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)
“Charlie,” she says my name in a whisper as she gets to her feet, “I didn’t know.”
“I don’t want to fucking hear it,” I hiss at her, this woman who I hate more than anything in the world. More than myself, more than Waylon, more than the one who decided to take Jennifer from me instead of taking me with her, “I don’t want to see you; not here, not at the crash site, not fucking anywhere.”
“I’m sorry.” The words barely a whisper before she turns her head to the side and starts to walk away from me.
“I need to know that you understand what I’m saying”—she stops at my words—“I don’t even want to fucking breathe the same air you breathe.”
I see her chest inhale as she turns her head to the side, her eyes looking past me towards the tombstone. "You aren’t the only one who loves her,” she says before she runs off and away from me, leaving me to watch her as she runs through the trees and disappears into the night.
Chapter Eight
Autumn
I shut the car door and make the stupid mistake of turning and looking around. It’s been a week since I’ve been in town, and it’s been a week since I’ve been seen. Which means the whispers are back, the finger-pointing, the leers from some of the old people who have been around for a long time. Also, who have an allegiance to the Cartwright family. A week of feeling like I’m about to crawl out of my skin, also a week since I’ve come to realize how much I missed having my brother and father around me daily. Even though we used to FaceTime each other often enough, it’s never the same thing as seeing the person in real life. Being able to hug them or glare at them is so much better face-to-face.
I try to pretend that it doesn’t bother me, but every single time it eats at me. If it wasn’t for my father being sick and them needing help at the distillery and the bar, I would be gone so fast. Fuck, I wouldn’t even be here.
I pull open the back door to the office, my flannel shirt I tied around my waist flows side to side. I have on a pair of black jeans, which have been in my closet here for the last eight years, with a white sleeveless bodysuit. The sound of the heels of my boots echoes in the big room. I stop in my tracks and listen to hear if someone else is in, but the sound of emptiness greets me. Looking at my watch, I see it’s a little past nine in the morning. I walk past the column stills to the office, dumping my bag on the chair in front of the desk. The office is enclosed, but it has windows all around showing you the distillery room.
I pick up my phone and text my brother.
Me: Early bird catches the worm.
I put my phone on the desk before I walk out and make my way to the front of the building where the bar area is. Down the long wooden hallway, the walls are stacked with pictures of when the company started. A picture of my great-grandfather standing with two of his friends is fading as the years go by. I always laugh when I see the picture because they look like three mob bosses. Then the pictures go from black and white to color. One picture is one that we all have displayed in our homes. The picture of Mom and Dad when I was born. She had just left the hospital, and my father had to quickly come here. They took the picture as soon as they walked into the distillery. My mother smiles with me in her arms while Dad held Brady. I smile at the picture as I walk through the swinging door that leads to the bar area.
The wood floor has been worn over the years but is still shiny. I walk past the area in the back where I thought it would be great to host private parties and maybe even tasting events. Something I was going to work on before everything happened. Walking into the bar area, the ceiling opens up and I take a look around at how pretty this bar is. The exposed red brick around the bar pops out against the dark metal cladding surrounding it. It’s a rustic feel but almost modern at the same time. The big brown square bar area is in the middle of the space, with the square metal piece suspended over it with different glasses all hanging in their place ready to be used.
Old wooden barrels that have been used over time also help with the decor. Dark brown leather stools are all around the bar area, while little round tables scatter against the outer wall area. I walk over to the side where the kitchen is, which is never used, and start to make a pot of coffee. I look around the kitchen, wondering why we’ve never offered food in here. I know it was something else I wanted to do. I had all these plans, excited to put them on paper, and then the accident happened. Nothing else mattered after that. I was frozen in time, sometimes I think I’m still frozen there.