A noise I can only describe as a growling groan rips through her throat. “My God, why can’t you just mind your own business?”
Pick and choose your battles, sweetheart—my mom’s favorite piece of advice to help us survive the teenage years doesn’t always work out. How am I supposed to figure out which battles to pick and which ones to choose? I’m not sure anyone realizes what they’re saying when they offer this kind of advice. Picking and choosing are the same action, so I guess I should take a stab at all the issues rolling in on a minute to minute basis.
I pull the truck off to the side of the road, hit the hazards button on the dash, and shove the gear into park before turning around to face Hannah. Time for the “dad-look.” I cock my head to the side and raise an eyebrow. “I’m not sure when or why you assumed it would be acceptable to speak to me the way you are, but I will not tolerate it, Hannah. I’ve been trying to cut you some slack, but there is only so far I can go with that. I’ve told you this too many times, and it doesn’t seem to sink in. You are my daughter, my child, and I am the parent—your father. You don’t get to question me and I will not allow you to berate me every time you don’t get your way. I’ve been nice enough to get up ten minutes early every morning to get you to school so you can avoid Gavin, for whatever reason you’re avoiding him. Rather than lecturing me on listening to your phone call, maybe you should have explained to me your actual reason for needing to be at school ten minutes early every day. Respect goes both ways, kiddo, remember that.”
I hate having to speak to her this way. For the first year after the divorce, I tip-toed around her, worrying about upsetting her and figuring she was in a fragile state from the destructive pain Kristy caused, but I let her get away with too much for too long because now she thinks it’s okay to talk to me like shit—or dare I say the way Kristy did. When a child watches her mother scold her father day after day, it’s not surprising that it would affect the way she thinks she should speak to me.I’ve tried my best to undo the damage, but even with therapy and a peaceful living environment, Hannah still walks around holding all that anger inside and with a big chip on her shoulder.
It has gotten so bad, I’ve had to come down on her pretty hard for the last few months. I thought a few weeks of stern parenting would create a change, but Hannah is relentless. She hates me, and I wish she could understand how hard I fought to be with her every day, to give her a good life. Even if she was a grown woman and I felt comfortable saying something like that to her, it would be selfish of me.I did the right thing for you, so love me. Life doesn’t work that way.
Her big blue eyes stare back at me with surprise as if my anger is unwarranted and the expression on her face breaks my heart. I still see my little five-year-old with pig-tails sitting in her car seat, swinging her legs around while playing with a Barbie doll, but now, she has lip-gloss, and jeans that are too tight with purposeful rips in the knees, and she knows how to curl her hair and bat her lashes. Whoever this Gavin kid is, better watch his damn back because Hannah is gorgeous and it terrifies me to think about the upcoming years of dating, hormones, puberty, and all that other horrible female stuff.
She wraps the blue strand of hair behind her ear and drops her gaze to her lap. “I’m sorry,” she mutters.
“I appreciate you saying sorry. You are aware of how I feel about having an open line of communication, Hannah. I will never judge you, but I will always give you the best advice I can. Just don’t shut me out. A little honesty goes a long way.”
With a slight nod, she offers the appearance of understanding. The weak mushy part of my heart doesn’t want her to have to face this guy if it’s making her uncomfortable and if we sit here for another thirty seconds, she won’t have her ten-minute leeway, so I drop the conversation and continue down the road.
As we pull up in front of the school, Hannah leans over the front seat to kiss my cheek before bolting out the door. I’m left with the usual sensation of emptiness in my chest, making me wonder what I’m doing wrong, but the next six hours will offer plenty of time to mull over the question I will most likely never have an answer to.
Dad’s warehouse is only a couple of miles down the road and as usual, I’m the first to arrive since I’m the only one who has to be anywhere by seven in the morning. I’m able to get most of my work done while Hannah is at school as long as I bust my ass the entire time, but now that it’s just Dad and me running most of the show here, I’ve had to put in some extra hours here and there to get shipments prepared. A few years ago, Dad expanded the business to vendors across the country because we’re one of a few barrel distributors who use maple wood for smoking. Customers are familiar with our barrels because of the unique sweet spice that’s enhanced by the distilling process of bourbon, but smoking the barrels is a science of time and temperature, something I can manage as easily as speaking. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid, but it can be a lonely job some days and I get bored easily.
With the first set of barrels filled with the maple chips and lit to a burning flame, I take a seat to down a bottle of water.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and Facetime Journey. It’s only ten in the morning, but I’m sure she’s up. I think. Actually, I’m not sure what she even does for a living. I should ask. It would be a good place to start.
The phone rings five times and I’m sure she’s let the call go to voicemail, but to my surprise, she answers.
“Brody Pearson, why am I not surprised to be receiving this call from you less than fifteen hours after seeing you?”
Journey’s inky hair up is in a messy knot; the strands drape over the front of her head and hanging to the side, and down to her neck. She’s dressed in a blue and black flannel shirt with a tight-fitting shirt beneath. Whatever she does for a living, she’s up and ready for the day. “What do you do for a living?” I ask.
She narrows her eyes, staring back at me as if I just asked a question in a foreign language. “Where are you? It looks like you’re in a charred dungeon.”
I glance over my shoulder at the tar-covered wall that helps maintain the temperature down here. “I guess it does kind of look like a charred dungeon but I’m actually at the warehouse smoking barrels. It’s what I do, you know?” She probably doesn’t know this. Why would she assume I would go to work for Dad after college? She doesn’t know a thing about me.
“Ah, that’s right. You work for Bill—your dad.”
“Yeah, what about you? Do you work at The Barrel House, or—?”
“No,” she says. “I’ll help when needed, but bourbon making isn’t my thing, just my dad’s and now, apparently, my sister’s too.” Journey runs her fingers through her hair and closes her eyes for a quick second. “Brody, why are you calling?”
I’d like to offer the reminder of her lips pressing against mine last night, but I don’t think it’ll get me too far. “I told you. I want to learn about what you do for a living.”
Her forehead creases with faint worry lines as she presses her lips together and cracks her neck to the side. “I’m a photographer. Happy now?”
“What do you take photos of?” I continue.
Journey shakes her head. She doesn’t want to keep talking, but I do. “Stuff,” she says.
“Like hot models, or what?” I’m trying to get her to laugh or smile but she is a tough nut to crack.
“No, that’s not my thing either. I prefer objects that can’t talk back.”
“I see. So, am I an object that can’t talk back?”
Journey leans back in the chair I now see she’s sitting on. “Well, Brody, you’re neither an object, nor mute, so I’m going with ‘no’ on this one.”
“Okay, well, can I see some of your work or your photos?”
