“You, Journey. I want to make things work for both of us.” I’m not sure what he means by “both of us.”
“It’s taken you three days to say this?”
“Yes, it has, because I’m not about to tell you to stop loving another man.” He understands me. I didn’t think he would comprehend what I was trying to explain the other night on a level as deep as I’m on. Being in my shoes isn’t normal, and I wouldn’t expect anyone to feel the way I do.
“What are you about to tell me?” I ask.
“Stuff,” he says.
I roll my eyes and tilt my head back, peering up at the clear blue sky. “Fine, I’ll see you at eleven. Betsy’s.”
“Thank you,” he says, stepping in to wrap his arms around my neck. I don’t hug him back, though. I’m not ready to offer a response to his simple words.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I offer while unlocking the door to my jeep.
“I’m glad your Jeep was safe and secure all night. Was your apartment?” I give him a look to avoid his question. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Good luck with your meeting.”
I figured it was coming—the day I would finally turn down a job. Taking photos in a non-heated barn that has poor lighting is not my cup of tea. To each their own but freezing while taking photographs of people wearing winter coats to a wedding under orange lights will not make my portfolio look any better. I have a hard time saying no to potential clients, but I’ve been regularly filling up my schedule, giving me the option to pass on events I’d rather avoid. I still spoke to the couple for over forty-five minutes, offering them advice without overstepping my bounds. I told them I was booked for the same day, rather than offensively telling them I’d rather not freeze my butt off for you and your marital bliss.
The couple leaves five minutes before eleven, passing Brody at the cafe door. He hasn’t seen me yet, but he’s looking in every direction, saving the second table to the right for last. A smile stretches across his cheeks after he spots me. He peels his coat off while preparing to snag the chair across from me. “How did it go?” he asks.
I scrunch my nose and shake my head. “I passed on the job.”
“It’s better than being passed by for a job,” he counters.
“True.”
Brody takes one of the two menus and scans the list for a quick second. I already know what I’m having, and part of me wonders if he knows what he’s having but needs a minute to prepare his speech.
He places the menu down and crosses his hands on top of the ad-covered paper placement. “I’m sorry for going a few days without saying anything to you,” he begins. “I don’t typically use my past as an excuse for anything in life, but after I was cheated on and found out my wife loved someone else more than me, it was a hard pill to swallow.”
His original rendition of the story didn’t sound as painful, but I’m sure it was a cover-up. I can’t imagine finding a spouse cheating.
“I understand,” I tell him because I do understand.
“I’ve tried to analyze the situation a little and put myself in your shoes, but I concluded that you’re a better human being than me.”
“Well, I could have told you that,” I add, smirking to accent my comment.
He doesn’t bite back again. “If Adam miraculously got up and started walking and talking tomorrow, how would it make you feel?” The question has never been asked of me before. I don’t put one foot in front of the other if I can’t balance properly in the first place.
“I would be ecstatic.”
“Would you feel relieved or excited for a potential future with him?” His question is hard to ingest. I haven’t considered a future with Adam since we were dating during our senior year. They were girlish dreams of a happily ever after with a high school sweetheart, dreams never to become a reality because he was going to school across the country.
“It could never happen. His damage is permanent.” It’s the easiest answer.
“That’s not what I asked,” Brody continues. “I’m getting a BLT. What do you want to eat?”
“A Caesar wrap,” I tell him.
We pause our conversation while Brody waves our waitress over, quickly calling out our order plus two waters. “Anyway, if things were different, and he was able to walk out of the nursing facility tomorrow, would you be skipping into the sunset with him or walking away with a sense of relief?”
I don’t know Adam anymore. We haven’t conversed. We haven’t stared into each other’s eyes. We haven’t grown together. There aren’t sparks. I realized the sparks had flickered out before the accident—when Brody kissed me. It was different. It was electrifying, proof of a higher sensation of feelings.
If Adam walked away unscathed, I’d feel relief, like a burden had been lifted. Guilt wouldn’t play a large role in my life, and I would feel free in a way, but I would need to move on to a life without a rewind button.
“I’d feel relief,” I tell Brody with honesty.
Brody nods with understanding. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat. What does it mean?
“I will own up to my part of this blame, Journey. I was the other half. I’m taking some of the burden, and I’m going to love Adam the way you do.”
I can’t imagine how confused my face must appear to him, but I haven’t heard so much nonsense in a long time. “I’m not sure how to respond to what you said.”
“You don’t need to respond. I want to be a good person like you.”
“What does one thing have to do with another?”
“I need your help this afternoon,” he says.
“I have a doctor’s appointment. I can’t.”
The lines in Brody’s forehead sharpen. “Why?”
I shrug. “I might be sick.”
Brody leans forward, keeping his voice low. “What kind of sick?”
“I’ve lost twenty pounds without trying over the last six months. I don’t know.”
