I should have kept my mouth shut. Melody grabs her bag and coat and races for the front door. She looks mortified. I didn’t mean to make her feel this way, or any way for that matter.
“Don’t take it personally, kid,” Mr. Crawley says. “She’s in for a long road of turmoil and she will need to learn how to navigate it like the rest of us have in life. It’s difficult. You know.”
I do know.
“I can’t just stand here while she’s in pain though. There has to be something I can do to help her.”
Mr. Crawley folds his arms over his chest and runs his hands over his white beard. “I don’t know what you could do to help, but if you think of anything, good on ya. Their family could use a lot of support right now. I’ve been wracking my brain to come up with ideas on how to help them, but there isn’t a lot anyone can do to take away this kind of pain.”
Without thinking too much longer about how I can help, I remember Harold asking for the bottle of Red Apple. I grab one from the top shelf and race out the door.
“Melody!” I shout after her just as she approaches the street.
She seems startled when she turns toward my voice, tripping from the curb in the same old Melody fashion I remember vividly. She catches herself and rights her feet. “I need to get back home. I should be with my dad,” she says. I don’t dare remind her I suggested that very same thing myself because it’s none of my business how she should feel or what she should do at this moment.
She whips her head from side to side, searching for oncoming traffic, then bolts across the street. Another long few seconds pass when I remember the bottle in my hand.
“Wait up a second,” I call out. “Your dad wanted a bottle.”
I meet her across the street, watching as her long copper strands wisp around her head before catching on her long eyelashes. She pulls the hair away from her face and wraps her arms around her upper body for what I’m sure must be warmth in this chilly weather after coming back from South Carolina. Her coat isn’t heavy enough for this weather.
“How did you—”
I’m only a couple feet away when I respond. “I spoke to your dad just a bit ago. He said you were on your way down, flustered, upset, trying to be a hero, and you’d most likely forget he requested a bottle of Red Apple.” Again, I said more than necessary, but her feelings are so obvious, it’s like they’re written in black marker across her face.
“I know,” she says, peering down at her boots. “Thank you for coming to help.”
I’m not sure if this is a breakthrough moment for her anger or a loss of control in this situation, but there is so much pain wrenched into her freckled face, I can almost feel it in my chest.
“I’m sorry for what you’re going through. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.” Death. It is the worst thing a person can experience in life. There are just varying degrees of how much worse it can be, and to lose a parent, I could never assume the intensity of her pain.
Melody sweeps another windblown strand of hair away from her forehead and peers up at me, her lashes fluttering beneath her perfectly shaped brows. “I don’t know what else I can do right now aside from helping him, and being in his shop feels like the only way—” Her words trail off into the breeze, forcing me to assume what she was trying to say. Her eyes are open wide as if she’s seeing the unthinkable play out in front of her, even though it’s only me here. Tears fall, one by one, and she’s quick to clap her hands over her face to hide the truth she’s more than entitled to be feeling.
My body aches, watching her in pain and I don’t care what right I have or don’t have, or if she remembers me or not. She needs a hug and to know she’s not standing here alone watching the world crumble before her. I wrap my arms around her slim body and squeeze her into my chest. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
She allows me to hold her for a long minute, one I’d pause if possible. The scent of that shampoo—the same scent. It makes my chest weak and my heart race at the same moment. She’s warm, and God, this is awful. I can’t be thinking about anything more than the pain she’s experiencing. I struggle to release my arms, but assume she needs space even while needing comfort. As I back away, I spot another tear falling from the tip of her bottom lashes. I press my thumb beneath her lashes and wipe away the proof of pain. “I don’t know how long you’ve known about your dad’s illness returning, but I doubt there’s any length of time long enough to accept or adjust to that kind of news.” I don’t think she has known much longer than I have from what Pops was saying. The news must be tearing her apart. Melody swallows hard and looks over at her dad’s truck. “I’m going to—”
I need to let her go. I take a few steps away, complying with her statement. However, the moment she’s secured inside the truck, I feel the cold neck of the bottle in my hand. Crap. I’m acting like a psycho, but I’ll also seem incompetent if she goes home without this. I knock on her window with the back of my knuckles and hold up the Red Apple.
The window slides down, and a smile arches to one side of her peachy lips. “Thank you for everything.”
I hold up my hand and step away from the car so she can leave, feeling heartbroken for a woman I tried so hard to forget about. I failed miserably. She’s unforgettable in every way.
I spot her eyes in the rearview mirror, another undecipherable look as she pulls away from the parking spot. Her eyes can tell an entire story between two blinks, and yet, I feel blind and deaf to whatever it is she’s trying to tell me.
5
Pops asked me to help with The Barrel House. I would never ask questions about how long they might need the help, but the more I think about the outcome of this unfortunate situation, I’m realizing the help I’m offering could become more permanent as Harold’s illness progresses. I don’t know if Melody and Journey plan to keep the business running or what anyone’s wishes are, but I’m sure I’ll find out in due time.
