13
Melody isn’t home yet, and I’m walking into her house with Parker, following my parents. I feel like we’re intruding, but Mom assured me Mrs. Quinn was very welcoming of the idea to have company. However, we were already parked out in front of her house when she pulled into the driveway. A smile tugging at her lips might offer the sense that we’re welcome, but I doubt a smile of any kind is natural at the moment.
“Don’t forget what I said, Parker,” I say as she takes her boots off at the door, following my lead. “I won’t ask about Mr. Quinn. I already know,” she replies.
Parker hasn’t been to the Quinns's house before. She’s only seen Harold and Mrs. Quinn at the shop a couple of times. She’s enamored by the walls and how they are covered with various styles of picture frames, embracing the story being told of a happy family. Parker smiles at the wall of memories as she walks by. Maybe I should hang up more photos in the house. I have a couple, but decorating isn’t an area I excel in. I had an interior decorator handle the house before we moved in so I could avoid the tasks of making our new home feel homey. When we moved in, the rooms seemed a bit staged, but when the boxes arrived, clutter filled up the empty spaces. I should at least hang up her school pictures, I guess—just another moment of realizing failure.
I offer Mrs. Quinn a warm hug before saying anything else. “How are you doing, Mrs. Quinn? What can I help with?” I ask Mrs. Quinn as I step into the kitchen, watching Mom hustle around with her casserole dishes and salad bowl.
“Brett, why don’t you get the drinks,” Mom says to me before Mrs. Quinn has the chance to speak.
“Of course.” I spot the bottles of wine Mom and Pops brought in and notice the wine glasses hanging from beneath an overhead cabinet. “Parker, go tell Uncle Brody to take his shoes off.” I hear Brody make his entrance before walking through the front door, shouting at Hannah for whatever she just said to him. I’ll assume it was worthy of Brody raising his voice because she is the only person in this entire world who knows how to make Brody tick. I couldn’t even do that throughout our entire childhood. Brody brushed everything off or punched me in the gut to give me the hint I needed. Hannah, though, someone might think she’s shoving toothpicks under his nails with the way she tortures him. We’ve all chalked it up to her being a tween, and we’ve told Brody she’ll grow out of this phase of hating him at some point. I just hope Parker doesn’t go through the same thing because if this is a preview, I’m not sure I’ll survive.
I see Brody waltz in after kicking his boots off, his cheeks are burning red, and his eyes are wide, looking at me like he just ran away from a killer beast. “I need a drink,” he says.
“Red, white, or bourbon?” I ask while uncorking the bottle of red.
“All three should do,” he says, peeking over his shoulder. I assume he’s looking for Hannah, who took off into the dining room with Parker.
“Everything okay?” I ask with a raised brow.
“She wants me dead,” he whispers.
“No, she doesn’t. She’s just trying to show you who’s boss.”
“Yeah, bro, and it’s her.”
I shake my head and pour the first glass, handing it over to Mrs. Quinn. “Red?”
“Yes, please,” she says, taking the wine glass into her hand.
“What happened?” I ask Brody.
“Uh, some little shithead, Dunce … like, who names their kid Dunce, first, second, why is my daughter texting a boy in her class?”
I hand Brody the entire bottle of wine. “Dude, chill.”
“Chill? Are you kidding? I know what I was doing at twelve.”
“Hannah is only ten. I think you’re overreacting.”
“She’s going to be eleven in two weeks. This isn’t good. You know how they say each generation figures things out faster than the one before? Well, she’s figuring shit out. I just know it. She told me she needed a bra. Like, what?”
The words I hear strike a nerve because I know it’s all coming, and I’m not ready to have those talks with Parker or prepared to go bra shopping with my daughter. I’ve told myself I will cross that bridge when I get to it, and it has to be at least three years away.
“Can shit-head handle the bra situation with her?”
“Shit-head can barely make time for Hannah, so I’m guessing the last thing Shit-head wants to do is spend quality time with her daughter while bra shopping.”
