Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
James
After Winnie leaves, the pounding in my head doubles in intensity.
Needing a break, needing speed and distance and wind in my hair, I drive my truck back to Austin so I can take the bike out.
I spend a very sleepless night in Tank’s house, where the emptiness seems to mock me.
It’s a reminder of all the events that have swept me along the past few months.
I’m Dorothy, carried off by a tornado of my own making. In my story though, I landed in Oz only to have my own house fall on me.
When I fired Winnie for the second time, it wasn’t so much of a conscious choice as a knee-jerk reaction. The overwhelm of the day—and the last few weeks, really—grew and mounted into a fever pitch I could only silence by lashing out.
Every time I try closing my eyes, I see Winnie giving her presentation.
As the slides advanced, every page, every line, every number I’m sure Winnie carefully researched crowded into my brain, jostling for position.
I kept picturing how Dark Horse looked with all the people there—smiling, happy people.
But I wasn’t smiling. I wasn’t happy. It was someone else’s dream. Not mine.
All the worries I’ve had, and new ones I hadn’t even thought of began shouting all at once. My brain filled with high-pitched static, a painful shriek of anxiety until I couldn’t even hear what Winnie was saying.
Her lips were moving; my head was imploding.
When she mentioned talking to Collin and Harper, though, the static narrowed to a very fine point.
She was only trying to help , a distant, far too logical thought tells me.
And that’s what makes all this even worse. I know Winnie wanted to help. Because she cared—about the brewery and, for whatever reason, about me.
Except, losing Winnie silenced nothing. The voices in my head are louder than before, and they all sound like her.
I hope you’re happy now.
Spoiler alert—I’m anything but happy.
Is this really what you want?
No. But I have no idea what I DO want.
Do you think you can really do all this on your own?
I have about zero percent confidence I can pull this off.
How does it feel to be totally, totally alone?
After being with Winnie, getting a taste of her, it feels pretty much terrible.
That’s what I thought.
I leave Tank’s empty house the next morning, my skull throbbing, my muscles aching. It feels like any minute, the pressure is going to make my head pop right off.
I screwed up. I know I did. But I’ve been screwing up for months, a slow slide into failure as I let myself get carried along by someone else’s dream.
I can’t run the brewery. Now that I’ve had a tiny taste, I don’t even want to do it.
I want to go back to my solitary life—living alone, brewing small batches to distribute on a small scale. Alone.
Only … Winnie has ruined alone for me. Because I’ve seen what life is like when I’m not alone. I’ve gotten a taste of being with Winnie, and already, her absence feels like a festering wound.
Gross analogy, but I said what I said.
It’s for the best, I tell myself. For HER best. I watched Winnie at the conference and at Feastivus.
Being around people is like plugging Winnie in—she lights up.
Whereas my circuits overload and my system shuts down.
We don’t work together. Better we end things now before they go any further—as far as both Winnie and Dark Horse are concerned.
I can hand over my recipes, hand over everything to my family. They can run it. Or not. I’ll even give them the launch plan Winnie sent me, which of course I looked at last night, being a glutton for punishment. It’s perfect.
Perfect for someone else.
When I hit the newer part of Sheet Cake, a stabbing pressure assaults my temples with every beat of my pulse. My chest feels like it’s been clamped inside some kind of medieval torture device, and I can’t stop sweating.
I stop at a Walgreens next to a Shipley Do-Nuts and a tanning salon. There’s a blood pressure machine right next to a locked glass cabinet full of birth control options. Somehow, this juxtaposition seems fitting.
After I manage to cram my arm into the metal loop with the cuff, I listen to the computerized robot voice tell me super obvious things like how to sit still as I wait for the cuff to inflate. Despite the mounting pressure I feel, I get two thumbs-up from the cartoon dog.
Yay—my heart isn’t in danger of exploding.
My head, though, tells a different story. My night away has done nothing to ease the throbbing.
I’m not an idiot. Or, not too much of one. I’ve known that my stress level has been rising. It’s only been getting worse since I moved to Sheet Cake. No, since Winnie started working for me.
The start, though, was when I let myself dream too big, when I accepted seed money from my family and basically put all of us at risk over a stupid idea.
I should have known I’d never be able to pull it off.
Not alone, as I’d been trying to do it. Not with my family backing me. Not with Winnie beside me.
Not at all.
A lanky, over-eager employee appears beside me. His name tag reads Clark. He is a total Clark and reminds me of Gumby, especially as he bends unnervingly close to look at the screen.