Mr. Crawley is understanding of the flexibility issues I have with Parker, which makes everything less stressful on my end. So, as long as I have her to school before nine and pick her up at three, things will work out. I’m just not sure how long Mr. Crawley can manage the shop and distillery at the same time while I’m out.
The looping line at the elementary school is spilling onto the street earlier than usual today. I try to time my arrival ten minutes before the hour to avoid this line, but it looks like I’m out of luck today.
I take the few minutes my car is parked along the curb to check my news feeds on social media—a habit I gained years ago but only for the purpose of spectating. I don’t think I’ve posted anything in over three years. Plus, I locked my profiles down to the highest level of privacy because I don’t like the thought of people having an inside view to my life. I wonder if Melody prefers privacy or being an open book. I tap her name into the search bar, finding her profile image pop up first on a list full of other Melody Quinn’s. I select her name, finding her profile to be open to the public. Her photo is candid, a beach photo from the neck up with the sand, water, and sky behind her. Her rosy locks are blowing wildly around her face and her freckles are more prominent than what I saw today. It’s clear the photos were taken in the summertime. The only thing I find odd is that she isn’t smiling. Melody was always smiling when we were younger. Maybe the candid photo was taken without her knowledge, but even still, there’s a look of sadness on her face.
Scrolling down the stream takes me to other photos, ones of a pale-yellow colonial house with shutters that’s surrounded by a picket fence. She captioned the photo, “Home is where I am.” I wonder if she purposely misconstrued the quote. I scroll further, finding a photo of her with a man, dark hair, gym buff, cocky looking; all the qualities I wouldn’t expect Melody to be looking for in a man. Maybe they’re just friends. Another quick scroll proves my assumption to be wrong. Her arms are around his neck, she’s kissing his cheek, and has a leg up behind her in a cute pre-planned pose. They’re standing in front of the beautifu
l house she was calling home. I heard she was married, but it was through gossip, and from what I could see earlier, she wasn’t wearing a ring.
Melody’s love life shouldn’t be a concern of mine. She came home to be with her dad. I swoosh the screen back to the top, clicking the “About” section of her profile, finding her relationship status marked as: single.
Bizarre. In a good way.
A car horn blares, informing me I haven’t pulled up fast enough. I wave at the obnoxious parent behind me, drop my phone into the cup holder and pull up the few allotted feet.
Happy now? I’d like to shout out my window. If I was on base, it would be the normal thing to do, but civilian life doesn’t come with the same understanding values for freedom of speech. We’d laugh it off if someone yelled at us to move, but people get so serious about petty things these days, there’s no place for humor in the world.
It takes just a few minutes to reach the loading zone. Parker isn’t paying attention as usual. She has her nose stuck in a book until a teacher taps her shoulder to let her know I’m here.
I unlock the doors and Parker climbs into the back, securing the seatbelt over her booster seat. “Hey sweetie, how was your day?” I ask, looking back at her. She hasn’t picked her head up to look at me yet, but I give her a minute to buckle before asking the next question of: What’s wrong?
“It was fine,” she says, picking her book up off her lap.
I squeeze her pink legging covered knee and turn back to the front before the obnoxious parent behind me honks again. “What did you do today?” I continue.
“Nothing really,” she says.
“You had gym class. What did you do there?”
“We played capture-the-flag.”
“Park, what’s going on? Did something happen today?”
Seven-year-old girls, something I didn’t know much about until this year, but I’ve learned a couple of facts. Most of them don’t stop talking, and very few have their noses stuck in a book as often as Parker does. I try not to be concerned, but I will always wonder what is going on in that little head of hers. Sometimes it appears she’s depressed and I’m not sure that’s common for a child her age. She was a loud toddler, always singing at the top of her lungs, making up words to every song she’d hear on the radio. Sleeping wasn’t her thing, so she’d be up at the crack of dawn then rarely fall asleep before ten o’clock. Her giggle—it was infectious, and I would do just about anything to put her into a fit of that infectious laughter.
I don’t remember the last time I’ve heard her happy like that though. I miss the sound, and I would do anything to bring it back. “I’m making you Cheez-it chicken fingers and tater-tots tonight,” I tell her. It’s her favorite meal besides pizza.
“Thank you,” she says without a hint of excitement.
“Parker, put the book down for a minute.” I should wait until we get home before continuing to dig for the reason of today’s quietness, but it kills me when I think something is bothering her.
“Why?” she asks.
“I want to know what’s putting you in the mood you’re in.”
I glance into the rearview mirror in search of her expression. She shrugs rather than answer. “Did someone or something upset you today?”
“I don’t know,” she mutters.
“Tell me what’s on your mind. I can’t help if you don’t talk, you know how that goes.”
“We were learning about family trees today,” she affirms.
Shit. “Oh yeah? Like what about them?” I’m sure she was taught that there are two biological parents to a child and then each biological parent has their set of biological parents, but Parker—her tree was cut down and replanted somewhere else.
“Well, I knew about Mom, but—never mind.”
