Chapter Eight Milo
Eight
Milo
“And do you think she will?” Aleks asks, stacking another box behind me as I type the passcode into the supply closet’s door.
“Change her mind?” he whispers gleefully, knowing my brother is lurking somewhere nearby and that I’d been told not to try anything with the Welches’ daughter. The door beeps twice and unlocks.
“Dude, I have no idea,” I say, shuffling the heavy box in my grip so I can open the door.
“She…Yeah, I don’t know.” Saying that Prue is different feels like a cliché, so I refuse to say it aloud, but it also feels like the only way to explain why I can’t get a clear read on her.
“I hope so” is what I land on, placing my box down in front of the door to keep it ajar.
“What happened after that?” he asks eagerly, moving inside with the first of twenty boxes we need to unload.
I follow him into the closet. “It was sort of tense for a minute, then easier when we both pretended to be busy with our tasks. Then, just as we’d started chatting again, Tom came in to let her know her mom had woken up.
So, she left to go deal with that and once I was done cleaning brushes, I left too. ”
Aleks laughs quietly to himself. “At least you weren’t doing anything nefarious when Tom came in.”
I laugh too but wince all the same. This is most certainly my daddy issues talking, but the idea of disappointing Tom is almost as devastating as the thought that Prue might never let me kiss her. “Yeah, thank fuck for that.”
Bringing supplies in and unloading them, we get lost in other meaningless conversations about my travels before Aleks begins telling me, in painstakingly specific detail, about the process of brewing each and every variety of beer they’ll begin selling in a month’s time.
He’s always been this way. Aleks gets his hooks into one topic of conversation and beats it to death mercilessly.
The topics have changed throughout the years, but the intensity remains the same.
It used to annoy the ever-living fuck out of me, but now I find his passionate rambling endearing.
I think I envy him, honestly. It’s been a long time since I cared about something as much as he cares about the science of beer. Personally, I prefer the taste-testing.
“Mi!” Nik calls from the delivery entrance. “Mi, you around?”
“Hold that thought.” I interrupt Aleks midsentence as he lists off the chemical ingredients of their Little Rabbit IPA that we’re definitely pretending is not named after my younger sister. “Here,” I shout toward the exit before taking off into a light jog. “What’s up?”
“C’mere! Look!” Nik yells back, still out of sight. The joy in his voice is audible just the same.
I find Nik around the corner from what will be the seasonal beer garden. He’s smiling proudly toward the main entrance, his hands on his hips and head tilted up in a true fatherlike stance. I move to stand at his side, and look up too.
“MANS Brewery…” I read aloud, slowly. Then I read it again, just to be sure.
MAN’s Brewery. No. That cannot be the name my brother has landed on after all of these years of planning for this, right?
“MANS Brewery?” I ask him, unsuccessful at stopping a laugh from breaking free. “Nik, really? That is the name?”
He glares at me. Stoic and silent. It only fuels my fire.
“No…” Another suppressed laugh turns into a bent-over, unable-to-catch-my-breath, clutching-my-chest fit. When I stand back up, turning toward him, I’ve got tears in my eyes. “Me man, go to man-brewery, drink man-beer,” I say, choking on every other word.
He sighs deeply, not budging an inch. Surely he must know how ridiculous this is. Where’s Nadia when I need her? She’d get in on this. I’ll have to settle for our pseudo-sibling. “Aleks!” I call, my voice wavering in pitch as I still try to contain myself. “Aleks, come here!”
“What?” He appears at the doorway, as if he’d been waiting to be called on, then moves to stand at my side. “Ah, nice, looks really good, man.”
I nearly look around for a camera crew. This is a prank. I’m being pranked. “No! Not you too?”
“Huh?” Aleks asks, cocking his head, those big blue eyes unblinking. “What’s wrong with it?”
“You cannot be fucking serious…” I scoff. “Did we not workshop this? What did Sef have to say?”
“Get back to work, Milo.” Nik’s voice is like thunder as his heavy boots take their anger out on the gravel with every step farther away.
“What the hell is your problem?” Aleks asks, shaking his head as his perpetually calm demeanor slips half an inch. “You ruined that for him.”
