Bourbon Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,25

date or—”

“I alphabetized them,” she says then lifts her hand up to her mouth. “Crap.”

With hopes of not causing further embarrassment, I offer a friendly laugh, hoping to ease her concern. “No worries, I can help you straighten them out. People often shop by the date, so we don’t want them mixed in together,” I explain.

Melody’s cheeks burn red once again and I’m enjoying how easily she’s affected by our conversations, even if it is out of embarrassment. I recall this trait when we were younger, mostly after she began avoiding me. Each time we’d pass each other, her cheeks would blush with the darkest shade of red I’ve ever seen on someone’s cheeks. It was adorable then and I can’t say I don’t feel the same now.

“Right,” she says, keeping her gaze on the disorderly array of bottles. “Hey, uh—sorry about the mom-comment to your daughter. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

I’m still wondering what she must be assuming about my situation with Parker, especially if she truly doesn’t know my history. “No worries,” I reply. I’m not sure it’s appropriate to dive into those details. She has enough on her plate, and I don’t need to bring her down with my past woes. Plus, she hasn’t exactly asked, so maybe she isn’t wondering. I reach up to the shelf in front of me and begin resorting the bottles by year, but she takes a step back while I’m doing so.

“Do you remember me at all? Like—”

Do I remember her? What kind of question is that? Well, a deserving one I suppose after neither of us supposedly recognized each other while sitting together on a four-hour flight. I could ask her the same question though. I don’t think I’ve given her the impression that I don’t know who she is, or who she was.

“What do you mean?” Maybe I’m confused by her question. Is she asking if I remember who and what she wanted to be someday? Because I do.

“Never mind,” she follows.

Melody’s words are loaded, and there is obvious frustration in her voice too. I’ll play this out carefully because I don’t know what is going through her head. “From our odd encounter on the flight? Yeah, of course I remember you.” Maybe my statement is more of a mind game than a one-step at a time introduction to our past. Maybe she doesn’t remember me from when we were younger. Not that I’m claiming to be unforgettable, but I guess it’s possible that she’s truly confused as to why I’m acting as if we didn’t sit together on the plane ride to Vermont.

“No, I mean from years ago.” Well, there we go. She remembers me, and I remember her. This conversation has turned into a grade-age teasing match. Why would she think I’d forget who she is? We’re both acting childish.

“Hmm,” I reply with a sigh, intending to play into the back and forth of what is so awkwardly obvious. “Vaguely, maybe.” Too far? Maybe.

Melody sweeps her hair away from her face, and the muscles in her cheeks clench. I can’t tell if I’m aggravating her or winding her up to play back. “There’s supposed to be a tasting today,” she says, changing the subject. Is this a move in her playbook or does she want to end this conversation? How am I this stupid with women?

“Yeah, we have a little time. It’ll only take a few minutes to set up.”

Melody pinches her lips together and nods her head, understanding, but obviously has more thoughts swimming through her mind. Maybe she hates me. I wouldn’t blame her, I suppose. It would explain why she never wrote back to any of the letters I sent her when I was in Afghanistan.

The bell above the door screams, startling me into turning around in search of who is throwing the front door open. Journey. No surprise there. Although, she has coffees in both hands and looks to have kicked the door open.

“Coffee?” she shouts, moving across the shop to the back counter where she places the recyclable cupholders down. “What happened to my shelves?”

She was quick to notice the mess that Melody was calling organized.

“Me,” Melody answers.

“All you had to do was sit here and look pretty, Mel,” Journey tells her. I walk away from their little banter and tend to the register that needs to be cleared from last night.

“Okay, if you don’t want to just be pretty, can you grab a bottle of Quinn Apple Red 2013, Quinn Original