I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t put two and two together, but then again, how could I recognize the stunning, classy woman before me as the same freckle-faced kid who used to kick the back of my pew? She’d been just a girl then, and I had been eighteen, fresh out of high school and just as bored in church as she was. I couldn’t even remember what the game was that we played, only that it used to make her giggle so hard her mother would thump her on the wrist with her rolled-up program.
I smiled at the memory, and then it hit me.
I’d just checked out a woman who used to be the annoying little kid behind me in church.
New low, Becker.
“You were a little shit,” I finally said.
Her eyes widened, a small smile painting her lips. “Says the Becker. You boys are notorious for causing trouble.”
“We like to have fun.”
She laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”
Her eyes twinkled a bit under the low lighting as she assessed me in a new way. She didn’t look at me like I was dirty and beneath her, but rather like I was an old friend, one who reminded her of youth.
She was only nineteen, but the sadness in her eyes in that moment told me she lost her innocence a long time ago.
I didn’t realize I was staring at her, that we’d gravitated toward each other just marginally until she cleared her throat and stepped an inch back.
“So,” she said, eyes surveying the barrels. They were stacked thirty high and a hundred back, each of them aging to the perfect taste. “Which of these beauties is mine?”
“The single barrels are back here,” I said, walking us down one of the long rows of barrels.
Ruby Grace’s eyes scanned the wooden beasts as we walked, and I opened my mouth to spout off the usual selling points of a single barrel — how limited they are, how no one else would have a barrel of whiskey that tasted like hers, how each barrel was aged differently, for different time periods, and at different temperatures. But the words died in my mouth before they could come out, a question forming, instead.
“So, you’re buying a barrel for your fiancé, huh?”
Her eyes were still on the barrels, the corners of them creasing a little as a breath escaped through her parted lips.
“That’s right.”
I eyed her ring again.
“When’s the big day?”
“Six weeks from Sunday,” she sighed the words, fingers reaching up to drag along the wood as her heels clicked along in the otherwise-silent warehouse.
I whistled. “That’s pretty soon. You ready?”
Ruby Grace stopped, her fingers still on the wood as she eyed me under furrowed brows. “What?”
I arched a brow. Did I say something wrong?
“For the wedding? To be married? You know, commit yourself to someone for the rest of your life, that little thing you said yes to?”
She swallowed. “I… Well, no one has asked me that.”
“No one asked you if you were ready to get married?”
She shook her head.
Somehow, the rows of barrels felt smaller, narrower, like they were moving in on either side of us, pushing us together centimeter by centimeter.
There was so much wrong with the fact that no one had asked her that pivotal question — at least, in my mind. Here was this young girl, not even twenty years old, not even close to her prime years, and she was settling down. It wasn’t unheard of in Stratford, or anywhere else in Smalltown, USA. Plenty of my friends got married right out of high school. Most of them had kids before they could even have a legal drink.
But something told me that wasn’t what Ruby Grace had pictured for herself.
“Well, I’m asking. Are you ready?”
She blinked, and it was as if that blink stirred her from the thoughts she’d been tossing around. She started walking again, folding her arms gently over her chest. I watched her try to slip on the same disguise she’d been wearing when she introduced herself to me. She wanted the world to believe she was poised — a polished woman, a dignified lady who didn’t take shit.
But the truth was, she was still a girl, too. She was still nineteen. Who made her feel like that wasn’t okay? To just be a nineteen-year-old girl who doesn’t have it all figured out yet?
“Of course,” she finally answered. “I mean, Anthony is great. He’s older than me, twenty-five to be exact,