The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball

by Ryan, Shari J.

  I hit the power button on my phone and drop it back into my pocket. “No one,” I tell her.

  “Dad, who is she?”

  “Parker,” I say with a laugh.

  “She’s pretty. That’s all I wanted to say.” And with that, Parker twists around and heads for the kitchen with her nose in the air. At least I know my daughter is back to feeling like herself again.

  6

  I’m not sure if people plan their life out, assuming everything will happen in certain increments of time. If I had done that, I would have been better prepared when I had to take on responsibilities for another person. Then again, if I had planned out my life, I’m not sure I would have intended on becoming a father to a three-year-old at the age of twenty-four. I should have learned to take life’s unexpected twists and turns while being called for deployments with brief notice, but I’m not sure anyone is ever ready to be a parent, regardless of how it happens.

  Yet, here I am, four years later, sitting in the hallway outside of Parker’s bedroom, waiting for her to fall asleep. God knows, I’m probably doing part of this wrong, but I hope I’m doing most of it right.

  When I moved back home to Vermont, Parker was almost six. She understood enough to realize how drastically her life would change for the second time in two years. My eight years in the Marine Corps were up, and I needed family around to help me navigate this parenting life.

  Parker has had a fear of the dark since she was four, old enough to imagine shadows moving across the walls at night, or dolls shifting around. I would lie in bed with her until she fell asleep each night, knowing I would have to stop before the habit became too hard for her to break.

  I tried many times to leave a nightlight or the hall light on, but Parker would panic if I wasn’t nearby. Over the last year, I’ve moved one foot farther away from her bed every month, and hearing no complaints when I took a seat against the wall in the hallway where she can still see me, but I’m not so sure she needs me at my post anymore. For myself, I find comfort in the half-hour of sitting here, watching her fall asleep, knowing I’m doing everything possible to give her a peaceful night of sleep. There’s nowhere else to move now except away from her bedroom.

  I’ll sit here until she closes the door in my face. After watching Brody with my niece, Hannah, his pre-teen daughter, I’m sure the day will come.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket, finding the friend notification sitting right where I left it a few hours ago. I click accept and place the phone down onto my lap. I wonder what Melody will think when she finds out I have a daughter, or what she’ll assume. She might not care at all because I’m nothing more than a stranger passing through her life, but I have an inkling that might not be the case.

  Then again, the last time I thought I was headed for more with Melody, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Seven Years Ago

  She asked me to hold her hand when it was time. Abby wasn’t afraid of much, but the idea of an epidural and labor scared her more than the thought of a deployment to a combat zone. I can’t imagine how someone could go through childbirth alone without a hand to hold, so I agreed without a second thought.

  Abby was in the most compromising, vulnerable position she would ever be in, and her hand was in mine. All I wanted to do was take the pain away. I was numb to the sights of blood and gore after the battles in Afghanistan, but watching someone I love in pain is a unique kind of experience. “You can do this, Abbs. They said one more push. Come on,” I tell her, holding her hand between both of mine. Tears are running down her red cheeks, her teeth grit, and her eyes clenched. The pressure changes within her grip and the minute seemed like an eternity of silence between my last guiding words and the sound of a baby’s cry. Tears of pain became tears of happiness for Abby as the doctor placed her baby into her arms.

  “Parker,” Abby says. “Her name is Parker. Happy birthday, beautiful girl.”

  Parker. It was a name Abby hadn’t mentioned in the hours she spent searching through lists of names. “A perfect name,” I tell her. Parker’s eyes open and she takes in the world around her with wonder and a glimmer of confusion which is obvious by the little frown on her forehead. I want to know what she’s thinking. I’ll never know, but will forever imagine.

  It wasn’t long until they moved Abby to the recovery unit down the hall from the nursery. It was as if the fifteen hours of pain never happened. She’s beaming with happiness and pride.

  The nurses help her find a comfortable position in bed, but I’m not sure Abby has any clue someone is touching her. Parker’s perfect pink face draws in Abby’s gaze as she strokes the side of her face, whispering sweet nothings into her ear.

  Once alone in the room, Abby finds me sitting in the chair next to her bed. “You can have a turn now,” she says.

  I wasn’t expecting her to offer or ask. I’ve never held a baby. In fact, I’m positive I’m the last person who should hold a baby. I don’t have a clue and I don’t want to hurt her. She’s so tiny. “It’s okay. You need this time,” I tell her.

  “Brett, I want you to hold her.” I don’t understand why, but I can only assume it must be lonely taking part in this happiness alone. I always chalk up Abby’s feelings to loneliness because of the life she had while growing up. Not only is she an only child, but her parents passed away in a car accident when she was twelve, and there were no relatives present in her life. From age twelve to eighteen, the state tossed her around from one foster home to another. Abby didn’t have a desire for children or marriage. She couldn’t imagine putting a child through what she lived through, but she has also come to believe that everything in life happens for a reason and that includes giving birth to Parker. It may not be pure joy that I see written across Abby’s face, but Parker is definitely meant to be here.

