Page 3 of Under Pink Skies

The harsh tone of his voice made me flinch. He hadn’t changed clothes or brushed his teeth, had barely made small talk with the two lowly human beings he encountered on his way to salvation: no, he’d woken up, stumbled his way downstairs, and made a beeline for the beer fridge.

Bottle still in hand, he stalked over to the storefront counter that held the cash register and scanner.

I had to put in a lot of effort to get that scanner so that my life would be easier during the tourist season, but even now, I could tell he didn’t value many of the decisions I made for Watford General Store in the last few years.

The scanner was the least of his worries, but the scathing look he shot in my direction made my insides twist with a shame that had taken root in my soul. I briefly searched his hazy eyes, trying to decipher which lecture I’d receive this time.

“What we can’t afford is you trying to tell me what I can and can’t do in my own damn store. I built this place from nothing. You’ve gotten way too comfortable as the acting manager.”

Acting manager. I bit back my laugh. I was the “acting manager” because he could barely find his way around his bedroom these days, much less count back change or hand a receipt to a customer. I had been the “acting manager” for the last five years, had brought us back from the brink of bankruptcy, and had done it all without complaining.

It was always the same argument.

No one—including me—had the right to criticize him about anything.

Even if that argument meant he ran the store and both of our financial lives into the ground.

“That doesn’t even make sense, Dad,” I replied, pinching the bridge of my nose.

I prayed Imogen snuck out the front door amid the chaos so she wouldn’t have to witness this firsthand.

“It’s expensive to import beer and wine this far into the mountains, even with the savings we get from going half-in with the Roadhouse. I don’t have to tell you this. Please stop.”

He grumbled in reply. He tightened his grip on the bottleneck and went back upstairs, mumbling gibberish to himself the entire way up. His decision to move into the attic space above the store was one I’d fought against. When he and Mom built the store, they’d created the loft attic space for me to have a place to go when they pulled long hours during tourist season, completing inventory checks and making small repairs and upgrades to keep the store running.

If anyone else in town had been aware of how bad his latest “slip up” had been, I’m sure they would have agreed with me about not wanting him above the place where all the goods were stored.

But my father always did what he wanted.

“Are you okay, Abbie?”

Imogen’s voice was far less comforting this time, given what she’d just seen.

I stayed quiet, not trusting my voice to speak.

I wasn’t okay. I wanted so badly to spiral. To fall apart. To let someone else shoulder these burdens. If only so I could know a moment of peace.

“I’m here for you, honey.”

When she pulled me into her side for a tight hug, I still refused to speak, but I let silent tears run down my cheeks, creating dark marks on the dark pink fabric of her blouse.

Chapter 2

Connor

IfeltlikeIwas missing the punchline of a bad dad joke.

“Crap.”

“You can use a stronger word than that, Harvey.”

I ignored the barb and gestured toward the Winding Road Farms barn, a tall building worn down by time. The red-painted wood was now faded and weathered by years of sun and rain, held in place by rusted hinges original to the building.

I was trying to see the vision, but I couldn’t see past the heaping mass of work.

“Are you seriously trying to turn this dilapidated pile of wood into a wedding venue?”

Kameron laughed beside me, shaking his head as though I was the one incapable of seeing the grand vision here. Despite the absurdity of the moment, I felt a pang of gratitude in my gut because I’d gotten out.

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