Chapter Nine #2
I’m expecting him to pour himself a glass, but he doesn’t. Personally, I may need one before the day is over. I’m not secure enough in my position here to just walk over and pour myself a shot though.
Ripley squeezes past me, our arms just barely grazing, and goosebumps prickle my skin. “You staying for the tasting?” he asks over his shoulder.
“Uh, yeah. Why not? Thea made it sound like a show.”
Brooks laughs, and without looking at me, he comments, “Oh, it’s a show alright.” The way he says it makes it sound like some kind of innuendo, only further piquing my interest.
The bar quickly fills with patrons for the tasting.
No one’s late, no one seems out of place.
It’s interesting to witness the dynamics not only between Ripley and Brooks but between them and the customers as well.
I’ve visited my fair share of distilleries and sat through the tastings and tours they offer; this already feels drastically different.
I’m sitting at a table near the back, away from the bar, so I’m not a distraction, laptop open so it looks like I’m not as intrigued as I am.
The truth is, I’m frothing at the mouth to see Ripley in action.
Just listening to him talk about bourbon and what he’s created here makes me insanely proud.
For years, he’s downplayed what he does for a living, never truly divulging how incredibly talented and knowledgeable he is.
Once they’re through introductions they probably didn’t need to make, they start with the first bourbon of the night.
“We like to start with our signature RED,” Brooks tells the crowd.
“This is our house bourbon. It’s the base for every bourbon drink on our menu unless someone prefers one of the others.
Though, that rarely happens. Ripley has made quite a few different flavor profiles at this point, but nothing beats the original. ”
I watch as they move around the bar, pouring into small snifter glasses, giving everyone a big enough taste to truly grasp the deep vanilla and crisp cherry notes.
Just like I did years ago before I even knew Ripley, I watch them fall in love with it.
Savoring the smooth finish, commenting on the full-bodied mouth feel, entirely immersed in the experience of what was created in this building.
I’m grateful I stayed. Seeing this in person means more to me because I know how much Ripley put into it.
I can’t keep my eyes off of him. My computer screen went to sleep at least thirty minutes ago.
Ripley hasn’t looked my way this whole time, and it should piss me off.
I should be upset my presence doesn’t affect him enough to steal even a sliver of his attention, but honestly, his passion for his work only makes him more attractive.
Knowing he’s so invested in his life’s work is a turn-on all on its own.
Brooks, however, has looked over a time or two. A glance here and there, just enough for me to notice.
“Okay, everyone, now that you know the magic we create here in the form of bourbon and how it all came about, it’s time to try the newest secret recipe.”
Brooks looks my way again, shooting me a wink. For a moment, I’m confused by what it could mean. It’s clear he knows who I am to Ripley. At first, I was pissed because Ripley had told someone. Now, I’m starting to think it’s a compliment he liked me enough to tell his friends.
Too bad I fucked it up.
“I’m going to tell y’all a secret,” Brooks starts. “If you call this one a good boy,” he throws a thumb over his shoulder to Ripley, “sometimes he’ll give you a little extra.”
And now the wink makes sense.
“Our friend here loves a bit of praise, if you know what I mean,” he finishes. Ripley punches him in the arm, finally glancing my way. I’m pretty sure my annoyance is written all over my face, but I keep it in check, turning my laptop back on and pretending to work on something.
I do my best to tune out the rest of the tasting, going as far as popping my earbuds in and turning on the podcast on investment strategies I started this morning.
Before too long, the guests stand to leave, shuffling out the door to the parking lot or heading over to the restaurant for an early dinner. Once the crowd has cleared, I close my laptop and pull my earbuds from my ears, carefully placing them back into their case.
“—he was! I swear to God, Rip, that man was eye-fucking you the entire time.”
For a second, I think he’s talking about me, and my cheeks flame. But then Ripley says, “Dude, even if he was, he’s maybe twenty-two, at most. I’m not looking to rob the cradle like you.”
“Hey, Margot is an old soul, and you know it. I have no regrets when it comes to her,” he spews back.
Knowing they're openly discussing someone hitting on Ripley is the nail in my coffin. Knowing they don’t care if I overhear their conversation only furthers my decision to get the fuck out of here. Without a word, I grab my things and bolt for the swinging doors.
Ripley must finally notice me because he calls out, “Wes—Seth, wait. Where are you going?” I make my way through the early dinner crowd and avoid eye contact with every single person.
Once I’m outside, I feel like I can breathe again, but I don’t slow down, not until I’m at my rental car, opening the door and falling into it.
I’m pissed about more than the comments Brooks made.
I’m also pissed at how open Ripley is with these people.
He makes it look so easy. His friends all know who he is, and none of them judge him for it.
The thought has me considering if I’m ready to finally let someone in again.
I’ve only opened up to Iris, and telling her felt natural.
The idea of telling anyone else I’m gay makes me want to rip my skin off.
As I look down at the clock on the dash, I realize it’s almost three in the afternoon back home.
Because of my trip here, I missed my usual Monday call with my mom.
It’s something I look forward to every week.
I told her it may not be possible to keep to our schedule while I’m in Indigo Hill, but feeling like I need a semblance of control and routine back in my life to ground me, I scroll through my recent calls to find her contact.
The phone rings four times before she picks up. “Hello?”
My mom’s voice fills the car, and there’s a dull ache in my chest with how much I miss her. “Hey, Ma,” I say, contemplating if I’m ready to tell her my truth, if today is the day I come clean.
“Seth, my love, I thought I wouldn’t hear from you this week, what a lovely surprise,” she coos.
This woman has been through so much in her life; I’m in awe of how resilient she is.
Even in her darkest days, she didn’t give up.
She credits me for that fact, and while I appreciate it, she didn’t deserve what my father put her through.
Helping her pick up her pieces was the least I could do after I was the cause of her marriage ending.
Or at least in my eyes, I was. She’d disagree.
It was clear how much he despised me, and my mother sticking up for me led to huge fights between them.
“Yeah, I have a few minutes. How’s your week been?” I ask, settling in for the twenty minutes worth of stories she’s saved up for me. At home, I’d put her on speaker and let her talk for as long as she wants while I chop vegetables and cook whatever protein I’ve selected for the week.
She starts in about some drama in her garden club, and I listen as intently as I can as I drive back to the hotel. Her voice has calmed me down by the time I’m pulling into a parking spot.
“How about you, love? How have things been there? Are you and Carrington having a good time?”
My scalp prickles, and my stomach bottoms out at the mention of Cary and my situation here. Any inclination about telling her I’m not a straight man like I’ve led her to believe goes out the window.
“Things are fine. Listen, Ma, I just got back to my hotel. Can I call you back in a little bit?”
It’s a moment before she answers. We both know I won’t be calling back until next week, just like always. She raised me to be too polite, I can’t tell her I’m not in the mood to talk anymore. The white lie makes me feel like an asshole, but I can’t help it.
“Of course, dear. I love you. Talk soon.”
“Love you too, Ma.”
Hanging up the phone, I take a deep breath before exiting the car. I’m not sure what I’ll do for the rest of the night, but anything to get my mind off of Ripley is the goal.