Bourbon on the Rocks (The Barrel House Series Book 2)

by Shari J. Ryan

  I wasn’t expecting Melody to find me only minutes later. I’m not sure if she was looking for me or needed air too, but there we were, face to face like we hadn’t been in years.

  “Hi.” It was the first word she had spoken to me in what felt like forever. I couldn’t remember what we said to each other last or how long it had been. I just knew how much I needed to hear the two syllables spoken from her sweet voice.

  “It’s so stuffy in the shop. There’s a lot of people tonight and I needed fresh air,” I said, trying to keep the conversation casual, scared to run Melody off ... again.

  Melody stared at me intently, as if she wanted me to say more, but I didn’t know where to start. “Yeah,” she replied.

  I didn’t realize my thumb had still been clicking the button on the side of my phone, but I wasn’t looking at what I was doing. My focus was on Melody.

  “I—”

  She couldn’t say whatever it was she wanted to say, and I was sure she was about to turn around and return to the party. I dropped my gaze, hoping to give her a minute to collect her thoughts, but when she didn’t continue speaking, I glanced back up. “You okay?” I asked.

  Melody’s eyes found the wall behind me, then held her focus there for a long second as she dipped her hands into her back pocket. “Um—yeah—I know we’ve spoken little over the past couple of years, but I—”

  I wondered if she knew how much I missed talking to her after she walked by me so many times. Maybe she thought I didn’t notice. “You what?”

  Melody’s cheeks brightened to a light shade of pink, and she closed her eyes for an elongated blink. Her lips pressed together before parting to speak. “I might have a teeny tiny little crush on you, which is totally lame and stupid to say out loud, but I heard you’re leaving for boot camp soon, and I figured maybe I should say something.”

  I wasn’t expecting so much honesty or any of what she said, really. I didn’t know she knew I was leaving for boot camp. I’m sure our parents spoke about it, but not to any particular extent. If I told her I had felt the same way, I would only hurt her, being so close to leaving for boot camp. But, if I didn’t respond, I would have been the biggest jerk in the world. I didn’t know what to say, but I definitely could have thought of something better than, “That’s very sweet.”

  The pink hue of her cheeks turned into a brighter shade of red. I embarrassed her.

  A hiccup surprised Melody and interrupted our awkward conversation. For what I thought was embarrassment on her face a moment earlier was nothing compared to the look she had then. She was most definitely mortified at the sound she unexpectedly made. “Sorry, I had a little—”

  I smiled to ease her discomfort. “Did you sneak a little bourbon?” Surprisingly, she smiled in return, and it was like our old friendship was right back where it should be. Maybe it was one-sided, but to me, it felt like no time had passed.

  “A little; a couple of sips,” she said.

  I hold my fingers up, pinching them to question the amount. “I thought you were the well behaved one of Mr. Quinn’s daughters?” I chuckled.

  “I am!” Melody squealed and covered her mouth. It was as if I questioned her integrity, but she found it humorous.

  “Well,” I shouldn’t have started a new statement because I was about to lose control over whatever came out of my mouth next. “I can’t say I haven’t noticed your beauty these last couple of years. It’s weird after growing up around each other, then seeing you in a different light.” I at least could have stopped after saying I noticed her.

  “It’s the red hair,” she said, almost as if her response was automatic. “It got redder as I got older, and now, I stand out like a sore thumb.”

  Panic set in when I wondered what she thought I intended.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I tried to correct myself.

  “Oh.”

  I stepped toward Melody, needing her to understand that I was not taking her confession as just flattery. I had wished many times she would have spoken to me before that night. “It’s true, though, I’m leaving for boot camp in a few months.” Why did I have to go and sign my life away without a second thought? I should have just retaken the SATs, waited a few weeks to think things through. I had so many reasons for joining and very few for trying harder to get into a college. Suddenly, I could think of more reasons why I should stay in Vermont and work harder to attend college than to move down south and become a completely different person. I was acting on those regretful thoughts as I reached for Melody’s chin, sweeping my fingers toward her neck, encouraging her to gaze up at me. “If I wasn’t leaving—”

  It was the dumbest thing I could have done to her and myself.

