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

by Ryan, Shari J.

  “That’s awesome, bro. You’re coming to watch Cassandra, aren’t you?” I ask, nudging him with my shoulder. She’s one of the smaller cheerleaders who ends up at the top of the pyramid before being tossed into the air a dozen times throughout a game. He’s had his eye on her for the last couple of years.

  “I mean, I’m not going to say I’m sitting too high up on the bleachers or anything, but I want to see the game too,” he says, smirking. I still feel like we’re miles away from being back to where we were a year ago, but there are parts of him that seem to be coming back to life. It gives me relief and motivation to continue sitting in parking lots outside his meetings and appointments. I’d do anything to help him get better, and though I’ve missed other events in my life, I know I’m doing what’s right. I even debated not playing football this season because of the help he needs with getting to and from places, but Dad put his foot down when I mentioned the idea of calling it quits. I’m up for a few different scholarships with a couple of schools who have been watching me, both football and baseball, so I would likely blow my chances of securing those offers if I sat out the season. I wish I could find a way to take care of Pete without sacrificing my opportunities for a scholarship?

  “Want me to pick you up before warm-up? I can take you home after the game too.”

  Pete’s gaze drops to the linoleum floor as he shakes his head, his moppy hair sloshing from side to side. “Dude, I feel so bad. You drag me around everywhere. You’ve been more or less a taxi driver for me these last few months.”

  I shrug because there isn’t much of an argument, but he’s my friend, and I’m okay with helping. “What do I care? It’s more time cruising around for me.” That’s what I usually say. I do enjoy driving around with the music turned up, but Pete lives on the other side of town, and it’s a pain sometimes. He was supposed to get his license, but without asking too many questions, I’m pretty sure that isn’t happening anytime soon.

  “Someday, I’ll be your chauffeur for a year or something. I’m sorry, Brody.”

  “It’s fine. Don’t sweat it.” History was the last class we had together for the day, so I most likely won’t see him until tonight, when I pick him up. He takes the bus home most days since I have practice after school. I don’t envy that part of his day. Taking the bus as a senior is the shittiest thing ever. “I’ll pick you up at four-thirty. I have to warm up at five.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll be waiting on the front steps. Thanks, bro,” he says, slapping my shoulder.

  The day slid by with an overload of note-taking and doing my best to tune out the gossip queens who somehow end up sitting right in front of me during each class.

  The practice was hardly an hour-long because of the game tonight, but I was only left with ninety minutes to get three hours' worth of homework done before having to go and grab Pete.

  “We’ll see you at the game, son,” Dad says as I walk out the door.

  “I can’t wait!” Mom follows. “Kick some butt.”

  “Or, don’t get your butt kicked—either-or,” Brett adds.

  I wait until Mom and Dad aren’t looking before flipping him the bird. Brett is still in junior varsity this year as a sophomore, which he’s pissed about since I made varsity as a sophomore. The competition is unnecessary, but I was told to take it as a compliment. I don’t know what the big deal is since he’ll be on the varsity team next year, but I think he was hoping to play with me one season—for competitive reasons. I’m selfishly glad it turned out the way it did.

  “Thanks, guys,” I’ll see you in a bit.

  “Drive safe,” Mom says as I close the door behind my oversized duffle bag full of equipment.

  I toss my bag into the trunk and hit the road, wondering what made Pete suddenly want to stick a toe back into the social scene after avoiding everyone in our town since that night. All I can hope is one of the therapists or meetings he’s attended has gotten through to him. In any case, it’s a relief—one I desperately needed after this past summer.

  For some reason, I’m not surprised Pete isn’t sitting on his front step like he said he’d be. More often than not, I have to go drag his ass out of the house because he lost track of time while playing hours of video games in their mess of a home.

