6.
six
Jamie
I f there were any justice in this world, I’d be waking up this morning feeling like a kid on Christmas.
I’ve been looking forward to launching this new beer for weeks—the biggest night of my career since I opened.
I should be high on an upcoming night of hustling behind the bar, working until my muscles give out.
But instead, when my eyes blink open to the wedge of sunlight cast over my pillow, all I feel is the kind of pain that leaves you wishing you could just crawl out of your own skin and into a hole to die.
Considering the conversation I’m about to have with Wes? That doesn’t sound so bad.
By the time I got to the hospital, I knew I was going to be out of commission for more than a minute and that there was no getting around this conversation.
I waited until I knew he’d be asleep, then texted him to confess that I’d fucked up—something that’s pretty high on my list of shit I hate doing.
He replied with an urgent calendar invite for way-too-early o’clock.
You’d think my own stepbrother would know better than to expect me to be coherent before ten.
But Wes is also the head of operations for Fortune Brewing—I manage the product and the people, he manages all the other shit that turns that into money—and I’ve just made his job a lot harder.
I force myself to sit up with a groan, swallowing against the pain.
My concussed brain desperately tries to come up with lies to tell Wes and then myself— a few more hours of sleep and I’ll be able to work through it .
Maybe if I just take extra breaks —but then I reach for my water bottle rolling around on the floor beside the couch where I passed out and real tears spring to my eyes at the sharp stab in my side. Fuck this hurts.
The pain brings flashes of the hospital slinking back to me, mostly fond memories of Vicodin, but also Noel sitting in the chair beside me for hours while I was drugged, and X-rayed, and set up with the damn crutches now leaning against my kitchen island.
I can’t believe I found her again after all this time.
I can’t believe I bled all over her porch.
She’s still untouchably gorgeous even under fluorescent hospital lights, fresh out of the sleep I stole from her.
I’ve wondered over the last two years if maybe I’d built that part up in my head, how striking she is, but she’s just like I remember.
An angel. A prophet. A hot witch with dark hair, bizarrely beautiful gold eyes, and a tiny diamond stud in her nose.
Her face has been a recurring daydream for the past two years, and now she tells me I’m the only one she’s ever had a freaking psychic vision about? Well, let’s just say the basest part of my brain lit up like a Christmas tree despite the blinding pain.
The jingle of keys rips me out of that thought, and my front door swings open, then the overhead light flips on. I throw an arm over my eyes to block it, and maybe to take five extra seconds of peace before I’m greeted with the look that’s inevitably on Wes’s face right now.
“You awake?” he asks. Sitting up again feels unachievable, so I wave over the back of the couch.
He rounds the corner, and his eyes go wide at my bare chest. My entire right side’s a deep purple. “Wow. That’s ugly as fuck.”
“Thanks.” I’m slightly surprised that he’s taken the time to assess me before launching into business, but it can only mean I look worse than I thought.
“We need a plan,” Wes says, tugging at the legs of his slacks before sitting in the chair across from me.
My head throbs, and I press my palms into my eyes. I can already tell he’s Crisis Wes right now. Not my favorite Wes.
“I asked Em to take over managing for the launch tonight,” I tell him. I texted her as I was limping into my apartment after Noel dropped me off. “She can handle it.”
And I’ll handle the hit to my pride from being forced to watch on the sidelines.
“What about the rest of your shifts? Running the taproom on a skeleton crew was the only reason we were able to open it, but it’s about to royally fuck us.”
I hate that he has a point. I was the one who pushed for the taproom when Wes wanted to focus on retail distribution.
It was the first time we disagreed. My first time taking lead on a decision.
Selling direct to customers is how I get to flex the few muscles that I bring to this venture—my people skills, my likable (pre-black eye) face, and my beer.
That and jamming every brew fest and beer event I can find into my schedule.
I’m damn lucky this didn’t happen in July, but to be fair, I’m barely in my thirties. I’m supposed to be invincible. No one plans to be unable to work when they’re my age.
Or maybe some people do. I’m sort of a late arrival to this adult world.
I rub my fists into my eyes to ease my blurry vision. “Maybe we could swap jobs,” I say. “You can pour pints and I can sit behind the desk for a while.”
“If you could read a spreadsheet, I’d consider it.”
I grind my teeth, glaring at him. That was a low blow.
Wes glares right back and I know exactly what he’s thinking. “This doesn’t change anything,” I say, beating him to it.
“Jamie, this type of thing is exactly why you should be considering this offer. One accident and everything we’ve worked for is in jeopardy. You’re going to be laid up for weeks. You can’t work behind the bar, you can’t do your ‘charming people into sales’ thing. It feels like a sign.”
A sardonic laugh springs out of my mouth. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Wes has made it very clear he doesn’t believe in signs or fate. Or more specifically, the supernatural occurrence that brought me everything I have. He doesn’t even like when I mention it.