Isn’t this some kind of privacy violation?
“Looks like you passed the blood pressure test with flying colors! Bravo!”
He adds a little round of applause, clapping in a circle the way you learn to do when you’re in elementary school. I cannot get out of the cuff fast enough.
No, actually, I can’t get out of the thing.
“Let me give you a hand,” he says. “I think if you just—”
“I’ve got it!”
And I do. Literally, I’ve got it, because when I wrench my arm, the whole cuff comes with me, ripping clean off the machine.
Then, of course, it slides right off my arm with ease and clatters to the floor.
Great. Now I’ve broken Walgreens.
Clark takes a few steps back, looking like he thinks I might break him next. “Don’t worry about it,” he says with a nervous laugh. “This kind of thing happens all the time.”
Doubtful. But I pick up the broken cuff, place it in his palm, and make a swift exit.
Convinced that physically I’m fine, even if ONLY physically, I drive straight back to the warehouse and park out front. I don’t have a plan, but when I see the banner Winnie purchased hanging outside the gate, I fixate on this.
Hopping out of the truck, I stride toward it and yank it down with one hand. If it weren’t made of vinyl, I’d rip it into pieces, but I settle for tossing it in the long, low dumpster I rented. The banner flutters and lands neatly on top of the mound of black trash bags from the mess of Feastivus.
Just thinking of the disaster of yesterday has the pressure increasing in my skull and my chest growing tight again.
“What’d that sign do to you?”
I whirl around, taken aback to see Pat standing behind me with his trademark grin—the one that looks like the Cheshire cat who ate a cage full of canaries. I hate that grin. Now, more than ever.
“I’m just cleaning up some trash.” I brush past to walk inside, hoping he’ll go. Knowing he won’t.
“Doesn’t look like trash to me. It looks like a perfectly good banner.”
“It was temporary.” It was all temporary. And a mistake.
Pat leans over and starts to pull the banner out, but I grab his arm. “Leave it.”
He searches my face, and I hope my expression gives nothing away. Pat steps back and crosses his arms.
“Why?”
“Don’t need it.”
“But why, James?”
A challenge lights his eyes, and the very last thing I need today, when I’m barely holding it together, is my youngest brother stirring up trouble.
“Why are you here?”
The subject-change tactic sometimes works with Pat. Today, though, I know he sees right through it. “I came to fetch you,” Pat says.
“For?”
“Black Friday afternoon poker? Come on, Jamie. Don’t tell me you forgot. It’s tradition .”
I absolutely forgot. Squeezing my eyes closed, I mentally count to ten. I get to three. “Just family?”
“Lindy won’t even be there. She’s catching up with her girlfriends. And Jo is getting pedicures with Mari.” Pat’s gaze sharpens. “Why? Who are you trying to avoid?”
“Everyone.”
* * *
“Bid’s to you, James,” Collin says, rapping his knuckles on the table. “Where’s your head at today?”
Definitely not here. Not in this game and not in this town. I’ve done my best to lose my chips or, when I’ve got a hand like I do right now—pocket aces—to fold so I don’t stand a chance of winning.
“Fold.” I lay my cards down on the table and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest.
Pat eyes me. “Same.” He slaps his cards down and mirrors my pose. His eyes have a gleam I don’t like. He elbows Chase.
Chase’s eyes dart between the two of us. “Uh, I will also fold?”
“Me too.” Collin pushes his cards away and gives me a long stare.
“You can’t all fold because I fold,” I snap.
“Sure we can,” Pat says, grinning. “We just did.”
Tank sets his cards down and puts his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Anyone want to explain why I’m about to win the pot with nothing but a five-high hand?”
Chase shifts in his seat. “I don’t know why we’re folding. I just don’t want to get punched.”
“No one is getting punched,” Harper says from her spot on the couch. She sets down her book. “What’s going on?”
I glare at Pat. “Nothing. Get back in the game. All of you.”
My most infuriating brother only grins. His face looks more punchable by the second. “Where you go, I go, brother.”
“Me too,” Collin says. “Where are we going, exactly? Just so I’m clear.”
“Down,” Pat says. “We’re going down.”
“No, we are not going down.” I glare.
“Like it or not, we’re in this together, Jamie,” Pat says.
Tank clears his throat. “Will someone please explain—”
“James is folding.” Pat gives me a pointed look, a smug look. It’s the look that says he’s figured me out.
“I think we can all see that,” Chase says.