  Neither of his parents’ cars is in the driveway. Usually, one of them is home ever since they were told that Pete shouldn’t be left alone until he’s been cleared to do so by his therapist. I haven’t heard otherwise, so I don’t think that’s happened yet. At least I don’t have to be polite and ring the doorbell ten times before someone answers.

  I give Pete the decency of knocking a couple of times so I don’t scare the crap out of him by barging in, even though it’s something I used to do whenever he was home alone. I’d usually find him on the couch, controller in hand, his tongue hanging to one side, and a zombie-like stare at the forty-inch TV resting in the center of the entertainment center. I don’t hear anything, so I open the door and poke my head inside, surprised he’s not smack-dab in the middle of two cushions sinking through the couch like he tends to do. “You ready, bro. We gotta get going. Coach said I can’t be late tonight, or I’ll be sitting out for the first quarter.” He didn’t really say that, but he knows I’m part of the line-up, and I’d be pissed if I had to sit out.

  His bedroom door is closed, so I knock a few times. Maybe he’s taking a nap or something. It’s another thing he does a lot of. I think the medication he’s on makes him crash by four each day. “Pete, bro,” I call out.

  I open his door, finding him asleep. I grab the towel from his dresser and toss it at his head, hoping to scare him awake.

  He doesn’t move.

  “Pete?” My voice falls flat as I approach the side of his bed. “Come on, bud, get up.”

  I’m aware of Pete’s ability to ignore me and everyone for that matter, so it’s possible he is silently telling me to go away and that he’s changed his mind about the game tonight. I should take the hint and move on, but that’s not who I am. I’m a pusher.

  I grab his arm and shake him, pulling him from his side to his back.

  My stomach churns because I know something isn’t right. Maybe it’s in my head. I could be imagining stuff. His skin color has always been on the pasty side, and it’s kind of chilly in here, which could explain the blue coloring on his lips. With a trembling hand, I touch his face, feeling ice-cold skin.

  I can’t breathe, swallow, blink, or move. I can’t talk. I can’t even yell for help. I feel paralyzed, and I don’t know what to do. He’s sleeping, that’s all. What else could he be doing? He wouldn’t just—it wouldn’t happen in his sleep. It couldn’t. Guys our age don’t just die in their sleep.

  I try to sit him up, but he feels heavier than the hundred-seventy pounds he is, but when I get him to a sitting position, I find the truth and the answer to the nagging questions I have had for months. Will he try again? Is he going to get better? I went with yes to the last question because that’s what I wanted to believe.

  Maybe there was only one pill left in the bottle, and he was due for a refill. Maybe he’s not dead, but just in a deep sleep. With delirious hope, I rest him back down and check for his pulse. I check his neck and both wrists. I lower my ear to his mouth, waiting for a breath … or anything that would tell me he’s not gone …

  I don’t know what to do, so I shout his name at the top of my lungs, demanding that he wake up.

  I pace his room, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until I realize I have to call 9-1-1. I don’t even know what to tell them. He’s asleep and won’t wake up? Or he’s freaking dead because he might or might not have overdosed on the pills that were in the empty bottle I found underneath his body. Why aren’t his goddamn parents home? Why is this on me? He’s not even supposed to have a damn door in his bedroom. He told me so himself.

  Panic, anger, adrenaline—I can’t decipher what I’m feeling, but it’s everything all at once, and I want to put my fist thro
ugh the wall. I run to the kitchen and grab the cordless phone from the wall, dialing 9-1-1 as I run back to his bedroom.

  I offer the details, breathlessly, trying to speak in thorough sentences, but I can’t think straight. I can’t figure out how to explain what I see. It’s my best friend, the guy I’ve been side-by-side with since kindergarten. He’s dead. He’s dead after I tried to stop him, after I took him to every appointment and meeting, after I checked on him a dozen times a day, and sat outside his house, waiting for him to talk to me for over a month after his discharge. It was all for nothing. He won. He always knew he was going to win. He knew he’d win today at school when he was pretending to be okay. Why did he want me to find him again? Why?