Brody leans back into his chair and runs his hands down the sides of his face. “I’m going with you. Hannah is staying after school for Girl Scouts and getting a ride home with Parker.”
“No, you’re not coming with me. I don’t need anyone to hold my hand.”
“Tough. I’m coming to hold your hand, and then we’re running an errand after so I can prove to you how I’m going to help your life.”
“What if I say no?”
“It’s not the type of no I need to listen to.”
17
“You’re staying here, Brody.” My declaration might have sounded too much like orders for a dog.
“In the Jeep without the heat?” he asks. I don’t want him to freeze, so I toss my keys at him.
“Fine, here,” I say while stepping out of the Jeep. Before closing the door, I see Brody throw his back against the chair with a look of defeat. I don’t need a hand to hold, and he hasn’t figured this out yet.
The medical facility is a small family practice, which I prefer. I’m not a big fan of the big medical centers that have every specialist known to man on varying floors. I’ve been a patient here since I was a kid, so they know me well.
“Well, if it isn’t the infamous Journey Quinn,” Paula, the front office manager, addresses me. My name is different on my file, but she has been referring to me as a Quinn from before I can remember, so I don’t correct her.
“Hi, Paula,” I respond, resting my arms on the countertop between us.
“It’s been a while. How are you doing?” She knows about Dad. The whole town knows about Dad.
“I’m okay,” I tell her, filling in the questions on the clipboard she had placed down for me.
“I’m very sorry your father passed away,” she says, keeping her voice soft.
“Thank you.” I continue answering the questions. Paula is staring at me. I can feel it. Like most people, they want details about Dad, but only if offered. No one would be forward enough to ask questions that weren’t already offered through the obituary.
A gust of wind hits my back, blowing my hair around my face, which I immediately brush away from my eyes before continuing the questionnaire.
Could you be pregnant? I wonder if they would laugh at the response I want to write down. Probably not.
How many alcoholic beverages do you consume in a week? This answer has changed several times throughout the years, but I rarely drink now.
How would you describe your mood? I’m not a big fan of self-analysis, but I know I’ve been quieter than usual and less motivated to do much outside of work. Whether that’s an answer worth dissecting, I don’t know. I also just lost a parent within the last six months.
I finish up the last of the questions and hand the clipboard back to Paula. “Dr. Beatrice will be with you in a few moments,” Paula says with a kind smile.
With a slight pivot, I move toward the waiting area, finding Brody sitting in a chair with a cooking magazine pinched between his fingers, hiding his face. I take the seat across from him. “I told you to wait in the car.”
Brody drops the magazine and leans forward. “Journey, I truly despise playing by your rules.”
“They aren’t just my rules. The doctor will not let you in there with me. What if you were abusing me, and I’m here to talk about you?”
“You came up with the reason way too fast,” he responds. “Am I abusing you?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
“Well …”
Brody shakes his head.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.
“You couldn’t possibly know.”
“You’re thinking … I will follow you in there, and you will have to take your clothes off, and I won’t leave the room.”
I close my eyes and drop my head into my hands. “Didn’t cross my mind, but there’s another wonderful reason why they won’t let you come in with me.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“I’m not needy. The trait doesn’t make me stubborn.”
“I’m needy,” he responds. “And I need to know you’re okay.”
“Which you can find out after my appointment.”
Brody lifts the magazine and reopens the pages, holding it in front of his face.
“Journey,” my name is called from behind me. I twist around, finding an unfamiliar nurse with a clipboard. I stand up and spot Brody standing up at the same time.
“No,” I mutter to him.
He ignores my remark and follows me toward the nurse. “I think it’s so sweet when spouses tag along. It’s nice to have a hand to hold sometimes,” the nurse says to Brody rather than me.
“Oh, I’m just Journey’s very best friend and her health advocate. I find it helpful to have an extra set of ears, and I want to make sure I can support her however possible if need be.” Brody’s voice changes as he speaks to the nurse; it goes up an octave and has a hint of feminine sweetness.
“How sweet are you?” the nurse replies, patting Brody on the back as we walk ahead. “Just ahead to room four.”
Unbelievable.
I walk into the room and take a seat on the edge of the mint green paper-covered exam table. Brody takes a seat in the guest chair and crosses his legs. I can’t believe him.
The nurse wraps a blood-pressure cuff around my arm and pumps the bulb while watching the seconds on her watch. When she’s through, she removes the cuff and jots a number down on her notepad. “Could you remove your shoes and step onto the scale?”
I slide my boots off and take the few steps over to the scale, feeling my blood pressure rise. Thankfully, she checked that part of me first. “All right, you can step off,” she says, adding the number to her notes. “Is there anything additional you would like the doctor to know before she comes in?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
The nurse smiles and closes Brody and me inside the room. “What is wrong with you?” I ask him.
