Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
brIAR
My heart has been ripped to little shreds.
I felt so safe with Liam—as if he could cocoon me from the world. But when I saw that app on his phone, that feeling of security evaporated, revealing a raw wound that’s never healed.
Before Liam came out of the bedroom, I spent hours chastising myself for being a woman who wants to be loved so badly she keeps imagining it happening over and over again. A woman so desperate for affection she’ll eat every sweet lie that’s fed to her.
Now, I’m more confused but no less broken.
I start pacing the wood floors of my apartment while crying, feeling restless and broken. Karma trails me.
I’m desperate to talk to someone, but I don’t want to call Nora when I’m like this. She’s been so helpful, and all I’ve done is complain.
My great-aunt Sky has been my champion for years, but she’s already said she can’t travel to Asheville this winter. I don’t want her to feel pressured to do something she can’t or shouldn’t.
I pull out my phone and tap my chin with it, my heart breaking a little more with each passing second, and then call the person I feel most guided to.
“Briar,” Dottie says urgently. “I was just thinking about you. Do you need me to come in early?”
“Oh, Dottie,” I say, crying again. “I think I messed everything up.”
“I very much doubt that. But come to the tea shop and have tea with me. There’s nothing a good cup of tea can’t cure. We’ll work through all of this together.”
“I don’t think tea can cure what’s wrong with me,” I say through a sob.
“Maybe not, my dear, but tea and sympathy are the best treatment for any ailment. I’ll be waiting for you.”
I end the call and try to gather myself before leaving.
“Do I look as bad as I feel?” I whisper to Karma, who gives me a very telling meow as he surveys my Silver Star sweatshirt and old yoga pants. He’s always been a tough critic. But I know this is the best I can do right now, so I put on a coat—not Liam’s—and head out the door and drive downtown.
As soon as I open the door to the tea shop, Dottie pops up from her chair and hurries over, pulling me into a warm hug.
I press my face into her shoulder, not even caring that one of the sequined stars on her shoulder is digging into my face.
It’s all I can do to swallow the sob building in my throat.
I’m so messed up I don’t even know what I’m most upset about—Liam having that app on his phone, or my decision to send him away for it.
His explanation made sense, and I do mostly believe him, but doubt is still knifing into me.
I hate thinking of other women messaging Liam, wanting him. Dating him.
A voice in my head whispers, Then how much worse will it be if you have to stand by and watch him parade them through the brewery?
I burrow in closer to Dottie, needing her comfort, which is an anchor in my sea of confusion.
“Oh, it’ll all work out, my dear,” she says, rubbing my back.
“I wore this silver star sweater today as a sign of solidarity. In fact, I ordered them for the whole staff. You know, Liam told me all about the woman who wrote that article. I’d already picked out a corrective profile of crystals for her, but I don’t hold out high hopes for a full healing.
Some people aren’t willing to change. And your parents…
honestly, dear, I have no words. Truly, I do not.
But if you’d like, we can try to coax them into accepting some crystals too.
I was thinking if you made them into jewelry, then perhaps they wouldn’t realize—”
I pull back, alarmed. “Dottie, what on earth are you talking about?”
For a moment we just stare at each other, Dottie taking in my red eyes and dishevelment. “My dear girl, if you’re not upset about the article, then what happened to upset you so?”
“What article?” I ask as adrenaline dumps into my veins.
“Oh, goodness. Oh, my. Come, come, my girl.” She leads me to the table where she was sitting. After I’ve basically collapsed into the white chair, she shoves an open copy of The Asheville Gazette toward me.
“At least it’s only on page five. Most people don’t read real newspapers anymore anyway.” She pats my hand as I start reading.
The headline is “Big Trouble at the Little Brewery,” by Melanie Harris. Otherwise known as Melly.
Fuck.
I speed-read it, my pulse racing the whole time.
Melly paints Liam as a thug, and me as a weak link—the unremarkable child of a remarkable father, a woman who’s been brainwashed by a handsome face.
She implies that I let Liam talk me into losing the organic status my father fought for.
She even quotes Bubba, saying he “can’t believe” I threw away everything they’d built in such record time.
There’s also a quote from Steve, Liam’s former boss at Mountain Morning, who describes Liam as “unhinged and dangerous.”
“This is full of lies.” I peer at Dottie, my voice trembling with rage. I’m still upset by what happened between Liam and me, but the way Melly wrote about him…
It makes me want to retroactively steal all of her favorite toys and destroy them in front of her. It makes me want to shave her head. It makes me want to punch her, to be perfectly honest. How dare she…how dare she…
She looked at him, she wanted him, and when he chose me instead of her, she did this.
Of course, I see my father’s Machiavellian hand behind all of it. He probably cut Bubba a fat check for his role in this mess.
“Dottie, what are we going to do? I think…I think maybe my dad’s trying to pressure me into firing Liam. Liam embarrassed him last week, and my dad doesn’t like being embarrassed.”
