Whiskey (Brewed Book 2)

by Molly McAdams

  He looked down at me, looking all kinds of mean and scary and not the hero I’d always looked up to. “What?”

  “Th-the glue,” I said, tripping over the words as I tried to keep looking into his eyes. The way he and Momma had always taught us to with adults. “Emberly. I-it came off.”

  “The hell—get inside.”

  “Y-yes, sir,” I whispered as I hurried past him, into the barn, my voice getting stuck in my throat.

  When Dad got mad, my brothers and me got in trouble and got our tails busted for it, but I’d never seen him look at any of us the way he was looking at me.

  I started walking toward the feed but was jerked back, a cry of pain and shock bursting from me when it felt like my arm was torn from my shoulder.

  Before I had the chance to get steady on my feet, Dad’s cuffed palm went across my head, knocking me sideways from the force.

  “The fuck is wrong with you, boy?”

  I looked up, holding where he’d hit me and watching as he turned to grab a stack of papers off a bale of hay.

  “You wanna explain this?” he asked, but my head was shaking.

  I didn’t know what he was holding.

  I didn’t know what was happening.

  He snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Knock that off,” he said in that whip-like voice again. “No boy of mine is gonna cry.”

  I blinked.

  Blinked again, head shaking harder as I tried to fight the way my eyes were burning.

  But I didn’t understand . . .

  Sawyer cried, and Dad held him, saying it would be okay. Hunter got hurt, and Dad wiped at his tears, telling him the hurt was only temporary. Beau’s anger led to tears and screaming, and Dad just stood there and waited, always calm.

  “Explain what I’m holding, Cayson,” he said, shaking the papers in front of my face before pulling them away and flipping through them too fast to know what one was.

  “I don’t know!”

  “Got a call yesterday,” he said, folding the papers as his hands went to his hips. “Your momma and I had to go to the school. Had to talk to your teacher and principal about this shit.”

  That feeling.

  That twisting of my stomach. It was too much.

  I felt sick, like when I had to race to the bathroom.

  “Tell me why in the fuck this is what your teacher had to show for you,” he said and shoved the papers at me.

  I didn’t take them.

  I just stood there, trying not to throw up in front of my dad.

  “Nothing,” he said after a real long time. “Nothing. Not one of these pages is done, Cayson.”

  I knew that already.

  “Even this,” he shouted and pointed to the top. “Tell me why the fuck this is here instead of what should be there. What does that say? What does that say?”

  I jerked away from his booming voice. My body shaking and shaking as my feet seemed to become glued to the floor the way I’d glued Emberly Olsen’s hands together the other day.

  Dad was pointing at something on the paper, but I didn’t know what it said.

  Because it wasn’t real.

  It couldn’t be.

  It kept moving. Changing. Playing games with me that weren’t fair.

  “Tell me what it says,” he yelled.

  “I don’t know!” I cried out and tried so, so hard to stop the tears that formed again.

  Dad straightened.

  When I was able to look up at him, he was staring at me like I was an alien. “You don’t know what that says?”

  But the way he asked, it wasn’t nice. He asked like he was mad. Disappointed.

  “N-no, sir.”

  He watched me for another few seconds before flipping through the pages and showing me another, pointing at a word and demanding, “Tell me what this says.”

  My head shook harder and harder the longer I looked at the word. “I don’t know.”

  He snatched the papers away from me, his face twisted in a way I’d never seen it before. “You retarded?”

  My body jerked.

  My breaths were real loud.

  My head . . . it was shaking even faster than before.

  Dad said bad words all the time. But Momma had taught us there were some words you just didn’t say—even I knew that was one of them.

  “N-no. I’m not—I’m not that.”

  “Well, you can’t fucking read words kids half your age already know, Cayson,” he yelled, smacking me across the face with the stack of papers. “And then this? What the hell am I supposed to do with these drawings?”

  He went through paper after paper, showing them to me one at a time and pointing out my artwork with a look of disgust before tearing the pages and letting them fall to the floor.

  “Your teacher said every single paper you turn in only has drawings on them,” he said, hands moving to his hips again. “Said you draw in class when you’re supposed to be doing work. Showed us your little workbook.”

  Worry ate at me for what he would say next.

  But at the same time, I could feel my chest wanting to puff out.

  Because I was proud of those drawings. I was proud of the ones shredded near my feet. I knew they were good—everyone in class said so.

  And it helped me make it through days of listening to kids in my class read out loud when I couldn’t read at all.

  When I couldn’t connect the words they were saying with the words in front of me.

  When I couldn’t make sense of the words on the papers given to me.

  My dad bent, resting his hands on his knees so he could glare at me with a look so hard and mean it made me want to hide.

  But I stood still. Waiting.

  “You’re gonna listen in class. Pay attention. You’re gonna figure your shit out and do the work assigned to you, got me?”

  “But, Dad—”

  “Got me?” When I just stood there, he said, “I never want your Momma and me to be embarrassed by another call like that again. Understood?”

  I nodded. I think.

  I know I looked to the floor.

  “And as for this?” He pointed to the papers. “I don’t wanna see another drawing from you again. That’s sissy boy shit.”

