Chapter 21 #2
“He’s probably wiped out from not sleeping last night,” I said. He’d been up for hours, fussy for most of them. I hoped those damn teeth did their thing soon, for his sake and ours.
“You should’ve let me help,” she said.
“I was up anyway,” I said darkly. “I figured one of us should get some sleep.”
“Yeah, if only,” she muttered.
The show came back on, and the interviewer asked what other seasonal beers we had planned for the rest of the year. Gianna described our Hoppy Summer Days pilsner and our Mango Mist, the hazy IPA I was still perfecting. Cash hinted vaguely about the dishes he was developing with those in mind.
“And then?” host Shelly asked. “What’s next?”
“For fall, we’ll probably do some kind of pumpkin something or maybe apple,” Gianna said, totally off the cuff.
“Nope,” I rumbled, not bothering to hide my annoyance.
“You’re not doing those?” Anna asked.
Frowning, I said, “We did apple last year. Pumpkin the year before. This year I’m thinking of maple something. And maybe a nutmeg brown ale.”
“Gianna doesn’t know yet?”
“Probably I fucked up and forgot to mention it.”
“She got the Valentine’s and summer stuff right. That’s what people are interested in right now.”
“Apple’s almost a cliche for fall these days, especially with all the ciders out there now,” I said, shaking my head.
She turned her attention from the TV to me, then rubbed my forearm as if trying to soothe me. “It’s okay, Kemp. She did really well. That won’t register in anyone’s mind.”
“It registers in mine. It wouldn’t have happened if I was there.” I shot up off the bed and put space between us, realizing I was being a miserable bastard, but I couldn’t pull myself out of it. Didn’t really want to.
“You’re spread too thin, Kemp.” Anna’s tone held sympathy, but I wanted none of it. “It’s okay for you to miss one thing.”
“This one thing was important. Hell, everything’s important,” I roared, unleashing my frustration with myself, with my situation. I was so fucking drained that I couldn’t think straight.
Anna
I tried to rein in my frustration, reminding myself we were both overtired. I sat there quietly clenching my jaw.
I’d thought Kemp would at least text me when his test was over.
Though we’d had a shit storm of an afternoon at the inn due to a toilet that overflowed and leaked to the unit below, I’d checked my phone often, hoping for a report.
Really, I’d expected him to pass the test and be relieved and in somewhat of a celebratory mood.
That was not at all what I’d come home to.
My next thought was that he believed he’d bombed the test, but that didn’t appear to be true either.
He thought he’d passed, yet his mood was stormy. Was it truly that he’d neglected to mention to Gianna his ideas for their autumn flavors? I didn’t think so. That was such a tiny element of the interview and came across as negative to nobody but him.
Tuning out the interview, I racked my brain for what else could be going on with Kemp. Was it just exhaustion and stress, or was there something else?
I stood and said, “Are you hungry? I can cook something, or we could go out. Maybe Humble’s?”
“I don’t have time to eat,” he barked, rubbing the back of his neck as he pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on. “I’m behind on my leadership course. Need to get on it.”
“Okay,” I said carefully, drawing hard on my last thread of patience. “You’ll be more efficient if you eat and maybe take a nap.”
He let out a biting laugh. “I fucked that up too. No time for a nap now.” He went into the bathroom and slammed the door, startling me.
That did it. Something in me snapped.
I went to the nursery to see if the loud noise had woken up Oliver. Somehow he slumbered on. I pulled his door shut, figuring he needed his sleep as badly as the rest of us.
Back in our bedroom, I waited for Kemp to emerge from the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the bed again, my arms crossed, my temper flaring.
Kemp wasn’t the only one who was exhausted. I’d been doing everything I could to free up his time for his work responsibilities at both the brewery and the fire department.
I loved this man. I was willing to make sacrifices to help him. I wanted Kemp to be happy more than just about anything in this world, but I had my limits.
He was miserable because of what I believed was a terrible decision, or maybe a lack of decision was more accurate.
His insistence to pursue two careers was not working out.
Things would not get easier if he got the promotion, not for him and not for us.
And he was being too hardheaded to acknowledge that.
The door opened, and he came out, looking even more volatile.
“Kemp, you’re running yourself into the ground,” I said as calmly as possible.
“I’m fine.” The venom in his tone proved otherwise.
“Nobody could handle everything you’re trying to do.”
“I’m handling it.”
I popped up off the bed and spun to face him. “You’re not. You’re miserable.”
“I have to handle it, Anna,” he bit out. “Don’t you understand that? This is who I am. I’m a firefighter. I’m the brewmaster. I’m a father. The timing’s a bitch, but I’ll figure it out.”
He jabbed at the remote to turn off the TV, then pulled out the chair at his desk, apparently planning to sit and study and blow off this discussion. But I wasn’t done yet. I couldn’t continue to let him hurt himself.
“Something has to give, Kemp,” I said to his back. “You need to choose one or the other. The fire department or Rusty Anchor.”
“Can’t,” he said without facing me.
He was shutting me out. Ignoring reason.
And acting like a jerk on top of it. I wanted to scream and shake some sense into him.
Yet I’d said it all before, multiple times.
I’d tried to get him to see it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he didn’t go for the lieutenant position—or if he took more of a silent partner position in the brewery.
More talking wouldn’t get through to him.
I was at my wits’ end with this man who wouldn’t take a break for his own good, wouldn’t listen to reason, and wouldn’t be realistic.
I hadn’t uttered a word of complaint at missing Needles and Nightcaps or our Sunday family brunch date.
I’d been relieved to finally get to the grocery store and restock the empty kitchen late afternoon yesterday, once Sir Cranky Pants—the seven-month-old, not the adult one—had woken up from a nap, even if we hadn’t made it to the bookstore for the fun part of the afternoon.
I’d been handling the lion’s share of house and baby stuff, doing whatever I could to allow Kemp to work toward his unfeasible goals. I was so tired I couldn’t see straight.
As I stared at his back, my hope and optimism drained out of me.
“I’m going to pack a bag and stay at the inn for a couple of nights,” I said quietly.
My words expanded into the silence between us as I waited for his reaction.
He didn’t move so much as a muscle. Didn’t say a word.
Okay then.
“If you need help with Oliver, let me know,” I said. “Don’t forget to feed the dogs.”
I crossed the hall to my room, found a duffle, and stuffed necessities into it, holding on to my tears until I could get out of here.