16. Brandt
brANDT
“I’m just wondering if you’re ever coming back.”
“What are you talking about? It’s only been two weeks.”
I lift my shoulder carelessly, taking a sip of my beer. Literally my beer.
When I walked into the General Post this afternoon, after having to ask for directions twice—Lindee wasn’t kidding when she said you’d never find this place if you didn’t know where it was—I was skeptical if they would even have beer.
Trouble isn’t exactly a beer kind of town.
The focus is all whiskey and moonshine—which it should be.
To say I was surprised when I discovered they did indeed have beer on tap would be a fair statement.
You could have knocked me over with a feather though when the bartender gestured over his shoulder to the pulls and there was my very own logo staring back at me.
Southern Brothers Party Mode. I’ll be damned.
“Yeah,” Milo scoffs. “Two more weeks than you planned to be gone. You were going to go up there and come back. At least that’s how I remember the plan.”
He remembers correctly. But plans change.
“What on earth have you even been doing up there?”
Good question.
How do I explain this?
Because I can’t exactly tell him that what I’ve been doing is Lindee.
Although, that’s not entirely true. I’ve been doing more than just her.
It’s been two weeks filled with hiking, biking, and enjoying everything that the Tennessee mountains have to offer.
One of which is the most beautiful blonde I have ever met in my entire life.
And it isn’t all about the sex with her either.
We’ve spent plenty of nights just curled up, sitting on the porch of her cottage, staring at the stars, or watching the creek, talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company.
Plus, all the time we’ve spent in her lab trying to figure out a drink.
She’s close, I think.
But there is still something missing.
What? I’m not quite sure yet. But we’ll get there. And I’m not about to leave her until we do.
“Well, you know, stuff,” I answer, trying to be as vague as possible. “And it’s not like any of my work isn’t getting done.”
Milo chuckles. “Didn’t say it wasn’t. I’m just wondering what else you’re doing. What’s keeping you in Tennessee?”
“Well, I’m still trying to smooth things over with Tennessee Trouble, and—”
He cuts me off. “I thought Dustin agreed to put a drink in the bar. Speaking of, I thought Fire Lights was off-limits and you were never going to allow such a thing?” If I didn’t know better, I’d think he sounded accusatory.
“Well, yeah…” I take another long sip, letting the crisp, hoppy taste dance across my tongue, trying to buy time. “Now it’s not. And…and I haven’t exactly pitched that yet.”
Milo doesn’t skip a beat. “Why not?”
That’s also a good question.
Why haven’t I taken that to Mikayla?
Because that would mean that I don’t have a real excuse to be here in town. Then again, maybe it would mean that Lindee and I could be a little more open about this whole thing instead of sneaking around trying to make sure that no one sees us together.
Of course, it might also be the end of us.
Not that there is an us. Not really. It might feel that way when we’re alone, debating the finer points of living in The Shire versus Rivendell or playing around in her lab, but people who are an us also don’t have to sneak into said lab via a side door in the hopes that no one will see.
Or be on a first-name basis with the one food delivery guy in town to avoid eating out and risk being seen together in public.
Then again, I guess we don’t have to do those things either. There isn’t a rule against us seeing each other. But we also are both very aware of the headache it might cause if it were to get out.
I pop a pretzel from the small, communal bowl on the bar into my mouth, making sure to crunch loudly, hoping Milo will think I’m simply trying to be polite rather than avoiding his question. Turns out, my best friend knows me a little too well, and isn’t buying my stalling tactics.
“You really like her, don’t you?” he asks, as I continue to crunch.
Yeah, I do. But not sure how ready I am to admit that.
Even to Milo, the man who has been my best friend since we were kids.
I know he’d take it to the grave if I asked him to; that’s not what worries me.
It’s the saying it out loud part. That makes it real.
That means I can’t pretend that I want to take Lindee on a real date—one where I can reach across the table and hold her hand or kiss her on the street corner.
More importantly, it means I can’t pretend that I’m not hurt later on when one of us walks away.
“Yeah,” I admit. One word. Short and sweet. Nothing more to say than that.
Looking around the Post, I can see why it’s so popular.
The entire vibe to it is homey and comfortable.