She sits up a little straighter. “Well, there is the jewelry idea. Crystals can be very transformative—”
“I’m not making them any jewelry. I already got them what they wanted for the holidays.”
My family has the ridiculous tradition of making wish lists for items we could easily afford ourselves. It makes gift-giving easy—and joyless.
She taps the paper with her finger. “Did this woman talk to you, or anyone else who currently works at Silver Star, about the brewery?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Then we’ll be getting a retraction and an apology. Perhaps another writer at the paper would be inclined to tell the true story of the brewery. A fair story.”
“You think we can convince them?”
She gives me a level look. “My dear Briar, we won’t give them a choice.”
“But, Dottie…” I take in a deep breath and say, “The truth is that the beer wasn’t organic. Ever. My father and Bubba were lying. That’s the truth, and if it gets out, our clients might demand restitution.”
She pushes her lips out in thought. “It’s always better to align yourself with the truth, my dear. It’ll come out anyway. You might as well get ahead of it and play a part in the telling.”
I nod, even though the thought sends chills through me. The cost might be enough to put us under…
“Now, why don’t you tell me all about what had you looking so blue when you walked in here.”
I’m tempted to keep my relationship problems to myself. We have more immediate hurdles to deal with than my love life. But I know it would be safe to spill my soul to her.
So I explain what happened over the last few days, leaving out the details that feel too personal.
Maybe I was expecting her to push me toward Liam, to tell me that I need to give it a shot because he and I are meant for each other.
Maybe that’s what I wanted.
But she doesn’t do that.
She just gives me a level look and says, “Yes, of course you know what’s best. Love isn’t easy, my dear, and both people need to be ready for the timing to be right.”
When Dottie and I get to the brewery, Liam’s sitting in the tasting room, drinking a beer at one of the wooden guest tables. My pulse escalates at the sight of him. He lifts his chin to greet us as we walk in. He looks tired and wrung out, and his eyes are bloodshot.
He’d started to feel like the antidote to all of my bad dreams, and now we’re here.
It seems incredibly unfair, even if it’s partly my own decisions that landed us here.
I want to wrap my arms around him, and I also want to hit him.
Both desires are equally strong. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.
“I came to turn in my notice, boss,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
He lifts the beer, which I can tell from the scent is a tropical IPA.
He hates Bubba’s tropical IPA. We all do, honestly.
That’s why it’s on our drink-us-dry list for the New Year’s party.
“I saw the article. I’m even more of a liability than I was a few weeks ago. You should get rid of me.”
“You are not quitting,” I say tartly, pushing the beer away.
His eyebrows wing up. “I was drinking that.”
“You were feeling sorry for yourself.”
The look on his face says I’ve officially gotten his attention, and also that he’s kind of pissed at me. “So what if I was?”
“You can feel sorry for yourself later. The article is bullshit, as you know. My father’s giving me another test, but I’m sick of playing his games. Dottie has a plan for dealing with the fallout. We’re not giving them what they want.”
“You’re not giving me up, Princess?” His mouth turns up in a sardonic smile.
“Because you could, you know. I figured you wouldn’t be upset to get rid of me right now.
I might be good, but there are plenty of good brewers out there who don’t have arrest records or baggage.
Ones your daddy might like a little better. ”
My heart lurches. His words are razor-edged, but I can feel the hurt flowing off him.
“Well, you figured wrong. Now, do we have a pale ale to carbonate or not? Because Dottie and I are ready. She even ordered matching silver sequined sweaters for everyone at the brewery, like the one she’s wearing. I assume you got bigger sizes for Liam and Otis?” I ask, glancing at Dottie.
“Of course,” she says with a smile. “Liam’s might be a little small, but there’s nothing wrong with a snug fit. I thought we could all wear them for the New Year’s party.”
“You heard her.” I shift my gaze back to Liam, meeting the challenging look he’s giving me. “We’re all going to have festive sweaters, so we definitely need to have a beer better than this one.” I gesture to the crappy IPA that I shoved away from him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, saluting me, his words sending an electric charge through me.
“We’ll be fine as long as we stick to the rules,” I lie in an undertone, telling myself it’s true. “We’ve done it before.”
He raises his eyebrows again, and I have the foolish urge to trace them with my fingers.
To kiss him and forget the rules and also the sight of that app on his phone.
I want to go back to the feeling of lying in his arms. But it’s not that simple.
My wariness has been reignited, and it’s had plenty of practice over the last several years.
“Maybe I’ll tattoo them onto my body.” The way he says it is sinuous, invoking memories of that tattoo winding around his arm and the one on his thick, muscular thigh.
“Oh, that would be quite painful,” Dottie says, tsking. “It might be easier to just memorize them. I could make a mnemonic for you, if you’d like to show them to me.”
“Nah,” he says, getting to his feet. “It’s not remembering them that’s the problem.” He meets my gaze again, his eyes bottomless. “It’s following them.”