I’m thankful we’re pulling into the driveway so we can continue this conversation face to face, inside. I’ve done my best to be upfront with Parker about everything in her life. Some facts need to be retold from year to year as she grows and has a broader understanding of her reality, but it doesn’t become any less painful for me to talk to her.
I help her out of the truck, her neon green tutu blowing into her face as she hops down from the truck. I snag her backpack from the floor mat as she continues toward the front door with the book held up in front of her face.
“Park, you’re going to trip. We’ve talked about this.”
She releases one hand from the book, letting it fall by her side, her head following in suit. I’m sure she is rolling her eyes at me, which has become one of the newest joys of raising a seven-year-old girl.
Once we’re inside, it’s clear she has plans to leave our conversation where it was, and close herself into her bedroom. “Hold it,” I tell her.
“I just want to finish this chapter, Dad,” she whines.
“Sit down on the couch first.”
She huffs and puffs, stomps her high-top black chucks over to the couch and plops down, keeping her book clenched between her grip.
I sit on the coffee table, facing her, and rest my arms on my legs. “What happened with the family tree at school?”
She won’t look at me. Her long-curled pigtails are hanging in front of her face as she does what she can to avoid answering. “You’re not my biological dad,” she says. “I don’t know who he is, but my teacher instructed us to write the name down. I left the line blank, making it look like I only have a mom, but I don’t have her either. I was the only one in class who didn’t have either of my biological parents.”
Her words hit me in my gut. Every time she questions this topic, we have to speak about it, but it’s a fresh wound being sliced down the core of my chest each time. “I’m not your biological dad, and we don’t have the same kind of blood, but Parker, I was there the day you were born, and I haven’t left your side since.”
“Why?” she asks, gazing up at me with her big blue eyes.
“Why? Because your mom was my very best friend, and I was just as excited as she was the day you were born. I knew I wasn’t your biological dad then, but it didn’t matter to me. I loved you then and I’ll love you forever. To me, that’s more important than anything to do with biology.”
I’m not sure she understands what I’m trying to tell her. The look on her face has changed very little, but she’s still looking into my eyes with curiosity. “How come I’m not normal?”
“Because, you’re unique and special, one-of-a-kind, and you were placed on this earth to be my daughter.”
Parker folds her hands over her book and swallows a lump in her throat. “If Mom didn’t go away forever, would you still be my dad now?” It’s a question that I often wonder about. I couldn’t answer this then and I can’t answer it now because I don’t know what the future might have held. I lived with Abby because she was my family, being so far away from home. Parker became an instant part of my life and there was nothing normal about our living situation because there was no romance between Abby and me, but we loved each other and we both loved Parker. Some situations don’t come with expectations or explanations, I guess.
“Yes, I’d still be your dad. Nothing could make me walk away from you, even if Mom was still here.” Whether life took us in a different direction or not, Parker needs to know I am where I’m meant to be.
“Aren’t people supposed to get married though?” she asks. God, I wish the teacher warned the parents about this family tree lesson. There are many different types of families that don’t fit into a stereotypical box.
“Some people get married and others don’t. Some people have children together, and some never have children. And then there are people who adopt, and win the kid lottery. A lot of people go their entire life wishing they could have everything someone else either wanted or didn’t want. But you know what? It doesn’t matter because you’re stuck with me forever, like it or not.”
Parker’s lips hint at a slight smile as she nods her head with understanding. “Sorry if I made you sa
d. It’s just confusing sometimes, and it embarrassed me today.”
I switch seats, moving next to her on the couch and wrap my arm around her shoulders. “You have nothing to be sorry about. We’re in this together, and just because we aren't a typical family, doesn’t mean we aren’t the luckiest.”
Parker rests her head against my chest and sighs with a sound of relief. “You’re right,” she says. “I’m glad you’re my dad.”
“I can’t imagine my life without you, sweetheart. You never need to question the realness between us, okay?”
A pigtail flops against my nose as she nods again. “Okay.”
“Go wash up and I’ll make you a snack.” I kiss the side of her head and she hops up from the couch with a little more enthusiasm than when she first sat down. I never know if my talks will help her, but I hope more than anything I’m doing something right. I’m slightly blind, navigating down this rocky road.
I rest my head back for the minute she’s upstairs, feeling my phone vibrate in my coat pocket. I pull it out and check the display, finding a friend request from the one and only Melody Quinn I know. I wonder if she received some random alert that I was looking her up on this thing. That’s weird. Maybe it’s a coincidence. I hope it is.
I don’t want her to think I’m sitting with my phone waiting for notifications to pop up, so I’ll accept the request a little later. Does this cat-and-mouse game end at any age, or do men and women continue to play hard to get until the chase is over? I don’t even know what the rules are anymore. God knows, I’d be known as a social creep if I accepted a request within thirty seconds, but I’d be a jerk if I let it go a full day too.
I shouldn’t be concerned about a friend request of all things, yet, here I am, staring at Melody’s beautiful photo while Parker stands in front of me waiting for the snack I promised. “Who’s that?” Parker asks.
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 51