“What’s my problem? Please tell me that small-town life hasn’t rotted my brother’s brain so much that he’s become some podcast-listening men’s rights truther.”
“Milo…” Aleks sighs deeply from his chest. “Did he tell you why he chose MANS as the name?”
“No!” I laugh again, this time in disbelief. “I can only presume it’s something to do with honoring the deity that gifted us Kablukov brothers such a large endowment.” The joke, as I suspected, doesn’t land well.
Aleks looks between me and the big red sign incredulously. “It’s an acronym, idiot.”
The best my brain comes up with is: Many Amazing New Sips—which reminds me of how my maternal grandmother would sound when trying to speak English to us on the phone when she called once a year on Christmas. Maybe the name is Nik’s bizarre way of honoring our heritage. “I don’t—”
“Milo, Aleks, Nadia, and Sef…Nik didn’t even put his own name in there; unless you count the N as standing for both him and—”
“Fuck,” I interrupt, letting my head fall back as I squint up at the sky.
“Yeah.”
“Fuuuuck.” I lower to a squat, my eyes finding each big red letter. I run my hands over my stubble and then cover my eyes. “I’m such a dick.” I stand, turning my body toward Aleks as he seems to count the stones between us, avoiding eye contact like the plague. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did.”
“Fuck,” I repeat for good measure.
“Not your best work…”
I run a hand through my hair and tug at the back of my skull before letting my arm fall to my side. “What do I do?”
“You know Nik…. It’s probably best if you give him a minute to calm down. He’s—”
“Pissed,” I finish for him, already nodding.
Aleks shakes his head, a crease appearing between his brows. “I was going to say hurt. ”
Right. “He could have just told me! Why didn’t he tell me?”
“Did you give him the chance to?”
I pull back, staring at my not-brother-brother like he’s got two heads. “Did everyone go to fucking therapy since I’ve been gone? Why are you all acting so—”
“Mature?” Aleks smirks, throwing his hands up defensively. “We’ve been growing up…haven’t you?”
He doesn’t mean to be an asshole, I tell myself, shoving a clenched fist into my jeans pocket. That’s just Aleks. He says the things the rest of us are too afraid to because he doesn’t realize how bad they’ll sting. The things that call on our deepest insecurities. The truth.
With my head hung, I go back to work in the supply closet.
I organize and reorganize and rigidly line up each item with the shelves’ corresponding labels until the boxes are all emptied out.
Then, I go get more boxes, the ones we were told didn’t have to go in today, and I unpack those too—just in the hopes that Nik might walk past and give me one approving nod.
He never did.
I successfully avoided my brother for the remainder of the afternoon until he took off to greet the kids when they got home from school.
Although one could argue he was successfully avoiding me, I was sort of hoping he’d stop by to clear the air.
Or, at least, to see how sexy the shelves looked thanks to me.
And yes, maybe such gorgeous closet organization was brought on by guilt, having mocked something that clearly meant a great deal to him.
But I can’t fix that now. A conversation would only make it more awkward for us both.
Nik would have to admit his feelings were hurt—which would only embarrass him—and I’d have to apologize—which would make me deeply uncomfortable.
I’m not great at expressing regret, despite having been a child worthy of an Oscar in apologetic performance.
I offended my parents frequently, deeply, and often growing up.
Mistakes were treated more like felonies by good ol’ Mom and Dad.
Things like not taking the trash out on time, accidentally breaking a glass while washing dishes, changing the channel by sitting on the remote, or looking at Dad wrong —which was measured on an unpredictable scale.
Disrespect was the only cardinal sin in their house, both arbitrarily defined and tyrannically punished.
Consequently, I was forced to apologize over and over and over or face a worse punishment. Which was usually just more strikes from Mom’s wooden spoon, or Dad’s belt…or worse as I got older.
Now, I prefer to avoid the whole charade.
In my version of adulthood, mistakes are frequent and encouraged and fucking celebrated.
Half of my skin is covered in them. Half of my history is decorated by them.
And today’s, well, actually, today’s mistake was one that won’t be making the hall of fame any time soon.
I worked until Aleks decided it was time to call it a day too, emerging from the brewing hall smelling strongly of sulfur and citrus.