  Abby isn’t giving up on handing Parker over. I don’t want to offend her either. I was there next to her in the final pre-labor classes when they spoke about the heightened emotions following birth. It isn’t necessary to push the envelope there. I stand up from my seat and walk toward her with slow steps as if the floor might move this entire room if I step down too hard. I’m wearing camouflage pants and combat boots, a green tee-shirt and dog tags; hardly appropriate to welcome a new baby into the world.

  I scoop my arms around all six pounds and five ounces of little Parker, wrapped up like a small burrito in a pink, cotton blanket. Her knit-cap rests on my arm. My heart is beating so hard I wonder if Parker can feel it beating against my chest. If she does, it doesn’t bother her. Her eyelids struggle to part; she blinks a couple times and falls back asleep.

  I turn around to find the chair. I should sit while holding her. “I’m going to close my eyes for a minute,” Abby says. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Gee, I can’t imagine why?” I jest in a whisper. Abby leans her back into her pillow and the second her eyes close, I realize I’m now responsible for taking care of Parker until she wakes up or a nurse comes into the room.

  Abby’s quick nap became two hours.

  My arms are numb, but I’m comfortable holding onto Parker. I could stare at her for hours, wishing she could talk to me about everything she has experienced during her short three hours of life. However, I’m guessing she might only tell me she’s hungry by the sound of the scream wailing from her lungs. How can something so small make so much noise?

  A nurse comes jogging into the room with a smile. “Well, at least Mom got a couple hours of sleep,” she says.

  Abby is still waking up; a look of question runs through her eyes when she hears Parker crying. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Just a bit,” I say.

  “She might be hungry,” the nurse says.

  I stand up with Parker and rock her in a soothing motion from side to side as I hand her back to Abby. “I’m going to give you some privacy and get something to drink down the hall. Are you all right?” I ask her.

  Abby smiles, but with an unsure look. “Yeah, I’ll be
fine.”

  “I’ll stay here with her to help with the feeding,” the nurse tells me. “Go ahead.”

  My arms feel empty after placing Parker back into Abby’s hold. My life seems different, but it isn’t my life to consider. I don’t know where my place is in Abby’s future. We’re friends. That’s all we’ll ever be and I’m not sure that’s enough of what she needs right now. I’ve explored my feelings for Abby, wondering why I didn’t feel a spark or romantic connection, but my feelings for her are plutonic, a best friend, or a sibling maybe. She doesn’t look at me like I’m the man of her dreams either, so if she feels anything different than what she has shown me, it would be a surprise. Although, I’m sure relationships and men will be the last thing on her mind for a long while with her hands full.

  I find the waiting area and take a seat in the corner to call home. Mom and Pops don’t know Abby, but I’ve told them about her and what’s been going on. As usual, mom tries her best to pick up on the first ring when she sees my number. “Brett, are you okay, sweetie?”

  She always asks me if I’m okay before saying hello. The deployments have done a number on her, but I can’t imagine being home, waiting for check-ins either. “Yes, Mom, I’m fine,” I chuckle.

  “It’s the middle of the day. Shouldn’t you be working?” I didn’t think about the time. We’ve been here for almost twenty hours at this point.

  “Oh, yeah, Abby had the baby a couple hours ago.”

  A heavy sigh releases from Mom’s mouth. “Are they both okay, healthy?” she asks.

  “They are. Parker. She named her Parker.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Mom says, her statement sounds more like a question than a statement. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  “Yeah, I’m great,” I respond. “Why?”

  “Oh, I’m just checking. You’re in an unusual situation and I can’t imagine what might be going through your head. I know you and Abby are close, but you’ve never mentioned her as anything more than a friend.”

  “We’re friends,” I clarify. “It’s all we’ll ever be.” Mom might wonder if there’s any chance of Parker being a part of her life too. She’d never come out and ask me much more than what she has, but I can imagine the speculation; whether I’m keeping something from her. “Abby needs a friend right now and I’m happy to be that person in her life.”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt, Brett.”

  “How could I get hurt?” I find my voice becoming softer the longer our conversation continues. I’m not sure I understand where Mom is going with this.

  “If you end up loving the baby, and Abby meets someone else, it will be painful for you to move on. If there is something more between the two of you, I can understand, but if not, I just want to tell you how easily children become a part of your life, regardless of whether they are your own.”

  “I know,” I tell her. “I can’t walk away from her, so if it’s a pain I have to endure someday, I’ll deal with it then. It’s better than Abby bearing a sense of neglect or loneliness at a time like this.”

  “I think I raised you a little too well, Brett. Just be careful with your feelings, okay?”

  “I will,” I tell her.

  “Email me photos when you can. Tell Abby I said congratulations.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I will. Love you. Talk soon.”

  Mom’s words burn a hole into my mind now that it’s out in the open, but what choices do I have? I can stay and be the friend I promised to be, or I can walk away to protect my heart from pain. Pain is pain. I can deal with it. I can’t deal with the thought of hurting someone though.

  I vowed to never hurt a soul out of fear, so I’ll sit here until my daughter falls asleep each night and make sure that anyone who walks into my life, plans to pull up a chair and sit next to me. I have a heart to protect, one that is broken, more than anyone should experience in their lifetime, let alone a seven-year-old.

