Bourbon Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,21

from pain. Pain is pain. I can deal with it. I can’t deal with the thought of hurting someone though.

I vowed to never hurt a soul out of fear, so I’ll sit here until my daughter falls asleep each night and make sure that anyone who walks into my life, plans to pull up a chair and sit next to me. I have a heart to protect, one that is broken, more than anyone should experience in their lifetime, let alone a seven-year-old.

7

It’s rare to wake up without being tapped on the shoulder first. Today is no exception. Parker is awake most mornings at six a.m., about an hour before I’d like to get up, but when she’s hungry, she will set off alarms to get me moving. However, I beat her time today and woke up twenty minutes before she did, leaving her with a confused look as she walked into the kitchen.

“Why are you up before me? And dressed for work?”

“Well, we need to go to The Barrel House before school so I can check on the machines.”

Parker’s eyebrows furrow. “Machines?”

“It’s called a distillery, and there are some machines that need to stay maintained so they can run properly.”

“You know how to do that?” Parker sounds like she needs coffee with the way she’s talking to me.

“I do and thank you for the boost of confidence.”

“You kick the dishwasher sometimes,” Parker grumbles.

I do. The damn thing has broken four times in the two years I’ve had it. It deserves a swift kick. “Okay, anyway. I’m going to make you breakfast and then we can get moving.”

“Why are you so happy this morning?”

“Am I usually miserable in the morning? What are you talking about?”

“You never wake up early to go to work, and you’re never dressed before me. Actually, you even remembered to brush your hair without me reminding you and did you put something smelly on?”

I’m staring at my daughter, questioning where her thoughts are headed. “It’s called cologne and I wear it all the time.”

“No, you don’t,” she says.

“Oh, it’s that girl, isn’t it, the one I saw on your phone?”

“You are seven. Where do you come up with this stuff?”

Parker shrugs off my question. “Hannah. I don’t know.”

I must send dear uncle Brody another shout out, requesting that he ask Hannah to stop oversharing pre-teen conversations with my seven-year-old. I’m glad the girls are close. They’re cousins, but Hannah doesn’t see Parker as if she’s three years younger and it worries me sometimes.

“Eat your Lucky Charms,” I tell her, placing the filled bowl down on the kitchen table. “I’m going to find you some clothes to wear.”

“Not blue, purple, or green today. I’ve already worn those colors this week.”

“I think I got it,” I tell her, heading up the stairs to her bedroom. About two years ago, Parker declared she will only wear jeans or leggings if paired with a tutu of a bright color. I thought it was a phase. I was told phases come and go with young children faster than we can remember sometimes. However, Parker has failed to forget about this desire, and I have spent more money on tutu’s than I care to think about. When I ask her why she loves them so much, she says they make her feel like a secret princess. I don’t know what that means, but I just roll with it. All I know is, we own every single colored tutu known to man. Today, we’ll go with hot pink. I believe it’s been over a week since she’s worn this one.

I grab her white converse high-tops, a white long-sleeve shirt, and her jean jacket. Thankfully, this outfit will make her happy and hopefully offset the fact that I didn’t brush her hair out after she got out of the shower last night—that can be our one nightmare before school today. There’s always one, and it’s different every day.

“Perfect,” Parker says with a mouthful as I carry her clothes into the kitchen.

“Do you want me to wait until you’re done eating to brush your hair or do you want me to get it over with?”

“No way. Wait. I’ll brush it.”

This is how it starts every morning. I let her try to do her own hair, but the second the brush gets stuck, she gives up. I’ve considered letting her go to school looking like an animal to teach her a lesson, but I don’t think she’d care. It will just look like I’m not taking