We locked up, said our goodbyes, and I successfully avoided eye contact with Nik’s sign as I got into his wife’s minivan and pressed my forehead into the steering wheel.
Then, I spotted it. The six-pack of unlabeled beers Nik had given me to pass along to Tom, still in the passenger seat. Nik’s gift for my transgressions. One skipped apology is already too much for one day. And Tom’s is certainly the easier one to face.
So, instead of turning left out of the brewery’s driveway, I make a right. And half a minute later, I’m back at Welch’s for the second time today. I grab the six-pack, check myself out in the rearview mirror, adjust my hair accordingly, and then hop out of the van.
“Hi, sir…” I say, nodding my head toward Tom as he sweeps the floor of the produce aisle near the door. “I realized I forgot to leave these with you earlier.” I hold up the beers. “Sorry.” Nailed it.
“It’s okay, I figured you’d be back. You left without your groceries,” Tom says, leaning the broom against the wall and brushing his hands against the sides of his jeans. He takes half a step, then stops abruptly, his head tilting as his eyes narrow on my face. “You okay, son?”
I clear my throat, forcing a smile. “Ah, yeah, I’m fine. Long day.”
He walks around the back of the room, then appears behind the counter. “Well, we really appreciate the help. I hope it didn’t take too much out of you.” He places my basket from this morning onto the counter, and I do the same with the pack of beer.
“No, no…” I smile again, nodding in reassurance. “All good.”
“Prue seems to be almost done back there, thanks to you. My wife’s having a quiet day too, so that’s helped. Hopefully she can be painting again soon.” He grins absently, typing in the cost of two dozen eggs. “How are things looking at the brewery today?”
“Good.” I nod, despite feeling like I’m lying. “Yeah, real good.”
“Is it still set to open…When was it again?”
“Last weekend of October,” I answer. “And yeah, it should be.” I rock back on my heels, admiring the giant wooden arrow above the cash register that seems like an original feature.
It was painted a bold shade of red and reads pay here in yellow vintage cursive.
Looking past it, I notice a bolt loose in the ceiling, and the chicken wire holding the sign in place.
“This thing is hanging on by a prayer,” I say, pointing up.
Tom’s eyes follow upward. “Oh, goodness. Yeah, that’s an accident waiting to happen, isn’t it?”
I wince, nodding.
“I’ll sort it out tomorrow,” he says, punching in the cost of flour. I have the distinct feeling that Tom has used that phrase more than his fair share of times. And by looking around the shop, which I hope has seen better days, I can tell tomorrow doesn’t typically arrive when expected.
“It’s going to take someone out,” I argue, rubbing at my neck. “If you’ve got a drill, it would take me less than five minutes, ten tops.”
Tom chuckles dryly. “You’ve done plenty for us already today, son. You look ready for home, a good meal, and a shower.”
I am, actually, not ready to go home whatsoever.
Not yet at least. Ideally, I’d sneak in long after dark.
Once I’m sure my brother is asleep and no longer able to deliver one of those crushing stares.
“Ten minutes or less, I promise.” I hold up my hands.
“And if you insist on paying me, I’ll take one of those beers and some company…
. You still haven’t told me how you knew my graduating year.
” Or what else Mrs. Welch had to say about me.
He mulls it over, then opens and shuts the till like a decision has been made. “Fine, but these are also on me,” he says, placing Sef’s list of items in a paper bag.
“Fair enough,” I reply, slipping Sef’s card back into my wallet.
“I’ll give Prue a shout to bring us the drill.” Tom pulls out his phone, then squints at the screen as he holds it comically close to his face. “She snagged it earlier to hang something, or unhang, or…you know, she never really tells me what she’s doing.”
“I can go get it,” I volunteer, a touch too eager. “Save her the trip.”
He smiles, a little too knowingly for my liking. “Sure.”
“Be back in two.” I rap on the counter, then head toward the front entrance. “Don’t stand under that thing!”
“No rush!” he calls after me, nearly chuckling. “I’ve got lots of cleaning to do anyways.”
I pretend not to recognize that affectionately teasing tone of his voice while I break into a jog toward the A-frame out back.