He blows me a kiss in response.
I let my feet dangle from the table, focusing on the plaid pattern of my socks versus the coy look on Brody’s face. He will know the truth about my past, a truth I wanted to keep to myself. “Brody, I—”
“I’ll leave if you’re uncomfortable,” he says.
“I am uncomfortable. I have a history you don’t know about. These things usually unravel throughout a relationship between two people, but we aren’t in a relationship.”
“You’re right. I’ll step out,” he says, standing from his seat. “I was just trying to comfort you.”
I’m caught within his eyes, reading the realness behind his words. “I don’t want to be judged.”
“I would never do that to you.” His eyebrows knit together like they do when he’s sincere.
Air spills from my lungs, and I glance up toward the fluorescent lights. “You can stay,” I tell him, wondering if I’ll regret this decision. He keeps squirming his way in and makes it so far, I have a hard time pushing him away after.
Dr. Beatrice doesn’t leave me waiting long. She notices Brody first, probably wondering if he’s my husband, boyfriend, or whatever he just told the nurse he was to me, but she doesn’t seem fazed by his presence. “Journey, it’s been awhile, huh?”
“Yeah, I kept meaning to make an appointment for a physical but—”
“I have heard every excuse known to man and/or woman,” she says, winking at me.
Dr. Beatrice takes a seat on the rolling stool by the sink and scoots over a little closer. “Is this a friend of yours?” she asks me.
I give Brody a quick look, noticing his doe-eyed expression. “Yes, Brody’s here for support,” I tell her.
“Are you okay with Brody hearing potentially private information about your medical history?” Dr. Beatrice continues.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” She folds her hands and rests them on her lap. “Journey, your weight concerns me. I know we’ve been down this road before, but since it’s been a while, I want to let you know where I’d like to see your weight versus where it is at the moment. At five-foot-five, you should be between 114-144, which is an average weight. You’re currently at 98 pounds, which you haven’t been in about ten years.”
I’m avoiding Brody with all my strength. I don’t want to see whatever expression he has on his face. “It happened over the course of the last six months after my father passed away,” I explain.
Dr. Beatrice nods with understanding. “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. It’s a catastrophic life event when a child loses a parent.”
I swallow hard, to push her words toward the back of my head. “Yeah.”
“Well, we know these types of events trigger mental health side-effects with you, right?”
“Yes,” I respond.
“Have you been vomiting?”
Now is the time I look over at Brody because I need to see the disappointment. His face is expressionless, though.
“Occasionally,” I answer.
“How often would you say you are vomiting in a day or a week?”
My gaze falls to my hands, the cuticles needing to be trimmed and nails in need of color. “Once or twice a week.”
“Okay, we can manage this, Journey,” she says. I can’t look up and face her, though. “I’m going to run some tests just to make sure there isn’t an underlying cause, but assuming there isn’t, I want you to restart therapy and checking in with a nutritionist to help keep you on track.”
I hate this. People can look at me and pretend like they think nothing less of me, but inside, even the medical professionals feel sympathy and want to understand why my brain works in this way.
“Sounds good,” I tell her, feeling very much the opposite of my words.
“Do you want to get better?” Dr. Beatrice asks.
The million-dollar question. A patient won’t get better without a purpose, reason, or motivation to do so. “I think so,” I say, honestly.
Dr. Beatrice twists in her chair and centers her atte
ntion on Brody. “Patients who suffer with bulimia often need emotional support. I assume this is the reason you’re here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Brody says, sounding frazzled. “I want to help her get better. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“I wish everyone had a friend like you,” she says with a smile.
“Well, then. The nurse will be back to take some notes and run some tests. You’ll only hear from us if there is a concern with any of the results. In the meantime, I will have Paula send referrals to the nutritionist and therapist you worked with last time if that’s okay?”
“That would be great, thanks,” I respond.
“I’m glad you came in today,” Dr. Beatrice says. “You’ve already handled the hardest part.”
It’s a line doctors say, but this isn’t the hardest part. Cutting addiction is much harder.
Dr. Beatrice leaves the exam room and closes us back inside. This time, the room feels much smaller. “You are just one surprise after another,” Brody says.
I know he’s trying to lighten the mood, but he’s right, and if I could tell him everything at once to save him from having to walk away from me later, I would, but it’s not so easy. “I’m too much for your life, Brody. I don’t want you to feel like you have to be here for me or play this role in my life. It’s not fair to you. You have enough going on.”
“Is there anything else I should know about you?” He tilts his head to the side, and smirks. “Other than the fact you were married at some point, which I’m sure we’ll get to when you want to share the story, but I’m not concerned about that.”
“I think you are fully versed in all shitty parts of my life now.”
“I’m not here out of pity,” he says.
The thought crossed my mind. “Then why are you here?”
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 40