  My head jerked up, my chin trembling when I realized he was trying to take away the only thing that helped me.

  Shaming it.

  Shaming me.

  He tilted his head, eyes squinting hatefully. “Unless you are a sissy boy.”

  “I ain’t no sissy.”

  His hand curled around my chin, his fingers digging into my cheeks. “Damn right, you’re not. Now get to feeding the animals.” He shoved me away, making me trip over myself and fall. “You’re killin’ me, Cayson.”

  By the time I pushed myself to sitting, he was gone.

  I looked to the animals that sometimes stayed in the barn, and then to the torn papers on the floor.

  Hurrying over, I searched through the pieces, looking for the drawings that hadn’t been ruined.

  Grabbing them up and stashing them in my sock to hide later.

  “Hey, girlfriend!”

  I looked up from my desk the next morning to see Jennifer standing in the doorway of the office. “Hmm?”

  “Sawyer and Rae are here.”

  Oh.

  Sawyer almost always came to Brewed to chat while eating or getting a drink. Since I was usually making drinks or checking on things behind one of the bars, I was readily available to my best friend and his girlfriend.

  But after the emotional roller coaster I took yesterday that was Cayson Dixon, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see them.

  I wasn’t sure I could sit next to Sawyer and not blurt out the biggest secret I’d ever kept from him.

  It’d been one thing before. I’d just barely realized I was in love with Cayson before he left, and then he stayed gone. Without the constant reminder of him, and with the family’s frustrations toward him so open, keeping my feelings from Sawyer
had been simple.

  But with Cayson back and clearly staying with Sawyer—as the bag of mortification had proved the night before—I was afraid it would be the next words out of my mouth.

  “Sawyer asked where you were,” Jennifer prompted when I didn’t respond.

  “Rae’s drink?” I asked distractedly.

  “It’s my next one up. Did you want to make it?”

  “No, no. You go ahead,” I called out as I went back to staring blankly at the opened binder dedicated to the town’s upcoming Amber Fest. “I’ll, uh, I’ll take it out to them.”

  It took nearly a minute before I was able to continue jotting down my last-minute ideas for Brewed’s booths for our fall festival.

  Another before I was able to force myself from the office, through the bar, and into the café.

  Two calming breaths before I could pick up Rae’s waiting mug.

  And then a mental count for each step I took so I wouldn’t think about the name trying to escape me.

  Cayson.

  Cayson.

  Cayson.

  I slid the mug in front of Rae and sank onto the other half of the chair Sawyer was occupying, elbowing him in the ribs when he shoved me away and then turning to punch him in the shoulder when he smacked the back of my head.

  “Ow, Em, fuck.”

  “You started it,” I snapped as I fixed my hair.

  Rae just watched us with a soft smile as she held her cup in both hands the way she always did, trying to savor the warmth. “Okay, children,” she said dryly.

  “It’s your boyfriend’s fault,” I said quickly, trying to defend my actions. But with each second that passed engaged in our typical morning banter, I felt myself relax a little bit more.

  “Children,” she mouthed.

  “Damn it,” I bit out when Sawyer pinched the back of my arm.

  “Where were you?” he asked, sounding only partially interested.

  “Prep for next weekend.” It was all said indifferently as if next weekend wasn’t our biggest of the year.

  Amber Fest was a three-day festival every October full of shopping, too much food and drinking, live entertainment, and movies in the square.

  The first day was centered in the square and was geared more toward families with younger children—with contests involving apples and pumpkins and fun crafts. The next two were absolute madness in the best of ways.

  Most of Main Street and the town square closed down and were littered with hay bales, pumpkins, food trucks, and vendor booths boasting all kinds of amazing things.

  Brewed had two booths: One for people who needed to get their caffeine fix. Another for those who preferred a drink that wasn’t offered in the beer garden—where our beers were available.

  Every year we tried to change up what drinks we served at the bar’s booth, six in total. Two pumpkin-inspired, two apple, and two peach even though it wasn’t summer. This was still Amber, after all, home of the Dixon Peach Orchard.

  It was busy for us, but it was worth it.

  The festival brought in so many people from surrounding towns, walking around and hanging out late into the night, that we made almost as much in the two days our booths were open as we did in a month of regular business hours.

  Call that a win.

  Sawyer gave a little grunt of understanding. “I need to be in the square getting things started. The first truckload of hay is coming in this morning.”

  I dramatically gestured out the window. “By all means.”

  But he just leaned forward and started talking to Rae as if continuing whatever conversation I’d walked in on.

  “It’s just not like the Cayson we knew at all. He’s different.”

  Well, shit.

  Rae’s shoulders lifted. “Well, maybe he is, but he’s been incredibly nice and helpful.”

  “Yeah. Those were never words used to describe Cayson before.” Sawyer looked to me. “Right?”

  I looked to the long counter that separated the café from the registers and espresso bar, hoping my baristas would be busy so I could use the excuse to leave—but there were no new customers.

  With a sigh, I looked from Sawyer to Rae. “Different . . . different is accurate and possibly a massive understatement.”

