Bourbon Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,15

my knuckles and hold up the Red Apple.

The window slides down, and a smile arches to one side of her peachy lips. “Thank you for everything.”

I hold up my hand and step away from the car so she can leave, feeling heartbroken for a woman I tried so hard to forget about. I failed miserably. She’s unforgettable in every way.

I spot her eyes in the rearview mirror, another undecipherable look as she pulls away from the parking spot. Her eyes can tell an entire story between two blinks, and yet, I feel blind and deaf to whatever it is she’s trying to tell me.

5

Pops asked me to help with The Barrel House. I would never ask questions about how long they might need the help, but the more I think about the outcome of this unfortunate situation, I’m realizing the help I’m offering could become more permanent as Harold’s illness progresses. I don’t know if Melody and Journey plan to keep the business running or what anyone’s wishes are, but I’m sure I’ll find out in due time.

Mr. Crawley is understanding of the flexibility issues I have with Parker, which makes everything less stressful on my end. So, as long as I have her to school before nine and pick her up at three, things will work out. I’m just not sure how long Mr. Crawley can manage the shop and distillery at the same time while I’m out.

The looping line at the elementary school is spilling onto the street earlier than usual today. I try to time my arrival ten minutes before the hour to avoid this line, but it looks like I’m out of luck today.

I take the few minutes my car is parked along the curb to check my news feeds on social media—a habit I gained years ago but only for the purpose of spectating. I don’t think I’ve posted anything in over three years. Plus, I locked my profiles down to the highest level of privacy because I don’t like the thought of people having an inside view to my life. I wonder if Melody prefers privacy or being an open book. I tap her name into the search bar, finding her profile image pop up first on a list full of other Melody Quinn’s. I select her name, finding her profile to be open to the public. Her photo is candid, a beach photo from the neck up with the sand, water, and sky behind her. Her rosy locks are blowing wildly around her face and her freckles are more prominent than what I saw today. It’s clear the photos were taken in the summertime. The only thing I find odd is that she isn’t smiling. Melody was always smiling when we were younger. Maybe the candid photo was taken without her knowledge, but even still, there’s a look of sadness on her face.

Scrolling down the stream takes me to other photos, ones of a pale-yellow colonial house with shutters that’s surrounded by a picket fence. She captioned the photo, “Home is where I am.” I wonder if she purposely misconstrued the quote. I scroll further, finding a photo of her with a man, dark hair, gym buff, cocky looking; all the qualities I wouldn’t expect Melody to be looking for in a man. Maybe they’re just friends. Another quick scroll proves my assumption to be wrong. Her arms are around his neck, she’s kissing his cheek, and has a leg up behind her in a cute pre-planned pose. They’re standing in front of the beautiful house she was calling home. I heard she was married, but it was through gossip, and from what I could see earlier, she wasn’t wearing a ring.

Melody’s love life shouldn’t be a concern of mine. She came home to be with her dad. I swoosh the screen back to the top, clicking the “About” section of her profile, finding her relationship status marked as: single.

Bizarre. In a good way.

A car horn blares, informing me I haven’t pulled up fast enough. I wave at the obnoxious parent behind me, drop my phone into the cup holder and pull up the few allotted feet.

Happy now? I’d like to shout out my window. If I was on base, it would be the normal thing to do, but civilian life doesn’t come with the same understanding values for freedom of speech. We’d laugh it off if someone yelled at us to move, but people get so serious about petty things these days,