Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130380 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
She hesitated, but her hand reached forward, taking the other side of the glass. Our fingertips brushed just slightly, just enough to make me jerk my own hand away.
“And, hey, bonus,” I continued, shaking off the awkward tension. “You can be as ‘unladylike’ as you want here. I won’t judge. You can even burp, if you’re really feeling frisky.”
Ruby Grace laughed, eyeing the whiskey like she still wasn’t sure before she shrugged and tilted the glass in my direction. “Oh, what the hell. Bottoms up.”
She took a sip, and then promptly grimaced and stuck her tongue out as soon as she’d swallowed.
“God, that’s awful.” She shook her head, shoving the glass back in my direction. “Definitely not doing that again.”
I laughed, rinsing the glass with a splash of water from the bottles we kept nearby before filling it with the same whiskey.
“Okay, that was my bad. Maybe I should have told you how to taste it first.” I handed it to her again, though she eyed it like it was poison. “Smell it first.”
She did as I said, uncertainty shading her face as she looked my way again. “I’m not sure I’m doing it right.”
“You’re not sure you’re smelling right?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You know what I mean. I don’t… I don’t know anything about this stuff.”
“It’s okay, that’s why I’m here.” I stepped closer to her, taking the glass from her hand, and when I inhaled to demonstrate, it was her I smelled instead of the whiskey.
She smelled like lavender, like an open field in the heat of summer.
“Watch,” I said, taking another breath, this time focusing on the whiskey. “You smell it first, and ask yourself what you smell. Oak? Vanilla? Honey? Maple? Every whiskey is different, depending on how it’s aged, how the barrels are charred and toasted. See what notes you can detect first. And then,” I continued, taking my first sip. I let it linger in my mouth, swirling it a round before swallowing gently. “Taste it. I mean, really taste it. Does it give you different flavors on the tip of your tongue than it does on the back? Does it burn going down, or is it just warm? And what’s the aftertaste?”
Ruby Grace watched me, fascinated, her lips parted softly, eyes falling to my bare chest where a small drop of whiskey had landed. I thumbed it away, handing her the glass again.
“Now, you try.”
She took a deep breath, like she needed to focus to really do it right, and then she repeated my steps. And this time, when she finished swallowing, she smiled.
“Wow,” she said. “It’s different when you don’t just throw it back like a shot.”
I chuckled. “Well, this isn’t shooting whiskey. It’s Tennessee Sippin’ Whiskey,” I said, tilting my imaginary hat. I tucked my hands in my pockets, nodding toward the next barrel. “Take a little from that one.”
“I can pour it myself?”
I nodded. “Just twist that spout a little, not too much. You don’t need a lot to taste it.”
She was hesitant as she poured a sip into her glass, and her eyes lit up, a little squeal of joy popping from her mouth. “I did it!”
And for the next ten minutes, I watched Ruby Grace be a girl.
She was so far from the snotty woman who had offered me her hand like a prize when we first met. She was just a teenager, a soon-to-be sophomore in college, drinking whiskey, learning something new and having fun.
I wondered when the last time was that she had fun.
I wondered if she’d ever had fun at all.
The way she looked when she laughed, I hoped she had. I hoped it wasn’t the first time that laugh had been genuine, the first time that sound had made its way into the airwaves. She laughed the way the wind blew — softly, and then all at once, without an ounce of shame for how that sound might permanently shift the atmosphere around it.
When she’d decided on the barrel she wanted, Ruby Grace regretfully slipped back into her heels, and I tugged my t-shirt on before leading us out of the warehouse and toward the welcome center.
“So,” I said, walking slow so she didn’t kill her feet in the process of getting back to her car. “What are Anthony’s plans when you go back to school in the fall?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you guys moving in together and he’s getting a job there? Or are you guys doing long distance for a while or what?”
She laughed, her hair falling over her face a little as she watched our feet. “I’m not going back to school.”
“Oh…” I paused. “You don’t want to?”
“I mean, I guess I do… but, there’s no point. You know? I’m getting married. I’ll be his wife now, and I’ll have so much to do. He’s already getting into the political arena, and he’ll need me to be by his side, campaigning and networking and all that.” She shrugged. “I don’t really need a degree to do that.”