  “Son, I need you to take a deep breath and sit down. The police and paramedics are on their way. Have you called your parents?”

  I don’t know why, but I choose to disconnect the call. I don’t want to be told what to do. I don’t want to call Mom and Dad. Pete’s parents don’t even know. No one knows. Only me.

  I should have assumed he was acting out of character, portraying a different Pete this past year. But I didn’t. I was hopeful it was the new, improved Pete, the one who was finding his way back to normalcy.

  The house fills with police, paramedics, and firefighters, and I feel like the house is circling me, spinning like a tornado as I watch everything happen so quickly. It feels like seconds between the time they arrive and take him into the ambulance. Can they bring someone back from the dead? Can they revive him? Is it too late? Did I wait too long to call 9-1-1?

  They wouldn’t have rushed him out of the house if there wasn’t a chance. There has to be a chance.

  There has to be.

  I get into my car and follow the ambulance to the hospital, flying through traffic at the same high speed until we pull into the parking lot in front of the emergency room. Would they still be speeding if he was dead?

  17

  One year later

  If a woman can stay by my side, understanding some questions may never be answered; she’s my soulmate, the one that’s supposed to be by my side forever. For months, I thought she was playing a mean game of hard to get, but it wasn’t about winning or losing, it was about breaking down barriers. It was about creating a level of trust before leaning on one another, and it was something new for both of us because neither of us was accustomed to feeling that kind of support.—We’ve learned that one thing doesn’t work, there’s always another way. We take things slow and steady, respecting each other’s boundaries; two individuals with different lifestyles. Patience, though, is something neither of us has mastered. We aren’t planners. We like to jump, so it’s taken a lot of willpower to keep on track while creating a new set of walls to shelter ourselves.

  Lately, though, there’s been a change in our regular pattern. There’s been something more—a new level of comfort, knowing there is dependability without pressure.

  Dependability means coming home to my house with the lights turned on, after returning from dropping Hannah off at Kristy’s. Sometimes she comes with me for the ride, but she had a photography gig too late in the day today to join me, and without a need to solidify plans, I know she will be making us chicken parmesan in my kitchen. It’s our thing, and I love having a thing with her. I love having lots of things with her. I love her, and I don’t know how it happened or when, but sometimes I think I’ve always loved her—even during the years we didn’t see each other or speak. We just had to find our way back to each other.

  The number of times I’ve heard someone spouting off about “when you know, you know,” and here I was thinking there would be some neon sign pointing to the woman I’m supposed to be with. Clearly, I was mistaken when I thought I saw the signs with Kristy, but Hannah came from that mistake, so even though I hate that woman with a burning passion, I’m grateful for what came out of the marriage. I wouldn’t change a thing.

  There are no neon signs with Journey, just a void in my chest when I leave her side. When we’re not together, she’s all I can think about. She’s my best friend, and I haven’t had one of those since Pete. I refused to devote myself entirely to anyone for a long time. It was a way of protecting myself from pain, but I’ve unraveled each layer of myself, one at a time, with Journey. There are no blinking lights with arrows. I just know she’s my one.

  Journey has her phone on speaker as she’s stirring a boiling pot of pasta. I hear Melody on the other end. “I know, I know. The flowers are all set now, so at least that's something I can cross off my list,” Melody says.

  “What about the caterer? You were supposed to confirm with them this morning?” Journey responds.

  “I forgot,” Melody huffs.

  “I took care of it,” Journey follows.

  There’s a moment of silence between the two girls. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Journey. I honestly thought you’d be the worst maid-of-honor, but it turns out, I was so wrong.”

  “I love you too, sis,” Journey says.

