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I debate whether to shower before Imake my way over to Jennifer. Instead, I head towards the forest, Deciding that I would shower when I got back. My feet make their way down the beaten path as I think about where I willgo today. It’s one of two places: the crash site or the cemetery. My thoughts going back to last night and the confrontation with Autumn, I opt for the cemetery.
Walking through the forest, listening to the sounds of birds chirping and twigs snapping as I mindlessly make my way over. Pulling open the black cast-iron gate, I hear the squeaking as I step up the two steps and follow the pebbled path.
My head down as I walk towards her, and when I look up, I see a figure on their knees in front of the tombstone. My body going tight, my blood turning to ice. “You’ve got some fucking nerve.” The words are out of my mouth, echoing in the night. Autumn looks up and over at me, and I can see the tears in her eyes, making me even angrier. “What the fuck are you doing here.”
“Charlie,” she says my name in a whisper as she gets to her feet, “I didn’t know.”
“I don’t want to fucking hear it,” I hiss at her, this woman who I hate more than anything in the world. More than myself, more than Waylon, more than the one who decided to take Jennifer from me instead of taking me with her, “I don’t want to see you; not here, not at the crash site, not fucking anywhere.”
“I’m sorry.” The words barely a whisper before she turns her head to the side and starts to walk away from me.
“I need to know that you understand what I’m saying”—she stops at my words—“I don’t even want to fucking breathe the same air you breathe.”
I see her chest inhale as she turns her head to the side, her eyes looking past me towards the tombstone. "You aren’t the only one who loves her,” she says before she runs off and away from me, leavingme to watch her as she runs through the trees and disappears into the night.
Chapter Eight
Autumn
I shut the car door and make the stupid mistake of turning and looking around. It’s been a week since I’ve been in town, and it’s been a week since I’ve been seen. Which means the whispers are back, the finger-pointing, the leers from some of the old people who have been around for a long time. Also, who have an allegiance to the Cartwright family. A week of feeling like I’m about to crawl out of my skin, also a week since I’ve come to realize how much I missed having my brother and father around me daily. Even though we used to FaceTime each other often enough, it’s never the same thing as seeing the person in real life. Being able to hug them or glare at them is so much better face-to-face.
I try to pretend that it doesn’t bother me, but every single time it eats at me. If it wasn’t for my father being sick and them needing help at the distillery and the bar, I would be gone so fast. Fuck, I wouldn’t even be here.
I pull open the back door to the office, my flannel shirt I tied around my waist flows side to side. I have on a pair of black jeans, which have been in my closet here for the last eight years, with a white sleeveless bodysuit. The sound of the heels of my boots echoes in the big room. I stop in my tracks and listen to hear if someone else is in, but the sound of emptiness greets me. Looking at my watch, I see it’s a little past nine in the morning. I walk past the column stills to the office, dumping my bag on the chair in front of the desk. The office is enclosed, but it has windows all around showing you the distillery room.
I pick up my phone and text my brother.
Me: Early bird catches the worm.
I put my phone on the desk before I walk out and make my way to the front of the building where the bar area is. Down the long wooden hallway, the walls are stacked with pictures of when the company started. A picture of my great-grandfather standing with two of his friends is fading as the years go by. I always laugh when I see the picture because they look like three mob bosses. Then the pictures go from black and white to color. One picture is one that we all have displayed in our homes. The picture of Mom and Dad when I was born. She had just left the hospital, and my father had to quickly come here. They took the picture as soon as they walked into the distillery. My mother smiles with me in her arms while Dad held Brady. I smile at the picture as I walk through the swinging door that leads to the bar area.
The wood floor has been worn over the years but is still shiny. I walk past the area in the back where I thought it would be great to host private parties and maybe even tasting events. Something I was going to work on before everything happened. Walking into the bar area, the ceiling opens up and I take a look around at how pretty this bar is. The exposed red brick around the bar pops out against the dark metal cladding surrounding it. It’s a rustic feel but almost modern at the same time. The big brown square bar area is in the middle of the space, with the square metal piece suspended over it with different glasses all hanging in their place ready to be used.
Old wooden barrels that have been used over time also help with the decor. Dark brown leather stools are all around the bar area, while little round tables scatter against the outer wall area. I walk over to the side where the kitchen is, which is never used, and start to make a pot of coffee. I look around the kitchen, wondering why we’ve never offered food in here. I know it was something else I wanted to do. I had all these plans, excited to put them on paper, and then the accident happened. Nothing else mattered after that. I was frozen in time, sometimes I think I’m still frozen there.
“There you are,” I hear from behind me and look over to see my brother walking in wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. “I’ll take a coffee.”
“Is that your way of saying, ‘Autumn, can you make me a cup of coffee, please?’” I ask him and he just smirks.
“Almost,” he says, “just missing a couple of words.”
“Yes,” I reply, grabbing two white mugs. I put them down and fill them with the piping hot black coffee. “Especially the word please.” I put the pot down, handing him his mug before taking mine and smelling it before taking a sip. “Is there anything better than coffee in the morning?”
“Yes.” He grins. “There is something better in the morning.”
“Can you be more gross?” I ask, leaning my hip against the counter and putting one foot on the other, my eyes wandering around the room. “Why don’t we use this kitchen?” I ask, and he looks at me. “We could offer some pub food. You know, drinks and food so they stay later?”
“They have to come in the door first. We had three customers last night. I closed up at seven thirty.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “And I’m sure that they came in looking to see if you were here.” I close my eyes, trying to tell myself that eventually, it’ll go away, but knowing it will probably be like this for the rest of my life. I’m a pariah. I knew it would come to that when I spoke up. I just didn’t think it would last so long. I still would never go back and change my decision to do what I did.
“It’s a good thing we hit up that little B and B outside of town and left them the two-for-one specials,” I remind him of the little flyer I created. Luckily, the owner had no idea who the hell I was, so she was glad to put them at the front desk.
“We are going to need a lot more than that.” He turns and walks out of the kitchen.
“Well, we have to start somewhere,” I tell him, stopping in front of the bar. “Maybe we offer happy hour from five to seven,” I suggest to him things he probably did over the years, but they didn’t work, “but with a food special. Like two-for-one, but you have to order a burger.”
“Why would they come here to order a burger when they can go to the diner?”
“Can you get a pitcher of beer or try the new whiskey flavors at the diner?” I counter.
