Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
He takes the box from my hand, placing it on the floor before he pulls me into a big bear hug. A hug that I feel right down to my bones. A hug that you know, no matter what, everything will be okay. A hug I didn’t know I missed and needed until this very moment. “What are you doing here?” he asks me in my ear, but his arms never move from around me. “Did your brother call you?” I laugh and cry at the same time in his arms. “I’m going to kick his ass.”
“I’m going to kick your ass”—I move out of his embrace and then bend to pick up the donut box—“from here to Timbuktu.” I look up into his gray eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask softly, and he takes a deep inhale.
“What was it going to change?”
“Well, for one, I would be here for you,” I snap.
“Baby girl, you ran away from here because it was killing you.” He puts his big strong hand on my face. “You think I was going to try to get you back here?” He shakes his head. “Ain’t no way in hell I would do that.”
“Well, ain’t no way in hell I was not going to be here for you,” I tell him, just as stubborn as he is, “and I’m not going to be mad at you for not telling me either.” I raise my eyebrows. “But I am pissed you put this box on the ground.” I hold up the donut box. “What if it got ruined?”
He chuckles. “Let’s get you inside and get you a glass of milk to go with your donut.”
“Dad, I’m not ten anymore.” I turn to walk into the house with him. The smell is like home, and I admit I buried the fact I missed it. I buried the fact I wanted to be here, but I didn’t deserve it. I buried it all, and now that the door is open, it’s coming back in full force. No matter how quick or how fast I try to close the door, the pressure is stronger than me. The memories coming so fast and so quick, I can’t stop it.
“How long are you staying?” he asks, grabbing two glasses and going to pour them both with milk while I pull out a chair and sit down.
“For as long as I need to be.” The words come out of my mouth, surprising both of us. In reality, I was thinking of this week and then coming back when the time was needed, but being here, seeing my dad, I need to be here. I’m going to be here.
He’s about to say something when the storm door opens, and then slams shut. I look over to see Brady walking into the house. “I figured you would hunt me down”—he puts his hands on his hips, looking at my father, who is glaring at him—“so I saved us both the time and energy.” I bite my lower lip. “Plus, I heard she got donuts.” He bends to give me a side hug and kisses the top of my head.
He pulls out the chair beside me while my father pulls out another glass. “So what are we talking about?”
“How long I’m going to be in town,” I fill him in, and he looks at me and then at Dad.
“Well then,” he says, opening the box, “now is a good time to talk about Thatcher’s and Sweet Southern Country Whiskey.” I look at him and then my father, who comes back to the table with two glasses of milk, putting them down in front of us before going back to get his own.
“What about them?” I ask of the distillery that has been in our family since the twenties. My great-grandfather made his own whiskey and sold it out of the trunk of his car. Once Prohibition ended, he opened up the Sweet Southern Country Whiskey distillery with its own bar attached to it called Thatcher’s. He figured he would make it and sell it at the same time, cutting out the middleman. It’s been passed down from one son to the other. My father taking it over from his father, and when Dad’s ready, he’ll hand it over to both of us, not just my brother.
“Things aren’t looking so good,” my father says, and I turn back to him, confused.
“That’s putting it lightly,” Brady states, taking a bite of the powdered donut. “That is putting it very mildly.” He looks over at me. “I don’t know if we’ll last the rest of the year.”
My mouth opens in shock. “What the hell are you talking about?” I look at both of them, my eyes going back and forth.
“Things haven’t been…” My father pulls out a chair. “As productive as we had hoped.”