Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
brIAR
I’m self-conscious when I walk into the brewery on Saturday, worried that everyone will take one look at me and know there’s a delicious ache of soreness between my legs from what Liam and I did together. But no one seems to notice the change in me, and there’s no sign of Liam.
After the way he left me last night, pathetic and alone, I dreaded seeing him, so his absence should be good news.
No Liam means I’ll have time to pull myself together.
Instead, his absence sends me into a panic.
Where is he? Is he coming back? Did I ruin everything by asking him to break our rules?
I finally break and ask Otis if he has any idea where Liam might be. He doesn’t. So I ask Dottie, who nods. “I had a lovely chat with him this morning.”
“You did?” I ask, glancing around. Otis is close enough to overhear us.
“Oh, yes.” Dottie pats my arm. “He was in quite a state. It was obvious he’d lost sleep over something. But he did give me some excellent news at the end of our talk. The pale ale will be ready in time for our celebration.”
That is good news, but I don’t care the way I should.
Liam’s not here. He’s upset because of me. It suggests he cares more than I thought he did last night…
“He went home?” I ask.
“Yes. I could tell he needed the sleep.”
The brewery’s closed tomorrow and on Christmas, so the earliest I’ll see him is on Tuesday.
Again, that should be a relief. A few days might be long enough for us to remember our list of rules. We can reset and be friends again—friends with an inconvenient attraction that will hopefully fade over time.
But the tight feeling in my chest is more like panic than relief.
“You’re still having Christmas dinner with Nora, aren’t you?” Dottie asks.
“Yeah,” I say distractedly, running my fingers over my lips.
“Liam was very concerned about making sure you had plans.”
I smile despite the pain ribboning through my chest. “Of course he asked you.”
“I didn’t tell him where you were going, of course.” She hesitates before adding, “Will you come to my Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow night, dear? I’d like it if you would. You’ll fit right in, and my granddaughter will talk your ear off about running a brewery.”
“I’d like nothing better,” I say honestly, feeling a rush of heat behind my eyes.
I mean it, of course. Dottie is the sweetest person I know, and the rebranding of Buchanan Brewery after the younger generation took over from the older was a runaway success.
I’d love to talk the Buchanans’ ears off, but that’s not why I’m so grateful for the invitation.
Dottie is accepting me as family. Treating me like I matter in a way my own family never has.
My mind tilts toward Liam.
He’s alone, and his only plan is to stay that way. That makes me sad down to my bones.
The day passes slowly, and all of it feels dull.
Is Liam drinking already? Will he spend the next two days drinking? Will he go to the gym and break another heavy bag?
I’d like to think he’s upset because of what happened between us, but it seems just as likely this is something he goes through every year because of her, whoever she is.
I want to go to him, but I won’t.
Liam said he couldn’t be with me, and I should take him at his word.
I’ve always been the one to give people second and third and fourth chances.
I gave Jonah the benefit of the doubt when he told me he was really busy with work.
And I bought my business partner, Theresa, new accounting software when she insisted her outdated software was the cause for our “missing” money.
But no more. I’m not going to run toward more rejection with my arms open wide, hoping the void will hug me back.
It’s probably better this way, anyway. While there’s obviously a spark between us, there’s Hannah to think of, plus the good of the brewery.
Before I leave for the night, I gather the staff together and hand out scratch-off tickets as bonuses, telling everyone we’ll have real bonuses next year.
If we’re still here, it goes without saying.
“I think it’s gonna be my lucky day,” Ann says, laughing as she flips through her stack of tickets.
“Miss Ann, there are terrible odds of winning,” Otis tells her.
“Someone’s gotta win, honey. Someday it’s gonna be me.”
Everyone gives her knowing smiles, but I admire her willingness to see possibilities where others see improbabilities.
I want to hope too.
I slide Liam’s tickets behind our list of rules, telling myself I’ll give them to him later. He’s not gone. He didn’t leave. He’s coming back, and it hasn’t all been ruined. The words feel like a winning lottery ticket, too dear to be hoped for.
My father texts me that night, asking if I’m coming over for Christmas Eve or Christmas dinner, as if I didn’t flee his house on a motorcycle and lose half my dress in the process.
I respond with a simple, No, and he replies:
I look forward to your party, sweetheart. Mom asks if it’s okay to bring outside alcohol.
No, I respond again, my heart beating faster at the defiance.
I spend the next evening at Dottie’s little purple house.
It’s tiny, especially given the number of people packed inside and spilling out into the frostbitten yard.
But the gathering is warm and full of laughter.
Otis and his grandmother come over, and all of Dottie’s grandchildren stop by, including the ones who run Buchanan Brewery.
Small children fill the cottage with laughter, especially when Dottie’s partner comes out in a Santa suit.
I still haven’t heard from Liam. Not a word.
It’s his silence that hurts most of all, I decide. I’d started to get lulled into thinking we were rebuilding the brewery together, and this is presumably his way of reminding me that there is no us.
I go home, feeling emotionally drained, and find a poorly wrapped package waiting on the stoop of my building.
My hands tremble as I lift it up. The gift tag is addressed to me in Liam’s sloppy handwriting.
I glance around, worried someone might witness me taking the gift, which is absurd, since it’s for me.
When did he stop by?
The disappointment of having missed him lodges in my throat, but I let myself in and carry the gift to my kitchen table. I’m very aware that his hands touched it, just like they’ve touched me.
Karma hops onto the tabletop, gives me a dubious look, and meows loudly.
“Exactly,” I say.
I tear a corner of the wrapping paper before ripping off the rest. My heart goes gooey in my chest as I study the brand-new boxing gloves.
There’s a sticky note resting on top of them.
Every boxer needs their own gloves. And you, Briar, are a prizefighter. Never forget that.
Dottie probably already told you, but the beer is going to be ready on time.
Merry Christmas,
Liam
I go to sleep with the gloves clutched to my chest.