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I make my way down the familiar roads, turning on Main Street and heading straight to the little coffee shop that makes the best sugar donuts I’ve ever tasted in my life. I park on the street, getting out of the car and closing the door. I look around to see that people are already looking at me. One woman turns her head and then does a double take, her mouth hanging open in shock at me being here.
I try not to let it bother me; I should be used to it by now. I had to endure it for a full two years before I left. The finger-pointing, the whispers as soon as I walked into the room, the snide comments and remarks until everyone else won, and I packed up and left.
Pulling open the door to the bakery, I’m assaulted with the smell of sugary goodness right away, and my mouth waters. The woman, Maddie, behind the counter looks up from placing a tray in the window stand. "Well, I'll be." She wipes her hands on her apron. “If it isn’t Autumn Thatcher.” She smiles at me. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Hello, Ms. Maddie.” I walk to the counter, trying to hide the fact that my hands are shaking and so is my voice.
“You are skin and bones.” She looks me up and down. “They don’t feed you where you are.” The worry is in her voice and also in her eyes.
I laugh. “Nothing like home cooking, I guess,” I tell her. “Can I have a box of donuts?” I look at the case. “Half sugar, half powdered.”
“Sure thing, missy.” She grabs a box to fill it, and the sound of bells ringing behind me means someone opened the door. My hands instantly start to shake, wondering if it will be someone I know. I mean, it’s a small town. The question is, who is it going to be?
My neck gets heated, but I don’t turn my head to look behind me as I wait for Maddie to hand me the blue-and-white box. She rings up the amount, and I pay her. I turn my head down and walk past the two people waiting in line. Lucky for me, it’s not someone who recognizes me. My chest gets tight, making breathing harder and harder. It comes in little breaths now as I rush toward my car. Getting in, I set the donuts on the seat next to me before putting my hands on the steering wheel. My head falls forward as I try to focus on my breathing, knowing I’m in the middle of having a panic attack. I haven’t had one in six years since I left town.
I close my eyes, counting to ten and then to twenty. Only when I’m at a hundred do I feel even remotely better. I start the car, making my way to my family home. The street is lined with willow trees, and I have this sense of peace when I’m driving down it. Like nothing can hurt me and it’s okay that I’m here.
I pull into the driveway, parking behind my dad’s pickup, before grabbing the box of donuts. I have one foot out the door when I hear the storm door slam shut. “What in God’s name are you doing here?” His voice feels like a big hug, and I have to close my eyes to stop myself from breaking down. Instead, I turn to him and put a big smile on my face, though it’s mixed with tears.
“Is that any way to welcome your only daughter home?” I ask him as I walk up the four steps to the house I grew up in, ignoring the fact he looks pale and he’s lost about thirty pounds since the last time I saw him. “Especially when I come with donuts.”
He takes the box from my hand, placing it on the floor before he pulls me into a big bear hug. A hug that I feel right down to my bones. A hug that you know, no matter what, everything will be okay. A hug I didn’t know I missed and needed until this very moment. “What are you doing here?” he asks me in my ear, but his arms never move from around me. “Did your brother call you?” I laugh and cry at the same time in his arms. “I’m going to kick his ass.”
“I’m going to kick your ass”—I move out of his embrace and then bend to pick up the donut box—“from here to Timbuktu.” I look up into his gray eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask softly, and he takes a deep inhale.
“What was it going to change?”
“Well, for one, I would be here for you,” I snap.
“Baby girl, you ran away from here because it was killing you.” He puts his big strong hand on my face. “You think I was going to try to get you back here?” He shakes his head. “Ain’t no way in hell I would do that.”
“Well, ain’t no way in hell I was not going to be here for you,” I tell him, just as stubborn as he is, “and I’m not going to be mad at you for not telling me either.” I raise my eyebrows. “But I am pissed you put this box on the ground.” I hold up the donut box. “What if it got ruined?”
He chuckles. “Let’s get you inside and get you a glass of milk to go with your donut.”
“Dad, I’m not ten anymore.” I turn to walk into the house with him. The smell is like home, and I admit I buried the fact I missed it. I buried the fact I wanted to be here, but I didn’t deserve it. I buried it all, and now that the door is open, it’s coming back in full force. No matter how quick or how fast I try to close the door, the pressure is stronger than me. The memories coming so fast and so quick, I can’t stop it.
“How long are you staying?” he asks, grabbing two glasses and going to pour them both with milk while I pull out a chair and sit down.
“For as long as I need to be.” The words come out of my mouth, surprising both of us. In reality, I was thinking of this week and then coming back when the time was needed, but being here, seeing my dad, I need to be here. I’m going to be here.
He’s about to say something when the storm door opens, and then slams shut. I look over to see Brady walking into the house. “I figured you would hunt me down”—he puts his hands on his hips, looking at my father, who is glaring at him—“so I saved us both the time and energy.” I bite my lower lip. “Plus, I heard she got donuts.” He bends to give me a side hug and kisses the top of my head.
He pulls out the chair beside me while my father pulls out another glass. “So what are we talking about?”
“How long I’m going to be in town,” I fill him in, and he looks at me and then at Dad.
“Well then,” he says, opening the box, “now is a good time to talk about Thatcher’s and Sweet Southern Country Whiskey.” I look at him and then my father, who comes back to the table with two glasses of milk, putting them down in front of us before going back to get his own.
“What about them?” I ask of the distillery that has been in our family since the twenties. My great-grandfather made his own whiskey and sold it out of the trunk of his car. Once Prohibition ended, he opened up the Sweet Southern Country Whiskey distillery with its own bar attached to it called Thatcher’s. He figured he would make it and sell it at the same time, cutting out the middleman. It’s been passed down from one son to the other. My father taking it over from his father, and when Dad’s ready, he’ll hand it over to both of us, not just my brother.
“Things aren’t looking so good,” my father says, and I turn back to him, confused.
“That’s putting it lightly,” Brady states, taking a bite of the powdered donut. “That is putting it very mildly.” He looks over at me. “I don’t know if we’ll last the rest of the year.”
My mouth opens in shock. “What the hell are you talking about?” I look at both of them, my eyes going back and forth.
“Things haven’t been…” My father pulls out a chair. “As productive as we had hoped.”