  “People can change,” Rae argued gently, raising a brow at Sawyer meaningfully.

  “You didn’t know him.” The words were abrupt, tumbling out before I even realized I was thinking them.

  When both their attention shifted to me, I looked away, pressing my lips firmly together to silence the chaos in my mind.

  Sawyer bumped my shoulder with his, his voice low when he told Rae, “He had no drive to better himself or plans for his future. Didn’t give a shit about school or anything like that. He skated by and was constantly in trouble with . . . well, everyone—including law enforcement.”

  Rae set her mug on the table and leaned forward. “Seriously? How did you not tell me any of this? All you said was that he was really popular and liked pranks.”

  I felt Sawyer shrug. “He did—he was. Probably the most popular kid in school who wasn’t on a sports team. I think he even won Prom King.”

  I nodded when he bumped me in silent question. “He didn’t accept it.”

  “Oh shit, that’s right.” Sawyer laughed, but it held an edge. “I can’t remember who won Queen—”

  Caroline Bowman, I thought miserably.

  “—but Cays was standing up there, holding his crown instead of wearing it. When they crowned the Queen, he dropped his crown in front of her and walked off stage.”

  “No,” Rae said, drawing out the word to show her disbelief. “Maybe she didn’t like him or was rude to him? Or maybe he just didn’t want to be Prom King?”

  I gave her a dry look at her attempt at explaining away Cayson’s behavior before focusing on the rest of the café again.

  “Just Cayson being Cayson,” Sawyer said. “He pranked a lot, yeah. Sometimes they were funny, but others they were so focused on one person that it became too much.”

  I felt my breathing deepen.

  Felt my throat grow tight as that familiar dread and anguish squeezed my chest.

  “Those times . . . those, he was just a dick. No way around it. He made some people miserable.” A heavy sigh eased from Sawyer. “Honestly, I think those people were happy when he left.”

  From the way he put some of his weight against me for a moment, I knew he was talking about me. Knew he was silently telling me he was still there for me, silently comforting me, after all these years.

  My chest heaved, but I tried to cover it by leaning over and resting my elbow on the table and my head on my hand.

  Happy?

  I should’ve been.

  But I’d been absolutely wrecked.

  I’d pressed myself as close to the wall as possible, covering my mouth with one hand to mute my breathing when he’d gone stomping out of the kitchen and past me.

  My eyes must have been as wide as saucers as I watched him cross the room and exit out the back doors to where the party was still in full swing.

  I’d been heading toward the kitchen to get more plates before their low, shocking conversation had stopped me. Stunned me.

  So many things from the past few years flashed through my mind, adding up after what I’d just heard. And yet, I couldn’t make sense of it.

  Because he would never . . . I would’ve sworn before this evening that he wouldn’t.

  But I couldn’t deny what I’d heard.

  Once I was sure he wasn’t going to come back inside, I hesitantly continued toward the kitchen, where he’d left Cayson behind.

  When I passed through the open archway, my heart broke.

  Seeing him that way . . . so exposed and vulnerable in these rare moments he never knowingly let anyone see.

  Standing with a hand clutching the back of his neck while the other held him up against the kitchen island as he sucked in harsh breaths, his body vibrating violently.<
br />
  As it had that first night years before, my hand lifted as if to reach for him and pressed to the wall instead.

  “Cayson.”

  I hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

  I wouldn’t have even known that I had if his head hadn’t snapped up.

  His pain quickly bled to confusion and then horror as he looked from me and then past me, making sure I was alone. When his attention snapped to me again, his brow furrowed with frustration.

  “How long you been there?”

  The way my face had creased with sorrow and pain must have answered for me because his drained of emotion and color.

  “So, now you’ve taken to eavesdropping, Duck?”

  “No,” I had said quickly and taken a step toward him, one he reciprocated when I had expected him to back away. “No, it wasn’t like that. I came in for plates.”

  “And got an earful instead, yeah?”

  My shoulders had sagged. “Cayson.”

  “Stop saying my name like that,” he’d said through clenched teeth.

  “Why was he . . . I don’t understand . . .”—I’d gestured behind me, my head shaking—“Why haven’t you told anyone?”

  “Told them what? That you keep following me around like the little duck you are?”

  My jaw had trembled when I’d said, “Stop! I know what I heard. Stop trying to make me doubt myself.”

  He’d closed the distance between us with one last step and lowered his head to look into my eyes.

  It was the closest I had ever been to Cayson.

  How sad that it was under those circumstances with that grave look on his face.

  How humiliating that even with our past, my soul was begging to be bared. My hands were itching to reach for him, to touch him. My heart ached to know what it would feel like to have him love me too.

  When he spoke, his tone was a low warning, as though forcing me to believe this lie. “Because there’s nothing to tell.”

  “That isn’t—”

  “There is nothing to tell, Emberly,” he’d ground out, his hands abruptly reaching for me and curling around my cheek and neck.

  The touch gentle yet firm.

  Pleading and commanding.

  And my body was flying and falling, spinning and crashing, all at once.

  My stomach was fluttering. My heart racing so forcefully I knew he could hear, and I didn’t know how to care.