“You’re just going to have to suck it up, bro. I don’t know what to tell you. But I’ll tell you this … if you tell her she can’t talk to this boy, whoever he is, I promise you she will talk to him just out of spite.”
Brody takes a swig from the bottle, and I grab it from his hand because that’s freaking rude as hell since I haven’t finished pouring glasses yet. “How do you even know all of this?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, parenting articles, I guess.”
“You read those?”
“Well, yeah, I’d rather be informed than in the dark.”
“Dweeb,” Brody says, flicking me in the forehead as he walks through the kitchen to offer his hello to Mrs. Quinn.
I finish pouring a couple of glasses of red and move onto the bottle of white while hearing the front door open. It could be Journey or Melody, but I’m on the opposite side of the kitchen and can’t see into the foyer.
“Hi,” I hear. My back is to the entryway of the kitchen, but I turn, finding an unsettled look. She’s clearly uncomfortable, which makes me feel bad since she’s in her house and we’ve barged in.
“Hi, honey,” Mrs. Quinn greets her daughter.
“It’s nice to see you again, sweetie,” Mom follows, making her way over to Melody and kissing her on the cheek. “I think we’re all set, so go have a seat. What would you like to drink?”
I would offer her a drink since it is my assigned responsibility, but now it looks like my mother needs to speak for me. How fun.
“I can get my drink, but thank you for offering,” Melody says with a polite smile.
“Wine or something else?” I cut in, ignoring the fact that she just said she’d get herself a drink.
Melody stares at me for a long second before responding to my question. It feels like she’s trying to read my mind or figure out why I thought it would be a good idea to join my parents here tonight. “I’ll have a glass of wine, I guess,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. She does this when she’s uncomfortable, like she’s protecting herself from everything around her.
“Red or white?” Maybe I should have just offered the white since Brody was kind enough to sample the red directly from the bottle.
“White, please,” she says. Thankfully.
I turn to grab the bottle of white wine and a glass, but when I turn around, I see that Melody has left the room.
I pour the glass anyway and set it on the counter for when she returns, but she doesn’t come back. After a few minutes, I join Pops and Brody in the dining room, watching a magic trick show, which Parker interrupts when she yanks on my wrist, loudly whispering her need to find the bathroom.
“Is it a secret?” I ask her.
“Daddd.”
“Okay, okay. I believe it’s over this way,” I say, taking her through the other opening in the dining room and across the hall. The door is closed and locked. “We have to wait a minute.”
I spot a bottle of air freshener behind the thin hallway decorative table. Maybe my ideas aren’t the best, but I’m not giving up until I make Melody smile.
The door finally opens to the bathroom, and Melody looks flush and splotchy. “Air freshener?” I ask, handing over the bottle.
She smiles. Not a full-fledged smile, but a I’d-like-to-punch-in-you-the-face kind of smile. “You’re so sweet to offer.” Again, she folds her arms over her chest.
“I’m kidding. Girls don’t do those sorts of things in the bathroom, right, Parker?” Two birds with one stone, I see. Parker has also crossed her arms, and she’s giving a very sim
ilar look to Melody’s.
“Dad,” Parker groans.
Melody steps out of the bathroom and stands to the side, so they can switch places. She’s quick to close the door, leaving Melody and me in the hallway in a stare down. “Girls get easily embarrassed about bodily odors,” Melody schools me on the etiquette of talking to a girl. I’ve been given the lectures many times by a child, so I’m not new to what she’s saying. However, I have to toughen my daughter up somehow. If she goes through life embarrassed about poop, I’ll be allowing her to act in a way her mother would never approve. Abby had a mouth on her, and there was no filter, no secrets. If she had a stomach ache, I got descriptions while she was in the bathroom. She was essentially my guy friend in a woman’s body.
“I’m aware, but I need to toughen her up a little too, right?” I slip my hands into my pockets and roll onto my heels while offering a charming smile to smooth her over.
