Bourbon Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,14

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