  7

  It’s rare to wake up without being tapped on the shoulder first. Today is no exception. Parker is awake most mornings at six a.m., about an hour before I’d like to get up, but when she’s hungry, she will set off alarms to get me moving. However, I beat her time today and woke up twenty minutes before she did, leaving her with a confused look as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Why are you up before me? And dressed for work?”

  “Well, we need to go to The Barrel House before school so I can check on the machines.”

  Parker’s eyebrows furrow. “Machines?”

  “It’s called a distillery, and there are some machines that need to stay maintained so they can run properly.”

  “You know how to do that?” Parker sounds like she needs coffee with the way she’s talking to me.

  “I do and thank you for the boost of confidence.”

  “You kick the dishwasher sometimes,” Parker grumbles.

  I do. The damn thing has broken four times in the two years I’ve had it. It deserves a swift kick. “Okay, anyway. I’m going to make you breakfast and then we can get moving.”

  “Why are you so happy this morning?”

  “Am I usually miserable in the morning? What are you talking about?”

  “You never wake up early to go to work, and you’re never dressed before me. Actually, you even remembered to brush your hair without me reminding you and did you put something smelly on?”

  I’m staring at my daughter, questioning where her thoughts are headed. “It’s called cologne and I wear it all the time.”

  “No, you don’t,” she says.

  “Oh, it’s that girl, isn’t it, the one I saw on your phone?”

  “You are seven. Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  Parker shrugs off my question. “Hannah. I don’t know.”

  I must send dear uncle Brody another shout out, requesting that he ask Hannah to stop oversharing pre-teen conversations with my seven-year-old. I’m glad the girls are close. They’re cousins, but Hannah doesn’t see Parker as if she’s three years younger and it worries me sometimes.

  “Eat your Lucky Charms,” I tell her, placing the filled bowl down on the kitchen table. “I’m going to find you some clothes to wear.”

  “Not blue, purple, or green today. I’ve already worn those colors this week.”

  “I think I got it,” I tell her, heading up the stairs to her bedroom. About two years ago, Parker declared she will only wear jeans or leggings if paired with a tutu of a bright color. I thought it was a phase. I was told phases come and go with young children faster than we can remember sometimes. However, Parker has failed to forget about this desire, and I have spent more money on tutu’s than I care to think about. When I ask her why she loves them so much, she says they make her feel like a secret princess. I don’t know what that means, but I just roll with it. All I know is, we own every single colored tutu known to man. Today, we’ll go with hot pink. I believe it’s been over a week since she’s worn this one.

  I grab her white converse high-tops, a white long-sleeve shirt, and her jean jacket. Thankfully, this outfit will make her happy and hopefully offset the fact that I didn’t brush her hair out after she got out of the shower last night—that can be our one nightmare before school today. There’s always one, and it’s different every day.

  “Perfect,” Parker says with a mouthful as I carry her clothes into the kitchen.

  “Do you want me to wait until you’re done eating to brush your hair or do you want me to get it over with?”

  “No way. Wait. I’ll brush it.”

  This is how it starts every morning. I let her try to do her own hair, but the second the brush gets stuck, she gives up. I’ve considered letting her go to school looking like an animal to teach her a lesson, but I don’t think she’d care. It will just look like I’m not taking care of her, which is my biggest fear.

  “You won’t even feel it. Let me just fix it while you’re eating. You can watch a video on my phone, okay?”

  Parker sneers
at me with her nose scrunched up and her eyes pinched, a face Abby made whenever she was jokingly angry with me. “You look like your mom when you do that,” I remind her.

  “Good,” Parker says.

  I place my phone down onto the table next to the bowl of cereal and Parker reaches for the bait, scrolling through my apps looking for Netflix. It’s my moment of opportunity before she screams about the knots. I spray in the detangling conditioner and pull the brush through, squeezing my hand around the roots to lessen the pull. I got a slight groan out of her but worked out all the snarls without the normal scream. Knowing the worst part is over, she ignores the rest of the process and focuses on the movie she found.

  After knotting the second braid, I wonder how I got to a point in my life where I consider myself talented for being able to braid Parker’s hair. I don’t recall learning, just doing it out of necessity as her hair grew out.

  “Okay, whenever you’re ready, we have to get moving.” The morning blues seem to have disappeared now that she has eaten, and my sweet daughter has replaced the grump that was sitting here a few moments earlier.

  Within just a few minutes, we’re in the truck and heading to The Barrel House.

  “It’s still dark,” Parker says.

  “I know, it’s early, but Mr. Quinn needs our help, so we’re helping, right?”

  “Why does he need our help?”

  It was a question I intended to avoid but forgot without the proper amount of caffeine pumping through my blood at this ungodly hour. “He can’t be at work today, that’s all.” I wish that was all.

  Bringing Parker anywhere is easy so long as she has a favorite book to read. I settled her in a nook by one of the machine’s downstairs in The Barrel House, but the sounds were too loud, so she moved between a row of barrels.