“No, girls should believe they always smell like roses.”
Melody takes a step closer, looking up at me as if she had something more to say, but I quickly realize she’s moving to the side to walk around me. During the short moment of seeing her eyes up close, I notice a hint of thin, red veins, fogging up the vivid green hue. She has a smudge of black makeup beneath her eye, and I have the urge to wipe it away, but I keep my hands to myself. As she takes another step by me, I stop thinking and grab her shoulder, forcing her to turn back around. “Are you sleeping at night?”
“She seems confused by my question as her eyebrows knit together. “A little,” she says, squinting her eyes with a questionable look.
“You look exhausted.” I don’t mean it to be offensive, but I know what can happen when someone goes for long periods without sleep. It breaks down the body and mind.
Melody glances down at her carpet runner that we’re standing on and sighs. “You know, it’s another one of those things a woman doesn’t want to hear from a man.”
I’m not trying to win her over. Well, I’d like to, but now isn’t the right time. I’m just concerned. “Well, I’m worried about you. That’s all.”
When she looks back at me, her mouth turns down into a grimace, and stress lines deepen on her forehead. “Why? We don’t know each other anymore, not after life has had its way with both of us.”
I’m not sure there is a response suitable enough to explain a reason for caring for this woman, other than the fact that I once had feelings for her, and now that I’m in her presence again, I realize those feelings are still inside of me. They were just buried beneath the years of hardships that I, and evidently she, have lived through. I understand why she thinks I have no right to be concerned about her, but she doesn’t understand what’s been going on inside my head all these years.
Being late to dinner made it so we sat directly across from each other at the table. The arrangement was likely set up, but I’ll happily enjoy the view while we eat.
The small talk doesn’t allow for much other than ordinary conversation or anything more than questions about The Barrel House. I know Mrs. Quinn never spent much time working behind the scenes at the shop, but she enjoyed being there and greeting customers. Her questions about sales surprise me, but I guess she is trying to gather a report to bring back to Harold. I’m sure he would like to know how things are going.
With a break in the conversation, Melody stands, announcing: “I’ll clear the dishes,” but Mom argues with her to sit down, insisting on doing the dirty work.
“Really, I could use a minute to clear my head,” Melody continues.
Mom seems taken back by Melody, pushing back and concedes. “Of course, sweetie.”
Melody scurries around the table, grabbing as many empty plates as she can manage to stack up on top of each other.
I should stay here and mind my own business. I should. But I’d be rude if I didn’t offer to help in the kitchen, especially after my bathroom jokes earlier.
I excuse myself from the table, trying to be inconspicuous to avoid any looks or chit chat behind my back from our mothers. They have been eyeballing both Melody and me all night as if they’re trying to trap us into their secret plan of matchmaking. I’m no stranger to flattery, and the way Mrs. Quinn was talking to me in the hospital last night; it was clear she and Mom had discussed a future unbeknownst to Melody and me.
When I make my way into the kitchen, I find Melody elbow deep in the sink full of water and suds, but I also see a newer-looking dishwasher right beside her. “Is the dishwasher broken?”
“No,” she says, quickly responding.
“Cleaning dishes always calms me down too,” I tell her. It’s a lie, but I’m waiting for a look to call me out on my fib because I don’t think any person in the world enjoys washing dishes.
“Oh, yeah?” she asks, squinting an eye at me.
“No, I hate dishes, which is the reason why I opt for the dishwasher.”
Melody continues scrubbing at the hand-painted plate, and I consider warning her about scraping the China too hard as it could damage the finish but I don’t think it would end well for me if I said anything like that.
“Did you lose your girlfriend—Parker’s mom? Is that why you understand the pain of losing someone?”
We hadn’t talked too much about pain, but I suppose the few things I said might have been more on the lines of advice than empathy. I’ve seen more death than anyone should see in a lifetime, but I can’t compare any of that to losing a parent. It’s still unimaginable to me, even after everything I’ve lost.