  I leaned down and in quicker than I had time to think my actions through. Our noses touched, and I closed my eyes. The knot in my throat made me pause and swallow, fighting away so many thoughts and urges.

  Screw it, I thought. I touched my lips to the lips I needed to feel. My mind went blank. My hand was against Melody’s burning cheek, and I curled my fingers behind her ear. My body screamed out demands. I needed to hold her closer, but I had already gone too far. I was still leaving and shouldn’t have started something I couldn’t finish.

  Despite my rationale, I couldn’t part my lips from hers. It was an unbreakable magnetic force. It was something I didn’t know I needed, but somehow would always need again. A drug. An instant addiction. My stomach ached, and my heart raced. It was so damn stupid.

  Another hiccup erupted from Melody’s throat, breaking up the kiss. Her face appeared struck with humiliation, but along with a lost gaze as she stared into my eyes. Melody slapped her hand over her mouth, coming to a broader realization of what had happened.

  I didn’t want her feeling embarrassed.

  “Don’t gulp the bourbon next time,” I told her, resting my hand on her shoulder, grinning for her comfort. Then I wondered where I could go from that moment. I’d kiss her again if it wouldn’t cause more pain down the road, but it would, for me, at least. I licked my lips, tasting the cherry-flavored lip-gloss she was wearing. “Thank you for a memorable night, Melody.”

  Her eyes were full of despair. She knew it was over. But how could something be over before it had a chance to start? I should have approached her long before that night, rather than waiting for her to speak the first hello.

  It was my fault.

  There couldn’t be an us.

  Not then.

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  A Preview of Bourbon Love Notes

  Chapter One

  This is my dream. This was my dream.

  I close my eyes, trying to remember why this was my dream, or what was so desirable about a life like this.

  A white picket fence surrounded by cucumber colored grass, and a scattering of lemon-yellow daffodils to encircle a big oak tree. In the spring, we would have tulips—the colors of tangerine and Washington apple. Inside the house, there would be a loving husband and a child or two. A simple, yet perfect life.

  How cliché?

  A glass plate slips off the pile of dishes in the sink, and a splash of soap bubbles splatters all over my violet silk blouse. I try to keep my focus out the window, but the view becomes foggy as hot water pings off the back end of a frying pan, causing a metallic harmony of zings.

  I adjust the dishes to stop the water catastrophe and continue loading the dishwasher. "Is everything okay in there, babe?"

  My gaze floats toward the ceiling, and I take in a breath before responding. "Just wonderful.” I should have said something different because now he will peel himself from the couch, away from the game he’s been waiting to watch all day and will come in here to perform his assignment of playing the part as my boyfriend.

  Thirty seconds pass before Ace’s hands squeeze around my shoulders. "Did you have a bad—Oh yeah, baby! Go, go, go!" His hands are gone, and his neck is craned around the wall to catch the gameplay on the TV.

  I secure the dis
hwasher and take a sponge to the casserole pan. I saved the worst for last. At least the fog has cleared from the window, allowing me to sneak a peek at Suzette and Tim as they stroll by the window, hand in hand. Every night after dinner, they walk down the sidewalk, following their adorable two-year-old, Mia, in her Little Tyke’s red car. The three of them are in a fit of laughter, probably from taking the joy out of watching a monarch butterfly weave between the three of them. I thought life was supposed to get more challenging when you have children, but it doesn’t appear to be the case from inside the window. The life outside this window seems far more desirable.

  "What were you saying, babe?" Ace asks, placing a kiss on my cheek.

  "I wasn’t saying anything. You didn’t finish asking me whatever you were trying to say."