  I don’t think Journey heard me walk into the house. She more than likely would have taken Melody off of speaker if she had. Journey has a pet peeve of people being on speaker when anyone else is in the room. I watch from behind as she’s ending the call with Melody, noticing a twitch in her left ring finger. I catch her glancing at the empty spot, wondering what’s going through her mind. Journey doesn’t say things like … “Let’s get married.” “Where are ‘we’ going as a couple?” “What’s in the future for us?” She is more of the type to wake up every morning and continue with her life as she did the day before. I can’t say I blame her. I’m the same way. Certain things that are important to others aren’t at the top of my list of priorities, but certain things should be—commitment, devotion, a promise, things I want to give to Journey in more ways than just assuming we’ll always be together.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Brody should be home soon, and I need to talk to him about—that thing.”

  Uh. Okay. She definitely doesn’t know I’m standing behind her.

  “Good luck!” Melody coos. “Love you, byeeee!”

  “Love you too, bye.”

  “Soooo,” I lament. “What do you need to talk to me about?” Journey tosses the wooden spoon she’s holding into the air and squawks.

  “Holy crap. You scared me,” she says, clutching her chest.

  “I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. Melody talks really loud, and I can understand why you didn’t hear me over her voice.”

  “This wedding might kill one of us, and I’m pretty sure it won’t be her,” she says.

  “Well, in all fairness, you knew it was coming when she asked you to be her maid-of-honor.”

  “It’s not like I could say no. She’s my sister. It’s my duty.”

  “I’m not blaming you. You’ve done an amazing job, and someday she’ll repay you the favor.” I might not have intended to say the last part of that sentence since we don’t discuss the future.

  “Repay me?” Journey asks, tilting her head to the side.

  “What did you need to talk to me about?” I change the subject for several reasons, but mostly because Journey doesn’t usually plan out what she needs to talk about. She says what she’s thinking when she’s feeling it, which can be a lot sometimes. It’s totally spontaneous, but I love that about her.

  “Um,” she says, retrieving the spoon from the floor. She walks over to the sink to clean it before returning to the boiling pot of water. “Just stuff.”

  “Like … we need to talk … kind of stuff, or there’s something on your mind … kind of stuff?” I hate the nervous pit in my stomach.

  “Like … I’ve been feeling jealous of Melody, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way in my entire life,” she says.

  I place my work bag down and peel my jacket off. “You’re jealous of Melody and Brett getting married in two weeks?” This is almost shocking because I haven’t noticed a glimmer of jealousy in the e
ntire last six months they’ve been planning the wedding, which has made me wonder countless times if Journey wants the same thing. But because we don’t bring that subject up, all I could do was wonder. Communication failure.

  I dip my hands into my pockets and lean into my heels. With a deep inhale, I motion for her to come to me. Her eyebrows knit together with a look of confusion, maybe wondering if I’m going to poke fun at her, or possibly soothe her jealousy with a different distraction.

  Journey places the wooden spoon down on top of the folded dish rag and walks up to me. “What’s that look for?”

  “I have a funny story for you,” I say. Humor always kills the nerves. It’s my answer to everything.

  “A funny story to offset my confession of jealousy?” she replies.

  “Yes. Give me a minute,” I say. “About a month or so ago, I had this thought. I mean, I have lots of thoughts, but most of them come and go and never return. However, this thought kept returning, so I knew I had to analyze it.”

  “What thought?” Journey questions, curling her hair behind her ears.

  “The thought? I kept wondering if you are the marrying type. Some women aren’t, you know? I have first-hand experience in that department. But how does a guy know if a woman is, in fact, the marrying kind?”

  Journey presses her lips together and cocks her head to the side. “I don’t know, but maybe one of your life-hack books on your nightstand would have that answer.”

  I grin in response. One of my life hack books totally has the answer inside. “Well, that’s exactly where I looked.”

  The frustration is evident by the red hue of her cheeks. “What did the book tell you to do, Brody?”

  “I’ll let you be the judge of what I read, okay?”

  Journey returns to the stove and turns the burner and oven off before leaving the kitchen. “Okay, but dinner is ready, so show me quickly.”