“Parker’s mom wasn’t my girlfriend. Abby, she was my best friend. We served in the Marines together. Neither of us had many other friends, so we became close and ended up renting an apartment together off base for a few years.” Our story is not so simple, but the details leading up to us living together are not appropriate for tonight, or anytime soon most likely.
Melody continues her effort of cleaning the paint off the white plate and tilts her head to the side. “Guys and girls can never just be friends, right?” She’s really pressing for information, but yet, seems so completely unavailable at the same time. I have never been so thrown off by a woman in my life compared to the way Melody manages to toy with my head.
“No, Abby and I were never more than friends.”
“Oh,” she says, finally placing the dish down on the drying rack.
I take a hand towel from the counter and dry the dish. “A few years after Parker was born, Abby was killed—”
I knew I shouldn’t have said what I did the second the words left my mouth. It was too soon for Melody, and Parker still suffers deeply from the loss of Abby. The emotions never get old for my litle girl and the pain never ceases. The wound is as fresh today as it was when she was almost too young to understand what forever meant.
Her squeak from the doorway feels like a slap of cold air, reminding me of why I don’t talk about what happened to Abby, not with Parker in the same house or within a mile radius for that matter.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” Melody says, covering her hands over her mouth.
“No, no, it’s fine.” I run to Parker and fall to my knees in front of her, trying my hardest to stop the tears I assume are threatening to pour out of her big blue eyes. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I whisper in Parker’s ear. I lift her into my arms, and she places her head down on my shoulder.
“Can I do something?” Melody offers, sounding distraught and broken from what she witnessed. I screwed up big time on so many levels tonight.
“Will you let everyone know Parker isn’t feeling well, and I have to get her home?”
I don’t wait for Melody to respond. I run toward the front door, stepping into my boots and grabbing our coats and Parker’s boots on the way out. I don’t want her to break down, not now, not here. It’s not the time.
We make it outside when the tears start to fall one by one. “I’m sorry, daddy. I can’t stop it—” she says, breathlessly.
“Let it out, P
ark. It’s okay. It’s always okay to cry.”
“I’m sorry we have to leave,” she says, breathing heavily.
“Look at me,” I tell her, pulling her away so she can see my face. “You have nothing to be sorry about, but I need you to calm down a little. You’re breathing too fast.” There’s no turning back once we get to this point. It’s out of Parker’s control. When she becomes upset, she hyperventilates. She was diagnosed with asthma last year, mostly just stressed induced, but Parker gets stressed out easily. I get the truck door open and sit her down on the passenger side seat, reaching into my pocket for her inhaler. “Try to take a deep breath.”
She can’t so I do my best to guide her through the attacks, trying to help her stay calm and talk her through something I can’t control. Every single time this happens, she stares at me with wide eyes, terrified as she clutches her chest, and I want to die because this look—the look of unrelentless fear has scarred me for life.
* * *
Five months into my tour in Afghanistan and our umpteenth ambush, I was poaching an abandoned alley with one of my guys, Dave. He was one of our communications guys we pulled into the current mission of clearing the area because of the amount of men we had lost over the previous days. I was seconds away from calling the scene “clear,” when the ping of a bullet zinged through the air. One shot, one hit, and Dave hit the ground clutching the upper left region of his chest. My instincts tell me to drop to Dave’s side and press my hand into the gunshot wound before he bleeds out. It would have allowed the enemy free range to continue shooting his weapon. I hold my rifle up, spotting the guy hiding behind a corroded stone wall that looks to have been hit by a recent explosion. It’s about fifty yards ahead. I steady my breaths, trying to put aside the thought that one of my guys is likely dying beside me. I locate the enemy in my sights just as he is reloading his weapon. I fire and hit him with my first shot. He’s gone.
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set : Complete Series, Books 1-4 Page 57