  "Oh," he says. "Uh, did you pay the water bill today?" Ace steps beside me and drums his hands against the countertop, bouncing to whatever song is in his head.

  "Of course," I respond. It’s not like I have anything else going on. Ace thinks since I work from home, I must take four naps a day in between the moments I stop to smell every single flower in our front yard.

  "Did you get the mail?"

  I shake my head. "No, I didn’t have a second."

  "The mailbox is at the end of the driveway, babe," he says with laughter filled with the sound of annoyance.

  "Yet, you pulled into the driveway and saw the red flag down, but couldn’t bother to grab the mail, right?"

  Those words will lead to our nightly banter about who works harder and who works more. We didn’t always bicker and fight, but throughout this last year, I lost the strength to brush my feelings aside. "Melody, I worked all day," he says as if my comment was insulting his job.

  "As did I, Ace."

  There’s the snicker I was waiting for. "Okay," Ace continues.

  My attention is pulled back out the window where Gianna and Paulo stroll by for their nightly couple’s jog. I didn’t even know people could smile while running, but they do. They are just that happy. The sight of them redirects my attention to my ring finger—my empty ring finger.

  "What are we doing, Ace?"

  I grip the granite rim of the sink, watching my knuckles whiten. "Fine, I’ll get the mail since you have been so damn busy painting your nails today, or whatever it is you want to call your job." A screenwriting editor, but who’s keeping track.

  Ace stomps out of the kitchen, channeling the type of testosterone I might expect from the twelve-year-old boy I assume he once was. The clang of the screen door reverberates through the house, and I watch out the window as Ace makes his way to the mailbox. He retrieves the pile of envelopes and sorts through them. Once he’s gone through the pile, he purses his lips to release a long breath, probably hoping he can calm down before he returns inside.

  He places one letter on top of the stack, keeping his gaze fixed on the one envelope, but I can’t understand what could be so fascinating about a sealed letter. His stomps become weak, ambling steps as he returns inside. I debate asking if everything is all right because if I do, it would mean I’m giving into this stupid argument. But if I don’t ask, I’m acting like a twelve-year-old child too.

  "Babe, you got something weird in the mail."

  "What is it? A bill?"

  Ace walks back into the kitchen, still staring down at the envelope. He places the stack of mail down on the teak kitchen table, except for the one letter he reaches over to me. "It’s made out to you, but turn the envelope over."

  I do as he suggests, finding the words: ‘Please do not open until I’m gone’ written with red pen alongside the seal.

  It’s my dad’s writing, which makes my stomach gnarl. In a frenzy, I spin around until I spot my phone on the kitchen island. My hand is shaking when I search through my short list of Favorite Contacts for Dad’s number.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring. He almost always answers after the first ring.

  Ring.

  "How is my beautiful daughter?" Dad finally answers.

  "Dad?"

  "What’s the matter, sweetie? Is everything okay? You sound startled."

  "Why did you send me a letter with the words, ‘Please do not open until I’m gone’ written on the back?" I have never received a letter from either of my parents. We have phones. There is no purpose for a letter.

  "A letter?" Dad questions. "What letter?"

  "It’s your handwriting.” I’m feeling more concerned as the time passes. I hear him shuffling around and the sound of papers slapping together.

  "What in the world ..."

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "Your mother must have thought it was a piece of mail that needed to go out. Please don’t open the letter. I wasn’t ready to send the—"

  "Send what? Dad, what is this?" My heart is racing, pounding so hard it feels like I have the hiccups in my chest. "It’s back, isn’t it?" I’m not sure he can understand my last question as it comes up in gasping breaths.

  FIVE YEARS EARLIER

  I have circled this day on my calendar with red ink. After I used the red pen, I began analyzing the color. Red symbolizes blood, negative feelings, and anger. I should have used a blue pen or purple. That way, I would associate the marking with a calmer mood. I’ve questioned if my subconscious already knows the truth—the results, and it’s why I chose red.