The wood plank walls are nothing fancy, but are carefully decorated with pictures of Trouble from over the years, including some from when this place was even more a secret.
A long counter runs along a massive picture window overlooking the creek, with stools lined up so patrons can sit and watch not only the creek, but the path that weaves its way alongside the water.
Next to the window is a blackboard labeled “Crick Watch” and today’s date, with four tally marks unevenly scratched in blue chalk.
At the bottom there is a note that reads “Record High: 42—6/9/07” and another right under it “Previous Record: 23—10/12/94”.
Wonder what that’s about…
“Brandt.”
Milo’s voice makes me snap to, stealing my attention back. As it should. Paying attention to my best friend and business partner is a lot more important than getting lost in the charm of the local watering hole. Next thing I know I’ll start to think I could see myself staying here.
“If there is anyone who understands the whole, I really like this girl even though I shouldn’t…you’re talking to him,” Milo continues, doing more than his fair share in this conversation. “Just…”
“Just what?”
He chuckles. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”
Ha, that’s rich.
“You mean like get frisky with her on the bar of an establishment that is open for business so anyone could walk in and discover you?”
A chill rips through me—and not the good kind—my body shaking off the memory. At least now I don’t want to throw up when I do have the misfortune of walking down that memory lane.
“In my defense, we weren’t open for business. Yet.”
I roll my eyes. “Details…”
“Important ones.” Even through the phone I can see his sassy little shrug, letting my half-assed accusation roll off his back. “But yes, that’s the kind of stupid I’m referring to.”
I laugh, shaking my head. At least he admits it.
“No promises.”
“Fair enough.” There’s a pause, like he wants to say something else, but isn’t. “I should let you go, though. Gotta meet with Willa here in a couple of minutes about some Rhythm and Brews shit.”
“You have fun with that.”
“Thanks,” he scoffs. “I’d say don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, but that doesn’t take much off the table. So, I’ll just go with make good choices.”
Make good choices…
Now that’s words to live by.
Hanging up the phone, I place it face down on the bar, turning my attention back to the overall vibe of the Post. The place really is cozy.
The kind of spot where you can come as you are and simply be yourself.
That was our goal with Pour Decisions—create a place that people were comfortable coming and hanging out at, no matter the occasion.
We’ve succeeded—I think—the taproom side of the business becoming busier than we ever imagined. Not quite as busy as this place though.
It’s two thirty on a Tuesday and there is a small but steady crowd.
One that I can tell frequents the place.
Including Norm and Cliff over at the pub table by the window pretending to play cards, when really they are like two little spies, taking in their surroundings.
One ear not so casually eavesdropping on every word uttered inside these four walls and one eye keenly set on something just outside the picture window.
They’re good at what they do, I’ll give them that.
Shuffling the deck loud enough to be heard, but never really dealing a hand.
Rather, they simply pick up a handful and move them around, each one taking turns randomly yelling “go fish!” to not draw extra attention to their bluff.
It’s endearing. It also makes me wonder what they are really up to.
“Personally, I prefer a Silver Lining Sour,” a gentle Tennessee accent says.
I whip around, one thousand percent sure that comment was aimed at me, ready to greet my newfound bestie with the highest of fives. That is, until I realize who said it.
“They won’t keep it on tap, since apparently I’m the only one who drinks it,” Rylan Murray continues. “But they keep a six-pack hidden away for whenever I’m feelin’ like a beer.”
“Had I known there was a secret stash, I would have tapped into that.”
“This is Trouble.” He smirks knowingly, like a man who was set up perfectly. “There’s always a secret stash somewhere. Kinda what we’ve built our brand on.”
Touché…
“This seat taken?” He points to the stool next to mine, eyebrows raised, waiting on an answer.
I’m a little taken aback by his question. But not enough to turn him away. Rylan doesn’t strike me as someone who has ulterior motives. From what Lindee has said, he’s pretty laid-back and goes with the flow. The kind of guy that Milo and I would hang with.
“All yours.”
Rylan nods, the hazel eyes that match his sister’s softening, as if he somehow expected me to say no. I suppose that concern is no different from mine about him having an ulterior motive.
“Didn’t realize you were still in town,” he comments, signaling to the bartender, who nods back at him.