could play ball or frisbee, I tie Benji’s leash up to a post on the Gazebo. Thankfully, he’s out of breath and happy to comply after his frolic.
We take a seat on the bench closest to Benji’s leash, and I place the bag down by my feet.
“What’s in the bag?” she asks again.
Now, we’re in the middle of an empty park, and it looks like I want to get her drunk. I didn’t think this through. I scrunch my nose and squint an eye, hoping she doesn’t get the wrong idea when I pull out a bottle and two glasses from the bag.
“Oh, no, no … I don’t drink bourbon. I just support it,” she says. “In fact, I’ve only had it once, and it was one time too many.” I huff with laughter because I suspect she still isn’t a big drinker of the stuff, not after the time I recall she taste-tested it at the last party we saw each other at all those years ago. I suppose she could have acquired a taste for it since then, but I’m guessing by her apparent dismay, she has not.
“You need to know what’s special about bourbon before you cross it off your list,” I tell her. Plus, she wants to take up work at the shop, and it’s hard to sell something you know nothing about. Not that this is the time to be teaching her about bourbon, but a distraction is sometimes necessary for the worst moments.
“I borrowed a book about bourbon today. I plan to learn everything I can so I can help out more in the shop.” It’s like she was reading my mind. I know she isn’t about to let her family business die along with her dad, but I was wondering what her plan was for picking something up she hasn’t been a big part of over the years.
“You can’t learn everything about bourbon from a book,” I explain. Melody tries to argue with more nonsense, so I pacify her statements as I open the bottle and pour a little into each glass. “This is the first bottle of Quinn Pine to be opened this year, and it’s from 2009.”
“Is old good?” she asks, seeming embarrassed by the question. We’re definitely starting from scratch here.
“Yes, old is good,” I respond, trying to hide a chuckle. I continue babbling off the explanation of why older bourbon is better, why the tastes are unique because of the process, and how everything can be altered by different steps in the phases of distilling. I also convince her that she needs to take a sip and see for herself that it isn’t as bad as the look on her face is making it out to be.
She gives in, closes her eyes, and takes a pull on her glass as if ingesting the worst tasting cough syrup. Her eyes squeeze shut, and her lips curl, but she’s thinking about the taste. I see a look of relief settle into her expression. “It’s sweet like vanilla or caramel, maybe a hint of cinnamon too, but it has a dry smoky aftertaste.”
Her description stuns me. She’s precise and knows exactly what she’s tasting. It’s incredible. “Wow, you’re spot on.”
“What can I say?” she responds with a coy grin.
Melody may not be into bourbon, but she has the taste buds of a bourbon connoisseur, and I’m impressed with her skill to detect the flavors in one sip. I watch as she takes another sip, which is followed by a peaceful smile curling into her cheeks. “I’m glad you’re sipping it this time.”
Her eyes open wide with a look of surprise. “What do you mean by that?”
“The last time you had bourbon was at the holiday party all those years ago, right?”
Melody seems taken aback by my question, as if I shouldn’t know such a minute detail in her life. “Yes …”
I smile at the memory, recalling the moment I found out she had been gulping the bourbon Journey had been feeding her that night.
We both take a moment and pause the conversation for another sip from the glasses. “You’re still drinking it. That’s something,” I tell her.
“I guess this isn’t the worst tasting stuff in the world,” she says.
“It’s amazing to think your dad began preparing this very bottle ten years ago. It’s crazy to think about,” I say, offering more justification about this particular bottle, wondering what she is thinking.
“Ten years ago,” she says as if digressing. “Our lives were perfect.”
“Mine wasn’t,” I reply, wishing I could suck the words back into my mouth.
“Why not?” Melody asks, placing the cup down between us on the bench.
This isn’t the time, but I’ll be damned … because it’s definitely the right place. Screw it. What do I have to lose? “Well, there was this kiss,” I say, my words sounding faint. “It made me want to change my future, but I had already signed papers—signed my life away.” It was that night, that one damn night, I realized I had made a mistake. I should have tried harder. I wasn’t ready for the life I had signed up for.
“A kiss?” Melody asks. Her gaze falls to her lap as her cheeks burn with her signature color of red. “What kind of kiss could make you want to change your future plans?”
An unfamiliar pain in my chest shakes me up as I admire the way her cheeks glisten from the surrounding lights. My focus falls to her lips, taking advantage of the moment when she doesn’t notice my stare, but I’m lost, wishing I could taste her lips once more because I have never had the desire to kiss anyone as much as I want to kiss her again. It makes no sense. I was so young back then, knew nothing, yet my heart spoke as if it knew everything. I was sure of it all even before I realized how deep my feelings were. “It was just one kiss,” I say, still admiring the perfection of the cupid’s bow curve of her lips—how it’s perfectly centered beneath her nose.
“She must have been some girl,” Melody responds in merely a whisper.
“You sure are,” I say, feeling foolish for the way I’m attempting to explain how she made me feel that night.