  My chest feels heavy, and my stomach is full, but with pain. I figured I might be numb to it all by now, but I’m the one who is usually full of hope. I’ve tried to be the rock in our family. Inside, I’m falling apart, but I know I should be strong on the outside to support everyone else.

  I take my keys, wrapping my hand around the purple rabbit’s foot I’ve had since my teenage days. I haven’t always used it as a key chain, but in recent months, I have found every form of good luck charm to put all my hope into. I spot the Target bag on my coffee table, remembering why I stopped by the store last night. We all might need tissues, and I’d rather be prepared than ask someone for a box. I purchased a pack of the mini travel pouches, so I drop three packages into my purse. God, I hope we don’t need these.

  The sky is blue on this blustery fall day. There are only a few leaves left on each tree around the apartment complex. The rest of the trees have fallen over the last week because of the rain and high winds. I don’t know if the leaves are prettier on the trees after they’ve changed color or if they’re more eye-catching while scattered across the browning grass. I’ve always preferred fall over the other seasons, but after today, it might become my least favorite season of all.

  The drive is short through the woods where little tornados of red leaves spiral and dance in front of my windshield as if they’re guiding me down the street. Mother Nature knows more than we do, and I wish I could read this moment as a sign.

  The changing of the leaves.

  A change.

  Fall is the transition from hot to cold.

  Hot to cold.

  I turn up the radio to drown away my unruly thoughts, but I’m not sure the heaviest metal band in the world could make my thoughts any quieter today.

  Driving in a daze from point A to point B feels timeless as I wonder how my brain knows to keep driving safely while my mind is in another world. However, I arrive, and I guess that’s what matters.

  Mom and Dad have just pulled into the parking lot, and I watch them from my rear-view mirror. Mom drove.

  Before the last six months, Dad always drove the car. They’re from a generation where the man drives, and the woman doesn’t have the desire to fight for the task.

  Journey whips into the parking lot next in her little black coupe, which accents her personality. We’re only two years apart, but different like night and day with our lifestyle decisions. She likes to sit back and wait for the world to bring her gifts, and I work fifteen hours a day to get further faster. Neither of us is wrong. She’s become a well-known photographer at twenty-four, and I’ve landed a job with a movi
e channel to edit screenplays while living in our own apartments down the street from Mom and Dad. We have both threatened to leave the area many times before, but I’m glad neither of us did. Dad needed us this past year.

  I’m the last one to join Mom, Dad, and Journey as we all silently walk into the medical facility.

  While standing between two sets of glass doors, in a state of purgatory as it feels, Dad stops walking and turns to face Journey and me. Tears are in his eyes as he wraps his arms around both our necks, pulling our heads into his chest. "I love you, girls. My girls. Everything will be okay, one way or another. Do you understand?"

  Journey, who has never been big on emotions loses a tear first. She clenches her dark-lined eyes, and more black makeup filled tears fall as she wraps her arms around Dad and me. Mom’s cool hand then falls upon my back; the four of us quiver and cry quietly in between the unknown outside and the news awaiting us inside.

  The four of us have always made comments about our luck. Since Journey and I grew up in a time when divorce was prevalent, we know we are fortunate to have two loving parents who always paint a picture of a healthy relationship. Our family dynamic differs greatly from what I had seen and gone through with my closest friends. Our situation often made me feel like we were escaping the jaws of death. We were all healthy, we never needed much, and we were an exceptionally happy family.

  It turns out, we were also a target for disaster.

  The fifteen minutes we had been waiting, felt like hours, but now we’re being escorted into a room with oversized windows, which offer us the view of a lake with colorful reflections of some surrounding trees that haven’t lost their warmth yet. I keep my focus on the scenery, while we wait for the doctor to startle us with what will probably be an abrupt knock on the wooden door.

  As I assumed, the sound of his fist makes my chest hurt, and my throat feel tight. My stomach no longer feels like it’s in a knot, but now feels weak like I’m going to be sick.