thoughts of my father’s untimely death, I wished it was just her in my head again. I wished I could think about anything other than how badly this day would always hurt, for the rest of my life.
Marty, Eli, and PJ worked alongside me without saying a word that day. They didn’t even joke around with each other, sensing the mood I was in, the somberness that settled over the entire distillery.
The Scooter family and the board always glorified this day. The morning announcements asked for a moment of silence for the only employee to ever perish at Scooter Whiskey. They praised the safety plans they’d had in place, attributing the fact that there weren’t more deaths because of that plan they’d had in place. They praised the firemen, too, that they arrived so “quickly.” Then, they would read off my father’s accomplishments like a grocery list, have that one minute of silence, and then everything was back to normal.
Even though Logan was across the distillery preparing for his first tour when that morning announcement came, and even though Mikey was in the welcome center, getting the gift shop ready to open, I still felt them in that moment those announcements were read. I felt their hearts squeezing in pain the same way mine did, felt their anger, their hostility toward the company that paid their bills, that our grandfather had helped build, that we both loved and cherished but were also bound to in some sick, sadistic way.
I thought of them, of our family, all day long as I kept my head down, focusing on the task at hand. I built more barrels than my daily quota called for, but I didn’t care. As long as I was busy, I was okay. I just needed to get through the day.
I just needed to survive.
It was well after lunch when Patrick Scooter swung through the doors that led to the barrel raising warehouse. I hadn’t even noticed, hadn’t stopped working until I felt a number of eyes on me. I looked up at Marty first, who warned me with a stern brow fold, like he was worried I’d do something irrational. PJ and Eli watched me, too — their eyes flicking back and forth between the door and me. When I followed their gaze and saw Patrick talking to Gus, a clipboard in his hand, dressed like he was in an office in New York City rather than a distillery in Stratford, Tennessee, I clenched my jaw.
Patrick Scooter was a few years older than my father would have been if he were still alive. They grew up around the distillery together, almost like brothers until Patrick’s dad passed away, leaving the distillery to him.
Everything changed then.
I didn’t have any certified or blatant reason not to like Patrick, other than the fact that something in my gut told me he was a shit guy. Something in my gut told me he didn’t like my family.
Something in my gut told me he had something to do with my father’s death.
I didn’t know why, and it wasn’t ever something I’d speak out loud, but it was there, deep in my belly like an ache I’d never be rid of. And I’d learned as a young country boy that you trust that gut feeling.
Patrick signed something on Gus’s clipboard before his eyes scanned the warehouse, finding mine after one sweep. He gave a grim smile, saying something to Gus before making his way toward me.
I ground my teeth, lowering my head to the barrel I was raising in an effort to school my breaths and the rage I felt boiling inside me. If he knew what was best for him, he’d stay away from me today. But of course, he didn’t care. Part of me thought he actually reveled in the fact that he still had my father’s kids working for him, like somehow that meant he’d won.
But we weren’t here for him. We were here for my father, for the legacy he built — that my grandfather built. Patrick and his family may have wanted to erase us from their history books, but my brothers and I would make sure that never happened.
I had just shoved the last stave of wood into the barrel I was working on when I felt a clammy hand clap me on the shoulder, squeezing and staying there until I was forced to lift my head and take the orange sponges out of my ears. Patrick met me