Two weeks ago, Wes took a meeting with NEBev, a large-scale beer producer in the tri-state area.
They want to buy my brand, make it just another line in their craft portfolio, and they gave me until the end of the year to decide.
I’d work for them. Wes too. But NEBev would own the majority share and all the control.
My family already thinks of me as a glorified bartender, and at that point, I would be.
My beer wouldn’t be mine, and neither would the marketing decisions, so they could paint me and my company however they want.
It was a knee-jerk no from me, until the number they put up made my eyes bug out.
It was enough that Wes hasn’t dropped it.
NEBev calling the shots for my brand feels a lot like ceding my own destiny to someone who couldn’t give a flying fuck about me or what I’ve built.
I know I don’t want that—to be the stepkid of some huge corporation.
It’s the rest of it I’m not so confident on.
Like whether I have any business challenging Wes’s professional advice on this.
His comment about the spreadsheets was fucked up but true. Saying I struggle with numbers would be an understatement. My brain literally doesn’t comprehend them.
Growing up, it was a much bigger issue. I didn’t know why math class felt like a foreign language, or why I couldn’t write my fives and sevens the right way, or outline an essay correctly in English class.
All I knew then was I was confused a lot, couldn’t get my brain to play ball, and hiding that was a top priority.
When I was diagnosed in college with ADHD and dyscalculia, the doctor provided the why, but not the how. As in how to keep digits from swapping places when I try to do simple math in my head, or how to read the sales reports Wes sends me in Excel—my personal hellscape.
My beer is top notch and I kick ass at convincing people to drink it, but I literally have no idea how the business end of my business works. Wes knows this better than anyone.
Worry starts to make its way through the pain in my head and I dig my palms into my eyes. It’s not easy to pull rank while shirtless and curled into the fetal position, but I try. “Like it or not, it’s my call, and I need more time.”
Me being sidelined is a temporary problem— albeit a huge one —and I’m not going to make a permanent decision because of it. Not yet. I still have three months.
“Fine.” Wes stands, dismissing me. “I’ll see you downstairs in a few hours.”
I give him a left-handed salute, since my right side is immobile, and Wes heads toward the door, not exactly slamming it, but giving it a little extra shove as he leaves me alone with a sinking feeling and a headache from hell. And a little hope that Noel has shown up again at the exact right time.
Looking around the bustle of my bar tonight is bittersweet. The crowd is already swollen past normal Friday night numbers. The entertainment is setting up in the corner and people are filling in around the bar. The night is going off without a hitch. And without me.
“You’re not supposed to be down here, Jamie,” Em shouts over the crowd. She doesn’t look at me, just continues pouring my beers while she gives me shit.
“I’m not behind the bar.”
Em hands off her order, then comes to stand in front of me. “But you are taking a seat from a paying customer. And annoying me.”
I take out my wallet and throw down a twenty. “There,” I tell her. “That’s at least another hour’s rent for this stool in my own bar.”
“Don’t get snippy with me,” she says, not surprising me when she pockets my cash. “I know you’re in pain, but that pout on your face is bringing down the whole room. People come here for the dimples, Pretty Boy. Give ‘em what they want or get out.”
“I can’t take being upstairs alone anymore, Em. I have five streaming subscriptions and I think I’ve reached the end of them all.”
She taps her temple. “You’re concussed, asshole. You’re supposed to be bored, and you’re not supposed to be watching TV.”
“That’s why I came down here!”
“Yeah, well sitting on a bar stool the day after a hit like that is prime idiot guy shit.”
She has an unfortunate point, but there’s no way I’m sleeping through this night. I’ll play the good patient tomorrow. And besides, I have a very good reason why I need to be here right now. “What time is it?” I ask.
Em looks at the clock behind her. The vintage analog one that I have trouble reading even without a concussion. “Seven-oh-six. Three minutes since you last asked.”
She’s not coming . I don’t know why I’m holding out hope. Noel was pretty clear that I’m not her favorite memory.
The guitar player tests his mic, and I turn over my shoulder to pretend like I’m supervising something.
Anything. We had awesome success all summer with live entertainment in the tiny courtyard I sectioned out of the parking lot, so when the nights turned colder, Em and I decided to remove one of the long wooden tables from the front corner to make room for a stool and an amp.
Bonus: I swiped the table and brought it upstairs to my apartment so I could finally have a place to eat meals that wasn’t my couch.
I spend all of my time in the brew house or behind this bar, so my loft is a little barren.
I’m acutely aware of it now that I’m going to be confined there for a while.
I can already feel my skin start to itch from the impending solitude.
But before I have a chance to sulk about the turn my life has taken, the front door opens, and Noel walks in, looking as beautiful and magical as she did last night. Maybe my luck’s about to turn around.